#ill get therapy one day i promise

[youokaybucky]

For today's #ddoab I'm just straight up going for angry fighty austin of any kind... because that boy don't give a flying fuck!!

Bit of angry austin!elvis...

Bit of Sebastian Kydd...

And my fave, a bit of angry gale...

@dailydoseofaustinbutler

[maudiemoods]

When you say 'I am constantly thinking about death' I just hope it's a morbid fascination and interest in the topic, and not the desire to die. I hope it's because you think bones are cool and maybe you want to get into Vulture Culture, and not thinking of ending your life.

I hope you know that you are valued. People love you and this world would be a much less beautiful place without you in it. I hope it's not suicidal thoughts and I hope you just want to show off your bone collection, or your hoard of preserved creatures in jars.

I hope you don't think of leaving yet. I hope the reason it's constantly on your mind is because you long for your moots to be by your side, helping you reconstruct critters from a pile of bone you found wherever you got them.

It's not really morbid fascination, but thoughts I'm forced to have? I don't like these thoughts and I'm only thinking them when I'm at a really low place. More often than not, I am very happy to be alive and witness the word around me!! I love my family and art and strangers online and the sky and the clouds and a fun video game with a whole fandom around two of it's characters! These thoughts are suicidal and scary to me. I feel them very strongly and there are times I want to crash my car! But I won't! Because I know I don't want to in the long run! I love being alive and I have a very strong desire to be alive and seek help instead of leaving. I think these are more like intrusive thoughts! And they hit at my weakest moments which makes them feel real, but they aren't! I'm staying right here for as long as I can! I wanna make it to 100!

Thank you for your concern! ❤️❤️❤️

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: enemies to lovers, past bullying, reformed bully x victim

♡ fem reader

“No way.” You shake your head—face warped in something akin to disgust. Judging him for even asking, glaring in disbelief at him and what dangles from the clothing hanger in his hand. He couldn't be serious.

“Come on, please, for me?” he pleads, downright pleads. But there’s no way.

“No.” You say more firmly, planting both hands on your tilted hips. “I don’t get what you’re thinking, but it’s not exactly a time in our lives I want to relive.”

He pouts and sags a little where he stands, clasping his hands together in prayer, making the ill-taste outfit swing. “Oh, come on, it won’t be the same as then,” he promises with zero believability backing him. He even dares smile as he spouts the bullshit in his next words, “It’ll be like therapy. Let’s reframe your trauma together.”

You scoff. He’s unbelievable. “You’re stupid.”

He feigns feeling insulted. “I’m serious!”

“You always said I looked like trash in that—no way I’m not putting it on,” you dismiss.

But then he gets down on his knees. Hands still together as if in worship. Looking up at you with puppy dog eyes. “I was lying through my teeth back then—you know that! I’ll be honest this time around. Tell you exactly how often I had to change my pants because of you—”

“Ew, stop.” You can’t believe the spectacle he’s creating—such a drama queen—and all for getting you to put on a make-shift copy of your old high-school uniform.

“Come one, pretty, pretty, pretty please?” He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right by your feet—bottom lip jutting out in his pout. “The prettiest please?”

You look down at him—you mouth a prim pursed line, gritting your teeth to try and steal yourself. Grimacing at the outfit sprawled on his lap. There’s no way. Absolutely no way.

“Pretty please?” he continues, making you roll your eyes with a sigh.

“Fine,” you bite out but quickly add, “But you have to wear one, too.”

You think you’re being smart. But he only grins—a wicked little twinkle in his eye.

“Way ahead of you.”

From behind the outfit meant for you, he pulls forth a black gakuran to match.

Okay, so you hadn’t really thought he would have bought one for himself—you realize now the mistake in your speculation. Of course, he’d bought one for himself. But hold on… You raise your brow, folding your arms atop your chest. “And where’s the pants?”

“They didn’t have my size, but my sweats are already a good lookalike,” he explains away. “This doesn’t really fit either, but it won’t stay on for long, so’ doesn’t matter.”

He gets up and hastily pulls his shirt off of his head, then, with just as much enthusiasm, pulls the black school jacket on. And he’s right—his black sweatpants could pass for the old Tobi trousers he used to wear. All in all, it’s a sight for sore eyes. Looking at him feels just short of seeing his old high-school self.

“Come on. You said.” He holds out the rendition of your old uniform. “Get dressed.”

You regret conceding. But it’s too late to go back on your word now. Rolling your eyes, you receive the hanger with a sigh, “Oh, fine. Just this once, you freak.”

You get dressed without making much of a show. Leaving your current comfy outfit in an unceremonious pile, you pull the tacky articles on hastily. Black pleated skirt and sailor blouse with a little red bow sash—there’s even a pair of knee-high socks to go with it. As a grown-up, it’s utterly humiliating having to wear it now.

But he doesn’t seem to share your discomfort. Only groaning, “Damn. There she is—my prettiest little junior~”

You ball your skirt in your fists. Glancing up at him only to look down again, fixing your gaze to the floor. Heat in your face. Mumbling, “This is weird—you look dumb.”

“Oh yeah?” his voice curls with newfound enjoyment. “Well, you don’t look a day older.”

He comes closer, and oh god—you don’t know why you’re so nervous. But fuck—you feel like your back in time—back in time when you were a sorry loser getting picked on, and he was… he was a—

“Perv,” you manage to say. Though, that’s not really the word you’d been thinking.

He chuckles, so close now that he also starts to play with the hem of your skirt. “That’s for damn sure.” Agreeing, he hums, “Only for you though. So’s fine.”

He bends down and finds your neck with his tongue and teeth—his hand traveling up under your skirt without further ado.

“Hey,” you protest, wringing his ill-fitting jacket in both fists, hauling him off. And even though it makes him look back at you like a kicked puppy, you don’t let it get to you as you scold him, “Thought we were reframing my trauma. At this rate, you’re just itching to make me relive it.”

He tries giving you one of his innocent smiles. “Oh?” His arms curl around your waist, pulling you close—chest to chest—simpering while leering down at you, voice in a purr, “It won’t be any fun if I can’t bully you a little bit like I used to.”

He tries leaning down to catch your lips, but you push him away. Breaking free, then scoffing, “Tch, if that’s how you’re gonna play this, then have fun beating off on your own.”

“But—” He starts, but you’re already on your way to leave the room. Hooking two fingers into the band of your skirt, he stops you and spins you back, now all mopey and sorry, “I’m sorry, don’t go, princess—how about we one-eighty it, and I tell you all the reasons I love you? Will that make you humor me?”

He’s back to pleading.

And you can’t help the small smile it gives you. Muttering, “Maybe.”

He smiles giddily, too, “I love how pouty you can be sometimes.”

Your brows furrow, “Hey!” That’s not a compliment.

But he only laughs and continues, “And I love your snippy little tsundere attitude.”

“Those are both insults, you tit—” you argue, but he doesn’t care, hugging you close, lifting you off your feet before falling with you down on the bed. Hanging over you, he admires every inch of your perfect body tucked into that cute little uniform he used to make fun of because he was scared of how silly you made him feel.

“I love how you tell me off.”

Deciding to face his fears was the best decision he’d ever made.

“I love how you look at me.”

It’s crazy to think you’re here with him still, after all these years.

“I love how you put up with me, how you make all my wishes come true—how, even though I don’t deserve you, you stay with me anyway—how you’re mine even though I’m a scumbag.”

You’re eyes soften under his speech. For all his tactlessness, he can also be really quite sweet. You raise both hands, reaching out to cup his face—beholding the softness in his eyes—that way he looks at you. It makes your chest stir.

“You’re not that bad,” you confess, pulling him down to tease his lips with yours.

Kissing you once, he accredits you, “That’s ‘cause you make me a better man.”

You smile and kiss him again, then resume your teasing, “Don't get ahead of yourself. You’re still a boy.”

He lifts and raises a brow down at you in retaliation, “Is that so?” And oh no, you recognize that look.

“Well, this boy is feeling hormonal and horny and just raring to go—” he overplays. Gasping, “And what do you know? How lucky!” He lowers himself again, then starts peppering kisses all over your face in between words, “I’ve got this perfect little high-school sweetheart lying here all up for the taking—”

♡ BNHA – Hawks, Dabi, Bakugou, ♡ JJK – Gojo, really silly in-love Sukuna ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Sanemi ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[carmenized-onions]

Don't Say It. | Closing Out

logline; just say it in every way but the one way that makes it weird.

[!!!] series history; did y'all notice the banner rebrands? tell me you think they look nice and good and cool or i'll. start crying.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. how is it more than 7 hours. my god.

portion; 14k was hoping we'd reenter our single digits era but we ball

possible allergies; two mentally ills battle it out (romantic).

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader almost certain there are gendered bits/pronouns but can't honestly completely remember.

(new!) kofi; I have one now! if you've enjoyed the series, perhaps you wanna tip!

moving into a new place literally in two days!! high stress. so thank you for waitin' as always pwease enjoy and pwease tell me what you think!

You take a good long breath, sitting on the counter in the bathroom. Right. Time is linear and you’re in New York again— Never left. Right. Carmen’s sitting across from you, it’s kind of a shock this floating sink counter hasn’t collapsed under the two of you yet. How long have you been here? Swapping stories took a long fucking time, and there’s still, disgustingly, a lot to unpack. 

“Any shoes left undropped?” You drum your hands against your knees, the question is as much for yourself as it is for him.

Carmen opts to open with a soft ball. “You called me Carmy?” Before you knew me, you called me Carmy?

“I called you a lot of things.”

“Like virgin Michelin Star chef?” He’s failing to hide the upturned corners of his mouth, when he says it. 

You snort and nod, “Like virgin Michelin Star chef, or Carmy, or Carm, or baby boy, baby bear, mister New York— Basically all Mikey’s, I think the only one I coined was Charmin.”

“Charmin?”

“Like the—” He finishes with you, “—Toilet paper bears.” and whether he should be or not, he cannot stop laughing, when you confess this. 

“I thought it was a good bit!” “Cause I’m a piece of shit?” “Bitch—Cause you clean up, and you’re a bear, and Carmen sounds like Charmin, and Charmin sounds like charming and I—”

You pause, cringing, parasocial relationship coming to a head now. When your best friend wants you to get with his hot talented brother living in the Big Apple, it’s hard not to fantasize about, alright? “...I found you very charming.”

God, it’s just far too easy for you to render him completely speechless. It’s really not fucking fair. Carmen looks like a deer in headlights, he looks how he did in your car, a month or so ago, when he bit the bullet and asked you out. Well, promised to ask you out. He swallows, no more glass in his throat, but it does feel a little scratchy, kinda like, like pop rocks?

Pop rocks, yeah. Sweet, salivating. “Do you still?”

You squint, like he’s a moron. He is. “Of course I do.” Cherry pop rocks. Yeah, that sort of spritz feeling, on the tongue, and the way it continues to simmer all the way down. “I don’t want you to stop being you, by the way, Carm.”

“Huh?” What’s that supposed to mean? Of course you want him to change, he sucks.

“I—” You’re quick to clarify, straightening your posture. “I think it’s great to— to do the work, and therapy and reading and self-care— That’s all— That’s very good, and you should do it— For you, not me, but I— One bad night is not how I’ll think of you— You’re— You’re not a bad person, is I guess all I’m trying to fuckin’ say.”

You’re sweet. Sweet but with depth, slowly developed, caramelized, tart. Maybe a fruity molasses.

Carmen swallows, it’s hard to digest the sweet. “I— I’m not a bad person, but I could be better.” Pomegranate molasses. It’s got an acidic kick. Sort of like balsamic.

“I could be better, too.” Could you? Please God, don’t try, he can’t compete. No, shit, hold on, stop pedestaling. “You kinda got my ass, with peoples’ princess.”

Carmen cringes, there’s the acid. “I should not have said—”

“I have a fucking saviour complex, Carm. And it’s just as bad for everyone else as it is for me.”

Bite, yet tender. You continue on. “I do need to work on that. And I should’ve explained more when we first met, it was just— You know… I know you know.” Medium rare, steak medallion— No— rectangle. 

Pomegranate molasses, thick—Nearly sorbet thick. Poured onto the plate, centered, perfect circle. Medium rare wagyu steak— A3, maybe; too much fat would ruin the composition. Rectangular, off center. Dust with cherry pop rocks. Bizarre, but it might actually be something. Bad, but something. Not tired or overdone, that’s for sure. Anything but dusty.

Carmen missed you for a lot of reasons this week, but it’s almost annoying how merely being in your presence for a few hours has given him more inspiration to work with than he has had in the last one-hundred and sixty-eight hours, without you. But who’s counting?

It’s easy to make things, when they’re for you. When they’re about you.

“I should’ve listened, when you were ready, but I got defensive and—I— I do that a lot, clearly, I just—” Carmen tries not to bite at his nails and fingers, because his therapist, Sara, said not to do that. What the fuck does she know? A lot, actually.

“That’s just kinda how— we’d do things. Like that’s how we—” Carmen frowns, memories dawning on him. “…I guess maybe we never really talked.”

You don’t need to ask who we is. His family didn’t particularly set Carmen up for success. And every figure after his family didn’t really lighten the load. There’s not much for you to say or do beyond, “I like talking to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to still be mad at me.” Carmen reassures, he’s not sure why he feels the need to do so. “You can— You can tell me to go fuck myself.” 

You shake your head, shrugging. “You can tell me to go fuck myself.”

He shakes his head, immediately, squinting, like you’re a moron; you are. “I would never tell you to go fuck yourself.”

It’s a silent moment of exchanging hard stares and trying to glean something from the other. Once you gather your findings, you finally return to your era of speaking in sync again, with, “I don’t hate you.”

It's a hellish realization, that you thought it was possible, let alone certain, to hate you. He could cry again. “Why would you ever think I hate you?”

You raise your brows, because how could you not think Carmen hates you? “Because you said—”

“I didn’t mean a fucking word.”  He says it differently than he did before. Like it’s a final warning. He immediately recoils at his own voice and its aggression.

“I’m sorry.” Carmen scratches his nose, continuing for the both of you. What more can he say? He’s already said it a million times, so what’s one more? When you try to speak, he doesn’t let you. Because he knows you. He knows you’ll brush it off. “I don’t want you to forgive me, right now. I want to prove I earned it.”

“You don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

“Yeah, Sara said that, too. You’re both wrong.”

“Yeah, I don’t think your therapist can be wrong, in this scenario.”

“Please.” Carmen props his knee up on the counter, his hands, in some way, mimic a prayer. He holds eye contact, he thanks whoever is in charge that you’re holding it again, too. “Let me earn it.”

Carmen will learn that he doesn’t need to earn anything or prove anything to anyone eventually. He’ll need more than six therapy sessions crammed in during his lunch breaks, for that. But right now, he needs to prove this. Needs to earn you. For now, you'll give it to him. For now, you just nod. 

Carmen chews his bottom lip, he doesn’t want to say it but he has to. “When I said—” You failed Mikey. “—What I said— I didn’t mean it how I said it.”

You bring your legs up, criss crossing them. “How’d you mean it?” How else could he possibly mean it?

“I meant it like— Like— Of course he died.”

They’re Berzatto men, they’re doomed. “Nothing you could have done would have stopped him from dying— And I— It hurt cause it felt like— In—In that moment— In my head—” He puts a hand up, pausing to reassure, “Nothing you did. But I felt like I was ‘Round Two’ for you. Charity. I—”

Carmen swallows, looking down, can’t meet your eyes for the moment, but he points at you. “You didn’t fail Mikey— He failed to know he was worth saving.”

A wound closes up, a little bit, somewhere in your head and heart.  “I think in some ways, I was trying to make up for something—”

You’re quick to clarify, too. “But not cause you’re you— Cause I’m me.” Have to do it all. Have to fix it all. Have to save it all. “Like— I think I might have that edge of paranoia for like, like a long time, if not… forever?”

 You frown; what a bleak idea. “Fuck, I may need to go back to therapy, too.”

“You want Sara’s card?” “Sliding scale?” “Sliding scale.” “Is it weird to have the same therapist?” “Probably.” “I’ll look into it.”

You both laugh, the weighted blanket of tension over you both is finally lifting. Carmen’s capable of looking you in the eyes again. “You did literally everything someone could think of.”

You kiss your teeth, you could’ve done a couple more things. “I mean, location—”

“He never would’ve given it to you.” “That’s exactly it, though— I should’ve put my foot down more. I was never as strict as I was supposed to be.” “But if you were strict he wouldn’t let you help him.” “Sponsors are meant to be strict.” “Then he wouldn’t’ve let you be his sponsor.” “Then I shouldn’t have been his sponsor!” “Then he would’ve never joined the program!” “Well—” “It’s not your fucking fault!”

Carmen doesn’t hate you, Carmen doesn’t think you killed his brother. Heavy exhale of too many emotions and a touch of relief. But you can see yourself in his expression. You can see Richie in his expression. The guilt. The haunting. You swallow, “Not yours, either.”

“I could’ve called more.” “He wouldn’t have answered.” “I could’ve realized why.” “And how exactly could you have done that?” “...I dunno, could’ve— Could’ve been the guy, for him.” “Carmen you were the guy, for him.”

Carmen shakes his head. “You were the guy, for Mikey.”

“I— Okay—” You click your tongue, this is hard to explain. You shift on the sink counter, trying to get more comfortable. You won’t. It’s a fucking sink. “I was the guy, but the guy to another guy isn’t much— you—” You snap your fingers, pointing at him. “You’re not the guy, Carmen. Never will be.”

“Ouch.”

“No— You’re something much more important than the guy. You’re— You’re the, the cat.”

He can’t help but smile, confused. He’s so used to bear comparisons. “I’m the cat?”

“You’re—” You keep pointing at him, thinking the metaphor in your head through. “...The guy is— Is like the host of the house party. He keeps the jokes going, the room light, the drinks and food stocked— He talks people through panic attacks while they sit in the bathtub, he loses at beer pong on purpose to make the other team feel better, the guy makes everyone feel like they’re the center of the universe.”

“And the cat?”

“The cat is upstairs, locked in his room, because the cat will get all jittery if he’s around all that yelling and all those people. The cat doesn’t even like those people. And the guy doesn’t want his cat to go through that. But then, when the guy finally gets all jittery and can’t handle all those people himself—” You sigh, honestly stressed by your own metaphor, thinking of all the moments in your life you needed the cat and didn’t call.

“He’ll go upstairs, to his room, and the cat will be there, and he can talk to the cat— Because the cat likes him. And nothing will be solved, but it’ll still feel good and the cat will still think his guy’s perfect and wonderful even when the guy is just— just him— And the cat asks literally nothing of the guy— Unlike everyone else downstairs— and that’s exactly why the guy wants to give the cat everything over anyone else.”

God, you’ve been talking about cats and guys too much. “Not everyone needs a cat, but the guys that do, really do. And you’re… You’re the cat— Mikey’s and mine.”

Carmen can’t say I love you, because that would be an insane response. That would be weird and bad and too soon and stupid. But it’s the only thing he can think of. The only thing he can say besides that, is, “You’re very good to me.”

You’re not exclusively for Carmen, he knows that. You’re not made for him— You’re made for many things. But maybe you’re curated. The Bear wouldn’t exist without your advocacy. And it’s hard to believe, but there might’ve been even more broken shit at The Beef, if you hadn’t been there before Carmen got there. Mikey got to be your friend, before Carmen did. And you got to be Mikey’s friend, when Carmen didn’t. But you both kept him in mind, you told Mikey to text, you drew schematics for his restaurant, you said you’d talk to him. You thought he was charming. You still do. You’re Mikey’s pick, for Carmen. And it’s not like Mikey’s opinion matters that much, but it’s nice to have approval. Though he didn’t fucking ask for it.

“Such a cat response.” “Is that like being a Leo or some shit?” 

You both laugh. Ah, thank fuck, it’s you two, again. There’s a comfortable silence while you think for a second, before asking, “Can I add another thing to your non-negotiables?”

“Always.”

“I don’t want you to be different for me.” You think back to being in his kitchen, the way he tried to hold back, when you were around. “I get you, work you, home you— If you want me to be your fuckin’ mixologist, you’re gonna have to get comfortable working with me.”

“You still want to work for me?”

“I shook on it, didn’t I?”

He laughs through a deep sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Damn,” You snort, “Are you only with me for my skills?”

“No, I’m with you because you’re— You.” The kitchen needs you, The Bear needs you, Carmen needs you. He’s the cat, he doesn’t need anything more than you. He can work on his codependency issues in therapy, okay? “I— I like having you around.”

You readjust your posture again, it’s hard to get comfortable on a sink. “Well, you better get paid soon, then.”

“‘Bout that.” Boy came prepared. He rifles through the pockets of his black jeans, and pulls out a folded slip of paper. He does a yoga class worthy stretch to hand it to you, from across the sink. A paystub, from The Bear, to Carmen. Officially on fucking payroll.

Yeah, turns out, just a bad week, last week. Being in the red doesn’t last forever. Neither does being in the green. There are ebbs and flows. Next week will probably be shit, and yet the wheel still turns. Carmen also might’ve very well plugged in half of the numbers wrong, according to Sugar, when she eventually got to looking at it. But that’s neither here nor there. So he’s reactive. What’s new? Should’ve believed the you in his head, when she said there will be good and bad weeks. He’s still working on being the only voice in his head. But you’re a good replacement for the other guy, for now.

You stare at it, like an ancient scroll. It’s real. He’s really getting paid— Pretty decent too, he could finally buy some fucking furniture, with this. “Okay.” You look up from the slip to him. He looks like he’s on fucking Shark Tank, anxiously awaiting your approval. “And you’ll act like you?”

“I will act like me.” Even when he doesn’t want you to see it, Carmen will act like Carmen. 

And that’s all you could ask for, really. You’re about to approve the deal, but then you think again, frowning. “The Exec.”

“Ah.” Carmen shuts his eyes, embarrassed by his own brain. “I know.”

“So you thought about it?”

“I didn’t think about— It—” Carmen doubted his own conviction, because he doubts all of himself. But it really was not ever on the table, to give your number…That said— “I thought about loopholes.”

“Catfishing him?” You guess, and he affirms. “Catfishing him.” Hey, great minds think alike. Doesn’t make Carmen feel any less scummy, for considering abusing your likeness for sake of approval. 

“Did you go through with it?” 

It’s Carmen’s turn, to blink, slow to realize that you actually don’t know. “Richie didn’t tell you?” You still live in a world where Carmen isn’t completely batshit. 

You tilt your head, “Did Richie catfish him?”

“No, uhm—” He seems suddenly sheepish now. Can’t look you in the eyes, again. He nods and points to your pockets. “You got your phone?”

“Uh, yeah—” You pull it out, haven’t gotten any sudden creepshow texts, to your knowledge. “Should I be scared?”

Carmen shakes his head. “Nothin’ worse than what you’ve already seen.” He snaps his fingers at your phone, “Look up uh— I think it’s— Chicago Bear on Yankee Chef turf, or some shit.”

You have to take a moment, before typing, to just look at him with genuine pause. “...What?”

“Just do it.” “Did you kill someone?” “I do not have blood on my hands, the Tribune is just dramatic—” “The fucking Tribune?! Shut the fuck up, Carmy.”

Absolutely no way he’s in the Chicago Tribune.

Okay. Upon searching. Absolutely yes way he’s in the Chicago Tribune. Carmen’s trending on Twitter— Or rather, Chicago, The Bear, Bear, Carmy, Michelin Beef, Fuck the Yanks, and a million other keywords are trending— Local trending, but still trending. Chicago Tribune’s made an article archiving a handful of reaction tweets, summarizing whatever the fuck happened. Alright, this is taking too long, maybe you should just ask the man in front of you— “Oh my fucking God, there’s a video.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t watch—” Carmen is interrupted by his own voice coming through your phone. “—And what kind of fucking Chef doesn’t like black pepper? I’m white and overdone, but you’re an entire other goddamn beast—” “...That.”

It’s a screen recording of some patron’s Facebook Live at some New York restaurant David owns or whatever. Empire? That’s what the blurry signs in the video’s background seem to say. What’s his title at this point, anymore? Doesn’t matter.

It’s nice to see his blurry little face around ten to twenty feet from the camera get yelled at by a Carmen that is also many feet away, but his voice seems to be projecting throughout the whole restaurant; enough to be heard clearly through recording, anyways. “And it’d be enough to just be an asshole— But you’re a creep too— Never fuckin’ pray on my— my— bar staff, or I swear on my life—”

“Can’t make direct threats in New York, Cousin! Penal code!” You laugh when you hear Richie’s voice ringing out in the background. Thank God for whoever’s filming, because they pivot their phone to catch Richie, pretty much next to their table, calling out to Carmen. “It’s a fine!”

He looks tired but wired; they must’ve taken a pitstop here, before heading to the hotel. What a fun road trip finale. Richie is such a motherfucker for not telling you all of this first thing while you put on his cufflinks— This is not dirty details, this is front page shit! Literally! God, he buries the lead like it’s his fucking day job.

“Who gives a fuck about a fine? Everyone—” And back to Carmen. “This is David Fields, he’s the head of the head of the head, in their heads— He’s a fantastic chef, I don’t think he eats or sleeps or knows what another person’s hands feel like— He is fuckin’ brilliant at making the same three fuckin’ plates every fuckin’ day— With the most minute differences— And—And—And— He doesn’t even make them! He takes dishes from prozac riddled fucks like me, makes them worse and then puts his name on it! Unoriginal, a narcissist, and fucking bad at it!”

You don’t look up from your phone, eyes glued to the screen. “Holy fuck, Carmen.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” “Is this good marketing?” “Wait for it, I guess.” “...Are you actually on prozac?” “No. I kind of blacked out. Made a point though, right?” “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Sorry, miss. Could I—” …Fak? Guess he did third wheel on the road trip to New York. He grabs the streamer’s phone. There’s a ‘what the—fuckin— excuse me?’ from behind the camera as Fak pivots the recording to himself. 

“Hey World, I’m Neil, that’s my best friend Carmy the Bear, over there.”

“Jesus Christ.” You look up from your phone to Carm, who was at first embarrassed and is now just trying to hold a straight face, hand over his mouth. “I’m aware.” He repeats. 

You squint, thinking.“...Best friend?” “...I guess he is?” “That’s— Okay— I don’t— Alright, we’ll come back to that.” And return to your phone.

Fak continues, taking advantage of the sudden screen time. “He’s a really good Chef, knows his shit, if you ever want to see how he does it, please come eat— Dine— Dine with us at The Bear, we’re in Chicago— on North Orleans and Huron— You can— Can book with us at The Bear dot—”

“Don’t have the site yet.” Richie interrupts the impromptu ad, hovering over Fak’s shoulder, barely whispering. “Still The Beef.”

Neil nods and continues. “The Beef dot squarespace—”

“It’s Wix.” “It’s fucking Wix?” “Your problem isn’t with the lack of a domain?”

“It’s Google Sites, actually.” You correct for no one, really, looking up from your phone to Carmen, again. “I made him change it so it wouldn’t have that ugly freemium bar.” 

Carmen snorts, shaking his head. Of course you did. “D’you design it?”

You let out a loud, “Ha!” before turning back down to the screen. “I think web design might be the one trade I can’t do.” But you’re willing to learn, if he needs.

Ah, the videographer managed to foist her phone back, returning to catch the very end of the Carmen Show. And it’s a wonderful finale, from Carm.

“—Fuck your two elements, fuck your face— Fuck everything about you— I cannot believe we gave you service— Let alone our best— For a guy in hospitality, you have no fucking right treating my host and somme like that. Fuck you—”

“Fuck you—” Finally a response from David, though it’s quickly interrupted, as Carmen finally starts to back away, not wanting a genuine fight if he doesn’t have to do it, but he certainly wants the last word. “No, fuck you—”

“Fuck you.” “—Chef— Stay in your fucking city— Stay in your fucking city— New Yorks great! Stay in it! We don't play in Chicago— Fuck you!”

Carmen comes back to his road trip squad, he notices the woman recording, and walks up to the camera. For a second, you genuinely think he’s going to square up with her— You’re pretty sure he at least thought about it. “Is she recording?”

“Streaming.” Answers Fak. “It’s the new thing.”

 Carmy opts to use his words, possibly because he could maybe get arrested. “Sorry, sorry— I just want to make it clear—”

He gestures to the fucker in the background, bouncers seems to be approaching. Carmen keeps going, face red but calming down, chasing his own breath. “This man worked— and works with wonderful Chefs who I learned a lot under— And— And— I have all the respect for them, and always will— But-But— when it comes to David Fields specifically—”

Your cherry and lamb dish was perfect. David’s palate is just not worth appealing to. Carmen won’t make that mistake again.

“—What he serves is consistently vapid, dusty, and dead on arrival— like his heart— And—And— When you pay him, dine with him, work with him, you are lining the pockets of some fuckin’ creep that pulls rank on honest cooks and servers. So. Decide if you want that. And uhm— Uh— Tip your servers. Don’t ask for their numbers— Like he does. Be normal. Thank you.”

“Carmen Berzatto, folks! Come— Come to The Bear!” Yells out Neil, as security finally seems to be coming for the Chicagoans.

Richie grabs Fak by the back of his coat, knowing when to bounce, shouting, “No legal names! Godssake— This has been Carmichael Burrowski, folks! Don’t call no one—!”

The screen recording ends, not long after that. You’re going to need maybe a… fifty minute nap, to process that. Maybe, somehow, this is good publicity— Maybe in some way, this is putting The Bear on the center stage. But one thing is fact, Carmen completely abandoned the idea of keeping appearances and getting a star through kissing ass. He completely abandoned the idea of being appealing to the man in his head. 

And he did that for you— And Richie— Which, honestly, makes it mean even more. Carmen’s a good boss. Not always. Definitely not always. But when it fucking counts, he is. Carmen's a good man. A good friend. A good not-quite boyfriend. Ugh, boyfriend? What kind of word is ‘boyfriend’? That's fucked.

You put your phone away, quietly nodding and thinking, not looking at Carmen. You shrug, attempting to be nonchalant. “Contract and I’ll be your mixologist.”

“Yeah?” There’s such a brightness, to the way Carmen asks. Like a spritz. “Okay. I’ll— I’ll send you a Docusign.” Aperol spritz. There’s more to it, than that though. 

You’re so zoned out, looking at the sinks instead of Carmen, he starts to get worried. He just got eye contact back, come on. Was the yelling too much in the video? He was loud and mean. He always is. He told you not to watch. 

“Tony?” What kind of bitters suit him? A slice of grapefruit might be nice. Bright but acquired.

“Are you good?”

“Wha—” You shake your head out of it, turning your gaze to Carmen. He jumped off the counter to stand by you. His hand hovers by your head— He considers grazing your hair, and chickens out. But he can’t put it down.  “Sorry, was— I was uh— Just thinking of what we could put on a cocktail menu, that’s all.” Yeah, that’s all.

“Don’t work on it, without me.” It’s with a, dare you say, panicked quickness, that he requests this. “Cocktail menu, coffee menu, we should— Should do R and D, together.”

“Yeah, f’sure.” Fucking Chefs, so particular about their menus. “I think it’d be good to uhm— Build it around the main menu, anyways. Sorta match stuff up.” Thankfully, you like particular.

He really needs to not be standing this close, though. Your brain keeps zoning in and out— It’s really not the time to be feeling any sort of type of way about Carmen cursing out that fucking chef and going to therapy for himself and you and he smells nice and he’s reading books and he worked bar all night with you and he looks so nice in bartender black in lieu of his Chef whites and he is trying so hard and— And you cannot say you love him because that would be weird. That would be weird and bad and too soon and stupid. 

And you can’t forgive him either— Well, not aloud, because Carmen wants to prove that he’s done the work— Wants to prove that he’s going to keep doing the work. He’s rendered you with nearly zero options here, to show your affection. 

“Yeah, that’s— That’d be good. I was thinkin’ we’d put your station by Marcus.” Why is he still talking about work? He’s so stupid. He’s wonderful. This is the worst. This is hell. “Coffee machine’s already there, and you’ll tend to share a lot of elements, anyway— I think.”

You shift your butt on the counter, turning to face him head on, he’s just slightly between your knees as your legs dangle off the counter. “Carmen.”

“Yeah?” “I’m going to kiss you.” “Yeah, okay.”

Light, nervous, sweet, lifting, soft— A delicate kick to it. Pink peppercorn bitters. That’s it.

Aperol— Vibrantly orange liqueur, derived from bitter rhubarb. It’s an acquired taste. Some say it’s citrusy and herbal, others say it tastes like cough syrup. Either way, it’s awakening. Then prosecco. A splash of soda— Lemon-lime would be best. Aperol spritz. It’s an Italian cocktail. It sparkles. Everything in it fizzes, almost competing with each other. It’s meant to be enjoyed before dinner. It’s refreshing. Pink peppercorns and grapefruit would only add to that brightness, that light. It’s not for everyone, but it is everything to some. That’s Carmen. That’s your Carmen. Oh, maybe a syrup on the rim?

You try to be delicate, the way you put the palm of your hand on the back of his head and pull him in, but it’s just not possible. It’s the first time in a fucking month you’ve initiated— It's been one-hundred and sixty-eight hours since you've seen his face, let alone touched it— It’s just not possible to be kind.

Thankfully, based on the way he’s leaning you back on the counter, hands on your waist, it doesn’t seem like Carmen wants kind. There's a sigh of relief, to just kiss you. He’s fine with the touch of hair pulling, on your part— Possibly more than fine. Possibly way more than fine. The faint whining and pulling your hips to his seem to indicate it’s a lot fucking more than fine.

It would be weird and bad and stupid and too soon to say I love you, but you can mouth the words against him and he can’t tell what you’re wording but at least you know. It’s funny that he can do the same to you, and despite knowing the trick, you can’t tell either. 

Carmen pulls back, just a centimeter, or two. He wants to say something. He’s opening his mouth to say something. He's all dopey and half-lidded. Man, he’s pretty. He knows that right? Yeah, he knows that. “You’re so pretty.” You tell him anyway, speaking into his half open mouth. 

Whatever thought he had, it’s dead now.“—Jesus fucking Christ.” He moves his hands to hold your face. It’s nice. It’s nice to get peppered with kisses— Yeah, pink pepper fits perfectly with him. 

Carm’s voice is heavier now. Maybe from the lack of oxygen. He’s fighting to revive his brain. He’s so serious, when he firmly kisses you, forehead against yours, lips still grazing, saying, “I’m not a fucking virgin.”

You laugh way too fucking hard for his ego. Your hands untangle from his hair, but your arms continue to rest on his shoulders. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s still amped, too bad you’re you, and you have to ruin the mood to poke at him.

“That a recent development?” “Shut the fuck up—” “I’m just wondering, if he was accurate at the time—” “Why are you doing this to me?” “Did you have a tantric affair in Denmark, the people wanna know!” “I— There was no time, alright? It got away from me—” “Remember when you had your first kind of girlfriend like a month and a week ago?” “It was a recent development, okay?” “Darn. Sorry I was late.”

He pauses the banter to just stare at you, take in your features, take in that you’re here and real and half underneath him. “Not forgiven.” You should’ve shown up sooner. You should’ve injected yourself so completely in Carmen’s life eons ago, and made yourself intrinsically impossible to remove. Absolutely not forgiven, for being late.

“Yeah?” Your eyes upturn, deeply amused. Carmen really is the baby brother. Entitled, bratty, cute. You’re planning to say something coy, something playful like ‘Ohoho, how do I earn your forgiveness?’ But you remember something Carmen said, when he was summarizing his Friday night for you— And for Carmen, what you opt to say is so much worse than hot banter, for his brain. 

“I don’t think your mouth tastes bad.” It’s your turn to take in his face and all its features. “I think it’s nice. It’s like the only way I can try cigarettes without getting a headache.”

“I wanna fly you to Paris.” It’s so quick, from Carmen. Choked quick— Like he fought to hold it down but you’ve just opened the Pandora’s box that is his mouth. He keeps going. Your surprised face firmly smushed in his hands.  

“I’ve wanted to take you to Paris since I asked you to run bar— I’ve— I’ve wanted to take you to Paris since you washed my hair— I—I—” Too much affection to contain in words, he has to kiss you, and then he has to keep going, and then kiss you between the ‘ands’, and then keep going. Like a shot and a chaser and a shot and a chaser and a—

“I want you to be permanent and carved in my tables and I want you to wear my jackets and I want you in my kitchen and in my menu and in every dumb fucking conversation I have at Christmas tellin’ family what the fuck I’m doing— I want you in every sentence.”

It’s not ‘I love you’. Because saying I love you would be weird and bad and stupid and too soon. But it might very well be more than that. Trying to avoid saying it might be forcing you both to say something that means more than that.

It’s hard to generate a response as poignant as that. Especially because your cognitive abilities seem to have gone completely offline. Your brain is telling you to kill the moment so you don’t have to face the feeling, telling you to say something stupid like, ‘Why Paris?’, because if you don't, you might say it. But you can’t. You’re totally speechless. 

Eventually, you manage to choke out, “I would like that.”

“Yeah?” “Yeah.”

“Good.” Ah, a smile from Carmen with teeth. What a rare gift you’ve been bestowed. He tries to celebrate this occasion with another kiss that will inevitably lead to a million more but when he goes for his classic move of sticking his head in the crook of your neck to bite you like a cannibal— You get the chance to look somewhere other than Carmen’s face, and realize you are both still very much so in a fucking bathroom at a fucking wedding in New York. 

“Fak is still outside, I’m pretty sure.”

Carmen groans, there’s no way you’re doing this to him again, come on, neither of you have to go this time, you have all the time in the world, in this bathroom. Time isn’t real here. That’s how bathrooms work. “He’s not.”

“Carmy’s right, I’m not.” Says definitely totally not Fak, behind the door. “You guys kissin’ yet?”

“Christ.” You put a hand on Carm’s chest, pushing him back from you as you push yourself up with your other hand. “Mood dead.”

“No—” He grabs your wrist, holding your hand in place against him. “Mood not dead— Mood present and alive—”

There’s some fumbling behind the door. “Wait— Are they?” Oh, so Richie’s here, too? Good. That’s great. “Ain’t no fuckin’ way— Cousin, be a gentleman—”

Carmen leans over and all but screams into your shoulder. “I am being a fuckin’ gentleman, Richard!”

You kiss your teeth, shaking your head, shrugging. “Yeah, it’s dead.” Them’s the breaks. 

A slow, heavy, arduous exhale, from Carmen, coming up to lean his forehead to yours for a second. Enjoying the liminal space before it’s permanently ripped out of your hands. “I hate my family.”

You smile, pressing your forehead firmer against his, nuzzling noses. “You love your family.”

“I love my family.” He sighs. He gives you one last kiss, soft, sweet, perfect. “Thank you for taking care of them.” 

You shrug. “They’re mine, too.”

God, you’re so quick and mind-bending, he has to go for another kiss, come the fuck on— “Mood’s dead.” You laugh, so cruel, jumping off the counter, maneuvering past Carmen, but you’re sweet— Cruel but sweet— Carefully switching his hold on your wrist to holding your hand, dragging him with you. 

You might be leaving the bathroom together, but Carmen’s pretty sure a part of him is going to stay there, like a ghost of a feeling, for the rest of time.

“Okay— Is everyone waiting to piss?” Is your first question, for the crowd awaiting you and Carmy outside the bathroom. Not strangers, though—Well, mostly not strangers. Richie, Syd, Fak, some guy that looks like Fak. There’s no way they all need to piss, there were three other bathrooms available, it's not like you were hogging. “Is fuckin’ anyone runnin’ bar right now?”

“Marcus is.” Syd answers, hurriedly, as she runs up on you, immediately enveloping you— Practically an attack. It’s not in her nature to hug, but you’ve forced her hand here. Carmen hasn’t even exited the doorway behind you yet before you’re stumbling back into him from the force of her. 

“Squ—”

The words come out of her like a flood, no spacing between the words. “I’m-sorry-I—  We-finished-serving-and-listened-in-on-everything-super-invasive-couldn’t-help-it— You should’ve called me.”

This— These motherfuckers. Oh well, saves you the trip to Denny’s. And frankly, you would hate to re-explain all that. You return the hug with your free hand, the other one still in Carmen’s. You put your chin on her shoulder. “I know.”

There were so many times where you could’ve just gone upstairs. So many times you could’ve just called your old cat. Should’ve just called Syd. She would have been there. Maybe that’s exactly why you didn’t call. 

“I should’ve called you.” Maybe that’s exactly why Syd never called her guy, when she needed you, too. 

“Well,” You pull her back by her shoulders, “We will next time.”

You can’t let the moment stay sincere for long though, shit-eating grin growing on your face, “You’d give up a star for me?” Nuzzling your face into Syd’s cheek as she desperately tries to get away from you now— Oh how the tables turn.

“Get fucked—” “You love me— I’m all you got, Syd? Woww—” “After my dad I said! After my dad!” “A single widdle tear from me isn’t worth a star?” “It was not widdle— Little— Fuck—”

“This is cute princesses but everyone get the fuck out of the way before I clog an artery.” Richie unnecessarily shoves his way between the Faks to get to you. 

You release Syd to face the man, pensive, waiting for a slap, honestly. Richie just looks at you, now that he’s in front of you he’s dumbfounded, awkward. He knows he wants to say something or wants you to say something but neither of you know what that is. What it should be.

Before he can figure it out, you do. “I should’ve told you.” Besides your therapist, Carmen is the only person you told about the phone call— Well, intentionally, that is. 

That doesn’t really seem to be the thing he cares about. He’s not going to slap you, and you don’t need to grovel. “Am I dead, to you?”

Your brows furrow, for a second. “Wha—”

Richie grabs your free hand, pressing it to his neck. “Check my pulse, am I dead, t’you?”

“First of all, wrong placement.” You have to wiggle your hand out of his grip to take his pulse correctly. “It’s under the chin, align it with your eye—”

“Do I have one?” “Yes, Richie, you have a pulse.” “So I’m not dead?” “You’re not dead—” “Then call me.”

When your breath hitches, he continues. “I’m not a ghost. I’m here. When shit happens, you call me.”

“I know.” Is the only thing you can say without your voice cracking. “I will call next time.”

“You will fucking call, next time.” Richie grabs your face, smushed in his hands. “And you’ll answer my calls, next time.” He forces you to nod— Not that you wouldn’t, but wants to make sure. “Am I heard?”

“You're heard.”

Richie can see over your head, so he barks at Carmen, who’s very innocently behind you, still holding your hand. “Get your weird little hands off my Chip, you perv—”

“I don’t have weird little hands—” 

Syd pipes in, squinting. “Why is that the thing you refute—”

“Why does God let these moments happen to me?” You grumble, words muffled with your face still compacted by Richie’s hands. 

“I think it’s beautiful, actually.” Says some guy that looks like Fak. You just stare at him with your partially forced closed eyes. “Just the vibes, so— like— tender.”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” You deadpan, pointing at Other Fak. “Has this guy just learned shit I haven’t even told my own father?”

“We definitely just got here.” Lies Fak, next to Other Fak. He continues, “We didn’t hear anything about the really sad way you both actually did attend the funeral but didn’t—”

Other Fak astutely interrupts to add, sniffing. “But if we did it’d be like, like really meaningful that you both like, did that.” Is he tearing up? Richie needs to check your pulse, are you dying?

“Everyone please back the fuck up?” Carmen sighs, behind you, then beside you, letting go of your hand to put it on your shoulder. “Like maybe give two solitary fuckin’ seconds?”

There’s a stuttering of apologies as everyone realizes yeah, maybe a bit much to immediately jump you. Richie drops your face, everyone takes a step back.

You keep staring at Other Fak. Squinting, you point to him. “Ted?” Guy who they called instead of you?

He nods, “Hi—”

“No.” You wave your hand in front of his face, cutting him off. You turn to Carmen, just shaking your head plainly. “No.”

“Heard.”

“Y’know how going to a different barber is like cheating—?”

“No, like I got it—”

“This is like times a thousand—”

“I am hearing the note—”

“Fak can— Neil can fix shit, I took his spot, it’s fair— Outsourcing someone though—?”

“Won’t do it again.”

“No, you won’t.”

“It was— Should I have called you back in?”

“No, you should have had a broken light until we talked it out or let it be broken for the rest of your life.” There is not much you could ever find yourself getting genuinely jealous about— This, however, is a knife to the heart. Another handyman is a child out of wedlock, practically.

“Heard.”

“I spent way too long stalking you.” Interrupts Syd, she’s looking at her phone, a jumble of aggravated misspelled texts coming from the work group chat. “Fuck, I’ve gotta help Tina with clean up— We’ll—” She sticks a hand out, you reach out and hold it, for a moment. “You’re still— We’re still sharing, right?”

You tilt your head, confused, oh— “I’m still gonna sleep in our room, Syd. You weird pervert.”

Syd lets go of your hand, shaking her own hands around her head, talking just as fast as she speed walks away to the kitchen. “I am not a weird pervert, I’m sexually normal, don’t be weird, goodbye! Love you, fuck you, see you later!”

Richie claps his hands, “We’re closing out, so I’ve gotta go pick up vases or some shit— Faks, c’mon—”

“Y’know we’re just regular guests, right?” Says Ted. They let Fak come on the road trip despite not doing a job? Medals of Valor need to be doled out.

“Pbbt, come the fuck on, here boy.” Richie starts to walk off, and the whistling is condescending, but they listen anyway. Rich looks over his shoulder, snapping his fingers at Carmen. “Probationary forgiveness.”

Carmen nods, “Thank you, Chef.”

“Dee-Dee’s here, by the way.”

Carmen’s relaxed posture immediately pulls into a taught physique, he’s considering chasing Richie to get more details. “Isn’t Sug here, too?”

“Yessir!”

“Have they—” “They got grouped at the same table. Unc and Stevie have been keepin’ the peace.” “How’s that going?”

“Your guess is as good as mine!” And with that Richie fades into the crowd of straggling guests and clean up crews. 

You don’t know much about Donna, which was a very intentional choice on Mikey’s part. And that kinda tells you all you need to know. You turn to Carmen, pensive. “You wanna go find out?”

He itches at his collar, thinking. “I think if I say I don’t, I’m a bad son.”

“You didn’t ask to be her son.”

“Oh, fuck, okay.” He stumbles for a second, you immediately cover your mouth. 

“Sorry! I just—” Inside thought got outside. “I just meant— That was a lot. It’s just like, I dunno, you can’t be bad at something you never opted in for, y’know?”

“No, yeah, that— That’s kind of… a good thought.” He nods, looking at the ground, swallowing the words. “I— I should be a good brother—and—and Uncle, at least. Say hi to Nat.”

You don’t start walking until he starts walking, intent to follow his lead. You’ll stroll casually, until they crop up, making no deliberate effort to find them. You’re both silently hoping you don't. Carmen brings his head back up to you. “You ever meet Mom—? Donna?”

You shake your head, “No, that was kinda one of our few red lines. For Mikey and me. He’d like—” You gesture with your hands as you explain. “He’d talk about her, and I saw like… photos of them from babyhood, but I never met her or heard details— Never like, came over to the house. It was just kinda like a silent agreement. Hard for him and hard for me with the whole— Uh—”

“Drinking thing.”

You nod. “It’s uh— I’m not easily triggered anymore, though, so I think I’m fine.”

Carmen sniffs, scratching his nose. “Well, if you end up not being fine, we can not— Like not talk to her.”

He’s sweet, he’s smart, he’s the cat. You nod. “You don’t have to talk to her either, y’know. Could just text Nat—” “She’s right there.”

You whip your head up in tandem with him saying, “Don’t look fas— Fuck.”

You put the back of your hand on Carm’s chest, you both stop walking. “That’s Dee-Dee?”

“Yeah, with the—the leopard print belt and the floral dress.” Carmen’s been growing meeker with each step. You’d think his biggest fear is clashing patterns. This is not the same bear in the Chicago Tribune. “Why, you— You do know her?”

“She looks fuckin’ familiar…” You kiss your teeth, trying to roll back in your memory— Come on, you don’t forget shit, where is she from? You’ve seen photos but those were blurry and she was so much younger. You remember this version of Donna, you remember her from somewhere.

“Fuckin’ — Something with Pete— I saw her with Pete— Nat’s husband—” You point to him, across from Donna, at the table. “Him, yeah.”

“Just them?” Carmen gently pulls your arm down, you’ve gotta remember your manners.

“Yeah, I was— Oh, I was—” You squint. “Did Donna come to your opening?”

“No, she was invited, but she didn’t show.”

“Okay— So, she did, actually.” “Huh—?”

“She was— She was outside, when you were in the walk-in.” You nod to yourself, still thinking through the memory. “Yeah, she was outside— I thought Pete was like her son— It looked like they were fighting or crying so I just kinda— Kinda let it be. You were locked in a fucking freezer so I chose my battles.”

“Oh.” Carmen nods, trying to make it seem normal in his head. It’s not. And he can’t seem to force it. “He definitely didn’t tell Nat.” Because Nat would’ve told him.

You hum, rocking on your heels. “Yeah there's no chance we're going to go say hi now, is there?”

“Yeah, that might be best.”

You fold your lips in a line, still staring at Donna, she looks normal, which makes it feel even less normal. Way too much to unpack, if you go over there. Instead, you’ll stand here in the middle of the banquet hall, and unpack the carry-on luggage, so to speak. “Christmas is in a week.”

It’s a freight train of realization, Carmen drags his hand down his face. “Fuck me.”

“I know.”

“I have to go, don’t I?”

You frown, turning your head to him, not wanting to say what you’re going to say. “Do you think she’ll plan anything?” First Christmas without Mikey. Will she have the willpower to plan something, like she usually does?

“Oh, fuck me.”

“I know.”

Carmen holds his hand over his mouth, words somewhat muffled. “I’ll ask Nat, see what she’s doing. Baby’s first Christmas, or whatever. That’s a thing, right?”

“Baby’s do traditionally experience time, yeah.” “You n’ that smart mou—”

Despite staring at their table, the two of you did not notice Natalie approaching you, baby Michaela swaddled in her arms. “Oh my God, I haven’t seen normal human beings that aren’t screaming or shitting constantly in so long— Please— Say something normal and fun.”

You pucker your lips, trying to come up with something. “Ah— Fuck, I can’t think of anything— Oh fuck, sorry I said fuck— God— I’m just gonna stop talking.”

Nat lifts her hand up for a moment to wave you off before re-supporting her baby. “No! No, don’t! Say fuck so much. Say it all the time. She can’t understand, she doesn’t care. I wish I was her.”

“Will do.” You just nod, holding a hand up to Michaela, waving. She grabs one of your fingers, holding on tight. You can’t help but coo. “Hey, baby! Have you been fuckin’ with your mom’s sleep schedule? Awe, yes you have! Yes you have!”

Nat laughs and hums, “Richie told me you used to babysit Eva.” 

“He’s exaggerating.” You leave your hand with Michaela, but look up to Nat. “There were just some weekends he was working and daycare wasn’t running so I’d take her around the city for a couple hours— More like playdates than actual babysitting.”

“That just sounds like you’re a fun babysitter.” Carmen rebukes, Nat nods. 

“I’m good when you only need a second.” You sigh, half taking the compliment. You glance over Nat’s fatigued face. “You need a second?”

“Yes, fuck, could you?” In the same breath, she’s handing you baby Michaela. “She has in fact been fucking with mommy’s sleep schedule— And no one tells you— ‘mommy strength’ or whatever, needs to be developed— My lats— I think they’re lats? Are insane now. Just from holding her!”

You bounce the baby in your arms, sidling her on your hip. She’s a grabber, that’s for sure. Grabbing your hair, your top, Mikey’s chip— No longer tucked under your clothes. You let her. Well— Not the hair— She could cut off her circulation— Relax, EMS. You’re off duty. “How’s it going with—”

Nat knows what you’re asking before you finish the question. “Better than normal, which makes it feel worse. Does that make sense?”

You nod, “Completely and utterly.”

Carmen’s staring at Pete. He’s not typically a snitch but this is his sister, “Did Pete tell you—?”

“That mom was there on our fucking opening and he told her we were having a baby? Yes, about five minutes before she sat down.” Nat says it with a perfectly practiced smile and a simmering anger.

Your hands slip just slightly, you readjust your grip on Mickey. You and Carmen speak together, “He what?” 

Nat doesn't mean to ignore your both but she does, “How'd you find out?”

“I just told him.” You pipe up, guilt covers your face. “I saw them when I came that night. Sorry, I didn't realize that was your mom— Or husband, for that matter.”

Sug shakes her head, waving off the apology. “Not your fault, his.”

“Yeah.” Carmen nods, “Back to that, by the way?”

“Yeah, he realized it was kind of a hard lie to uphold— Because mom sucks at acting surprised.” She sighs, “She’s taking it well publicly but I’m expecting a full blown meltdown in the bathroom of which I can’t escape, so. Beautiful wedding.”

“Yeah, those are kind of unavoidable.” You just had one yourself. “Fingers crossed you make it out alive?”

“Oh, I’m making it the fuck out, it’s her you should pray for.”

You have to respect the power in that. “Damn.”

“I didn’t ask to be her daughter! If she hands it to me I’m handing it fucking back—” Nat’s brain is always running like a faucet, she cuts off her own thoughts with a new one. “Christmas is in a week.”

“We know.”

“Fuck me.” She sighs so hard it blows strands of hair out of her face. “What the fuck are we gonna do, Carmy?”

“Was gonna ask you.” Carm’s distracting himself with Michaela, she reaches for his hand, she doesn’t grab a finger, she traces his tattoos. God, babies are cute sometimes. “Can we figure it out later?”

“Yeah, like everything else we do, I guess.” Sug groans. But she just as equally doesn’t want to think about it as him. And honestly, she’s just happy to see him acting like a fucking uncle for once.  “Tony, will I see you at work on Monday? You’re onboarding, right?”

You don’t notice the way Carmen’s face stones up, like a secret has been revealed. He’s been preparing for you to say yes. He’s got that Docusign in his inbox, ready to send. Had Nat budget you in. But you don’t seem to be upset about it— Or maybe you just didn’t catch that Carmen selfishly was hoping you’d come right back to him. Maybe it’s just that you don’t think it’s selfish.

“Oh— Uh, yeah, I guess you will.” Michaela starts to smack you for not giving her attention for more than seven seconds. You turn your head to her, bouncing her again, “Pbbt—Pbbbt— Mat leave over?”

“Gonna need to be.” Nat laughs when she says it, like you’re both on some sort of inside joke. Yeah, The Bear’s kind of a nightmare, of course Nat’s always needed. You laugh back, though there wasn’t really a joke anywhere in there.

“Make sure you get your rest.” Sug scoops Michaela out of your arms, rejuvenated from her second of peace. “Your boss is kind of an ass.”

Unfair drive-by, Carmen waves a hand like a white flag, “Alright—”

“I know, I like him anyways.” “Gross.” “I know, it sucks.”

“Okay, okay,” It’s way too obvious how happy Nat is that her brother has someone. “Both of you get the fuck out of here before she sees you, I told her you’d be too busy in the kitchen to say hi.”

She knows her brother, and Carmen’s grateful for it, but, “Are you sure? I can—” 

“I love you, Bear.” Nat gives him a kiss on the cheek, and you a quick hug. “But fucking run, seriously.”

Carmen nods, “Heard. Love you, Bear.”

You quickly dash off together, blending into crowds to go unnoticed. Mumbling plans out as you sprint. “I’ve gotta help Marcus close out the bar.”

“I’ve gotta pack up our equipment.” “You’re on the fifth floor too, right?” “Yeah, you’re rooming with Syd?” “Yeah, you and Richie?”

“I got my own room.” “Okay, rich boy.” “I— It’s a fuckin’ Holiday Inn, it’s not that bad—” “Oooh, Charmin gets his first paycheck suddenly he’s all that—” “You wanna come up to my room or not?”

“Oh?” You practically skirt on your heels when you suddenly stop walking, “He’s bold now—”

“I— That’s not— Like we—” He can’t dig himself out of this one, and his darting eyeline is giving him away. “You told Syd you’d still sleep in your room— I just meant like— Like we could— hang out.”

“We could hang out?” “Stop—” “I’d love to hang out, dude.” “We can watch a movie or somethin’—”

You gasp, thought occurring to you. “Yeah, let’s watch a movie. I wanna watch a movie.”

“I don’t like the look that just happened in your eyes.” 

“Yes, you do.” Your turn to smush Carmen’s face in your hands, kissing him with a comical, all too wet, and in no way seductive muah—

Which somehow just makes it all the more entrancing, for him.  “Yes, I do.”

You smile, letting him go, splitting off from Carmy in favour of your bar. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, go be a good boss.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“How are they not seeing him fuck up the soup— That— A whole pot—” “You’re literally saying exactly what Remy is saying right now—” “I— Good. I’m still mad about the five star thing.”

Carmen likes Ratatouille. Likes it enough to nitpick. He relates to the weird rat with a complex family dynamic and having a brother that means well but fucks with him so much. He relates to the no credit, the starving, the death and desire of feeding the ego, Carmen relates to feeling like a freak in his own kitchen. 

It is weird to feel seen by a rat. 

But it’s nice to have you in his room, in his bed, watching some dinky little red-head try to survive in a French kitchen. It’s nice to occasionally watch you instead, out of the corner of his eye. He thought of roughly… fourteen more recipes since leaving the bathroom with you? Who would’ve thought that watching someone use a makeup cleansing balm would be inspiring?

What? It melted beautifully. Or maybe you’re just beautiful? Whatever. You emulsified it in your hands. Emulsion? Coconut emulsion would be interesting; very similar creme texture. On top of a souffle? Delicate. But it still needs zip. The glitter from your eyeshadow makes him think of zesting. Lemon zest. Needs more scent, though. Oh, maybe Kaffir limes. That’s a weird dish. That’s never gonna work. He has to get better at subtracting around you. 

He’s doing pretty good at not saying I love you, though, so, that’s something. 

“The houndstooth pants are cute.” You hum, as Linguini finally kisses Collette— Though by a rat’s volition. A win is a win. You lean into Carmen’s side, watching the movie pirated on his laptop, because hotel tv pay-per-view was so overpriced for no reason. “Oh, fuck, what’s my uniform gonna be?”

“Chef whites, no?” His arm is around your shoulder, it’s nice. “I can get you a jacket—”

“Well, your servers wear black— And I’m gonna be like, like both right?” You turn your head to him. Bad idea. He’s still very pretty, if not prettier in pajamas. “Like, making drinks in the back and then acting as somme out front. So all black?”

“Hm.” Carmen tries not to frown. Tries not to see you wearing black as you being on the other team. “I guess.”

“Richie’s not getting me in a fuckin’ button up, though.” You don’t notice his expression’s minute faltering, crossing your arms, thinking. “Sleeveless black turtleneck? Maybe black palazzo pants, could do what fuckin— Linguini’s doin—”

You point at the screen. “The bright red converse? Could do all black and then bright blue converse? Would that be cute or is that deeply unprofessional?”

Carmen tilts his head back and forth, trying to let you down easy, “I wouldn’t call it deeply unpr—”

“Heard. Okay, maybe like— Like a red bottom heel—” You kick your foot up in the air, for no real reason. A shoe isn’t suddenly going to appear on it for display. “Like not actual ones, duh— Like a black boot and I paint the sole blue—” 

“What’s with you and blue?” He's deeply amused, or maybe that's just Carmen's constant state, right now, twirling his fingers through your hair without a care in the world.

“It’s like, Bear colours. You do blue. Aprons, baskets— I guess I’m thinking of The Beef, but like, your lighting is kinda blue.” You shrug. “I wanna match.”

He nods, eyes on the movie, thinking far too much— Well, for the average person. For Carmy it’s a perfectly normal amount of thinking. “All black, blue sole, blue earrings, maybe? White apron for when you’re in the back?” 

Please say yes to the white apron. Please say yes to his team. He'll get your initials monogrammed and everything.

“Yeah, that’s a cute look. As long as it’s easy to take off.” You hum. “Oh, y’know, Richie wanted to—” 

Speak of the Devil, and he shall call you for the fifth fucking time. “Fuckin— Pause it, hold on—”

Carmen pauses the wonderful rat chef in tandem with you answering the phone with, “I’m not fuckin’ comin’ to pool, Cousin!”

In one ear, out the other. “Fuck you! When are you getting here?” 

“I am not getting out of bed to play pool— A game I have not played— With a bunch of fuckin—”

“If you’re not down here in five minutes, Chip, on God—” “I’m gonna fuckin’ hang up again you motherfucker—” “And what? You’ll just answer again, won’t you?”

Richie’s tone gives him away. He’s giggling, bubbly, absolutely tanked on dirty shirleys. But there’s a very genuine joy to it. You’ve answered his stupid meaningless calls every time, the last four times, despite knowing they are in fact, stupid and meaningless. And that is rife with meaning. 

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yeah. I’ll answer.”

“Good.” You can hear his smile mirrored through the phone. “Sell your Greyhound ticket to Fak.”

“Bitch, fuck no—” “We can go aroun’ the city tommorow! We’re closed! C’mon have some fuckin’ fun before you start working in hell!” “We’re gonna be stupid New York tourists?” “Eva wanted me to get her face on some m and m’s—” “You want me to come with you to the fucking Time Square M and M store?”

That’s when Carmen shoots up, shoulder against yours, panickedly muttering into the phone, “We cannot go to Time Square a week out from Christmas.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When you realize why there’s a pause, you shut your eyes tight, knowing exactly what you’re gonna get. Carmen realizes after watching your face scrunch up, he puts his face in his hands, “Shit—”

“You’re fucking Carmen!”

“No—” “You said you’re in bed! His bed?!” “We’re watching Ratatouille—” “Without me? You’re coming to the fucking M and M store— Also that big ass toy store—” “This is not a betrayal—” “Matter of fact, we’re gonna go see that big fuckin’ tree, too—” “You just want me to drive us home because you’re gonna be too hungover.”

“No, I want you to drive us home because I love you.” Richie’s slurring when he says it, like it’s some sort of gotcha. “So fuck you, actually.”

Carmen bites back laughter next to you, you just shake your head, tutting. “I love you, too, Cousin.”

“If you loved me you’d come play pool.” “I don’t fuckin’ know how to play pool!” “We’ll fuckin’ learn you somethin’ then!” “Fuck off! I’m already coming to fucking Time Square with you, don’t be whiny.” 

“You’ll come?”

You massage your brow bone, “Syd’s not gonna wanna sit next to Fak on the bus, you got room for four?”

“Yeah, but someone’s gonna have to sit on the console.” “I nominate Carmen.” “I second the nom.”

Carmen, now with two votes to sit on the console up front, presses his face into your shoulder. “What the fuck—” You peer down at him and whisper, “We’ll do shifts, don’t worry.”

“Put me on speaker phone.” “You’re talking so loud that Carmen can very clearly hear you.”

“Put me! On speaker phone!”

You put Richie on speaker phone. Carmen clears his throat, gruff, “Yo, Rich, can we finish the fuckin’ movie?”

“Patience is a virtue, or some shit. D’you see the resos?”

You mouth to Carmen, ‘Reservations?’ Carmen nods. “Yeah, I saw.”

“Gonna be fucked.” You frown when you hear that, but don’t want to interrupt. You silently word, ‘What happened?’ Carmen puts a finger over his mouth, he’ll explain in a second. 

“Gonna be fucked, yeah.” Carmen sniffs, swiping at his nose. “Good kind, though.”

“Yeah. Good kind.” There’s a sigh from Richie on the other end, that heavy sigh. Practically sobering up with just one sentence. “Christmas is in a week.”

“I know.” Carmen kisses his teeth. This is going to be the worst, for all of you. The missing link is going to be all too apparent.  “Good time to be busy.” 

“Good time to be busy.” Richie echoes. “Only way out is through.”

“Heard.” Carmen nods, what else is there to say? “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Aright. Don’t fuck in a fuckin’ Holiday Inn Chip’s worth mo—” 

That’s when you interrupt, “Alright, what a wonderful phone call this has been goodbye, fuck you, love you, don’t call again, be safe!” You hang up before Richie can reply, head flopping over.

There’s a long silence before Carmen speaks again. “...I’m not tryna do that by the way—”

“No, I know, I’m worth more than a Holiday Inn.”

Snorts of laughter fill the stale air of this shitty little Holiday Inn one bed. Carmen pulls you back into him, arm on your waist. Before you can start the movie again, though, you have to ask. “Reservations fucked?”

He hums, tucking your hair back so he can see the side of your face better. “We started taking reservations last week— Just to test it out. N’ it was goin’ smooth but ‘tuh…” He squints. “Trending today with the whole uh— Chef thing. We’re kinda booked full ‘til the end of the year. And January.”

“Oh shit.” Word on the street is true. Any advertising is good advertising. Even when promoting the wrong fucking website. 

“Yeah, good kinda fucked, but like. Fucked.” Carmy nods, and after a second, grabs your hand. “But Christmas— Christmas Eve ‘n Christmas is off— And New Years— So, so you won’t be overwhelmed, hopefully.”

Your brain is already shooting miles ahead, you’re mentally back in Chicago, already. “We really gotta get on that cocktail menu.” There’s so much to do. New job, new menu, Christmas—

“And coffee.” Carmen sounds calm when he says it, which is deeply unlike him.

“And coffee.” You echo, eyes distant. You shoot back up. “Fuck, road trip is gonna be such a time sink. Okay— Well, okay— We’ll just— I’ll make a list tonight—”

 You’ve gotta figure out your hours. You don’t want to lose Chicago’s Kindest completely— Can’t be available 24/7 anymore, though. Mattina Tony’s gonna hate that. But he’ll be happy for you. Gotta tell Eden’s Club you’re not going to pick up shifts anymore. They’ll say they’re happy about it, but curse you behind your back. That’s fine. 

“List for what?”

“Christmas shopping.” Your eyes flick to him, still thinking. “I win Christmas every year.”

You’re getting Richie new cufflinks— But what of? Can’t just do initials, that’s lame. Fuck, what do you get Carmen? Can’t just do something cooking related— That’s lamer. But it’s also like— His only hobby.

“Don’t think that’s how Christmas works.”

“It fully is. And being in Time Square is gonna widen the fuck out of my search radius. Fuck what do I do for Syd? Fancy knife? They sell fancy knives here?”

Carmen shrugs, “I know a guy in the area.”

“Fantastic. I’ll get a list, you’ll help me out with stores. We’ll get coloured pencils at FAO, we’ll draft up a rough menu on the way home—” “Hey—” “It’s twelve hours of driving, so I think we can get a good chunk done. And then test out and finish on Monday—” “Baby—” “I was thinking we could do a section of house cocktails and coffees named after Chefs—” “I said don’t work on it—” “So like, each one would be themed after what I think of when I think of you—” 

Carmen grabs your face with both hands. “Tony.”

“Carmy.”

“Cannot believe I’m saying this to another person, but loosen your grip.” He strokes your cheekbones with his thumb. It’s nice. “You don’t have to do it all.”

It's a long silence of just staring back at him, so much so Carmy’s worried he has failed at this whole self-help thing. But then, you say, “Sara’s a good fucking therapist.”

“She’s got a pretty flexible schedule, too.”

Your face is still in his hands, you’re basically unblinking. “I think you’re a pink pepper aperol spritz with a slice of grapefruit. Maybe like a cherry syrup rim? Or is that too much? That might be too much.”

Carmen sighs in a way that sounds like a laugh. “How many drinks have you made in your head?”

“Just that one. But I think Richie would be something with whiskey and peaches— And somethin’ about Syd makes me think about figs, I don’t know why, which would go good with—”

Carm pinches your cheek, frowning, though there’s an admiration to it. “I said don’t work on it.” 

You push his hands away, “I haven’t written anything down! I can’t stop my brain from thinking! How many fuckin’ plates do you have in your head?”

He thinks, tilting his head back and forth. “A couple.” It’s a lot more than a couple. “They’re all bad, though.” 

“Bad, how?” 

“Bad, like weird.” Carmen gestures to the dimming screen of his laptop. You shake the touchpad awake. Rat chef is inspiring, and a good reminder of what he's meant to do, as are you. “It’s uh, it’s a good movie. It’s good to make new shit. But like, I need to be controlled.”

You tilt your head, “I don’t think so.”

“No?” Despite the fact that you’re disagreeing with him, there’s a happy hum, in Carmen’s voice.

“No. I think we should make really bad weird shit. At least in like, R and D.” You lean back down, against him. “Gotta try it before you brush off the idea. That’s the fun thing about art, y’know? Might work, might not.”

“I think that’s life.”

“Life is art, art is life, food is both.” 

“Woah.” “That was kind of a bar, wasn’t it!?” “Kinda tough.” “What’s your bad weird idea?”

“Steak with pop rocks.”

“Oh my god.” Your eyes go wide, but with a smile. Shocked but delighted. It's absolutely going in Carmen's top five favourite expressions of yours. You lean into him further, back of your hand slapping his chest. 

“I know, but I was thinking the sugar would be good—”

“Like a sort of maple or sugar curing thing?” God, you just get it. And you give a shit about getting it.

“Exactly, n’ then it makes you like— Like salivate.” “I don’t think it’s that crazy an idea.”

He’s so excited to have someone encourage his ideas, for once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod assuredly. “We should do it. Try it, at least.”

“Okay. Cool.” Carmen tries and fails to not light up at the prospect of ‘we’. “You’ve still got a hard out at twelve?”

“Syd said she will be knocking violently if I’m not back at midnight on the dot, yeah.” You unpause the movie. “And she’s gonna be pissed when I tell her I’ve volunteered us for a tourist spree, so I gotta be on her good side.”

Carmen shrugs, turning his attention back to the movie, arm around your shoulder. “It’ll be fun, if you’re there.”

It gives you both away.

Every sentence gives you both away. The way you speak, the way you act, the way you pose. It gives you both away. The way he moves your hair out of your face so you can see the movie clearly. The way you lift your head so he can tuck his arm under the pillow, so it doesn’t go numb under you. All without asking. The way you see each other, the way you are constantly doting and thinking of the next thing you can make the other—All without checking in. The Berf shirt you wear for pajamas, your refilled toiletries in his hotel shower. The domesticity comes all too easy to both of you. It gives you both away.

“Remy kinda sounds like Carmy, y’know—” “Don’t.” “My petit chef!”

You say I love you in every way but the way that makes it weird and bad and stupid and too soon. 

“Good God.” Is the first thing Sydney says, when you return to your shared hotel room. Face and voice filled with disgust, that is really only half sarcastic. “You’re beyond saving.”

You push past her, bumping shoulders as you do, smiling all the while. It’s nice that she can see you again. Even if she’s seeing that you’re down bad. “I didn’t even say anything—”

“Yeah, no, it’s that face on your face— God, it’s over—” “Baby, just say you’re happy for me.”

“I—” Syd blinks, rapid, hands in the air. “I’m happy for you— Tentatively.” Pending Carmen. Probationary forgiveness. 

“Thank you. I’ll take it.” You squat down to grab a water bottle from the mini fridge, when you do, you’re able to give Syd a once over.

She’s adorned in an old jazz club shirt from your highschool, boxers, and a long bonnet so old you recognize it. You recognize all of it. It’s nearly enough to make you cry. 

Funny, she’s thinking the same thing. Together, you speak. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Jinx!”

“Double jinx!”

“Triple Jinx!” It’s on the third one that you decide to let her win and not say it a fourth time. 

It’s on the fourth one that Syd decides she doesn’t want to win. “Quadr— Man, this sucks.”

You know exactly what she means. You fall out of your squat, sitting on your butt with a frown. “It literally would’ve just taken one phone call.” You could’ve been doing this for years.

She sits down next to you, back against the front of the bed. “There were a lot of moments, where I thought to call you, honestly.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like uhm—” Syd’s face scrunches up her face, she’s already opened her mouth so she has to tell you, but she’s realizing she probably shouldn’t tell you. “There was this fucked day at The Beef, where we set up online orders, and I forgot to tick off pre-order—”

You unscrew the bottle cap, squinting. “I feel like that should automatically be off.” 

“That’s what I’m fucking saying!” She slaps your knee with the back of her hand, “But uh, no it was fucking on— And we got like— Like fucked— Said that already. Hundreds of orders. And it was so much and and— Richie was, at the time, kind of a dick—” 

“You don’t have to mince, I know what he was.” You take a sip of water, nodding. He’s a work in progress, as are you all.

“He was being a bitch and— And— I might’ve maybe lowkey stabbed him.”

“Holy fuck?!” You have to laugh, out of sheer shock. You choke on your water. “Syd?!”

“It— Swear to God—” Syd raises one hand, and puts the other over her heart. “Was an accident. Like— Like I was saying I would, and also I was like—  Thinking about it— But I didn’t mean to actually do it— Like he walked into it—”

“Jesus Christ, Manslaughter Sydney—!” “No! …A little. On occasion.”

“You ever wanna stab Carmy?” “Oh, all the fucking time.”

“Fair.” You hand her your water bottle when you spot her looking at it. You see each other, you take care of each other, without being asked. 

“And after a brutal stabbing—” “It was barely a graze, to his ass.” “—You thought to call me?”

“Yeah. You’re like. I dunno. I—” She sighs, taking a beat. “I’ve heard people talk about like— When they’re in a life or death scenario, or panicking, their first thought is like ‘I gotta call my mom’.” Syd clutches onto the water bottle like it’s a life preserver. “But I like— Like I don’t have that instinct, duh, dead mom club— But like, like my instinct when I’m scared is to call you.”

“You should’ve.” You want to take her hand, but don’t. Still working on that hesitation. You’ll both get there.

“You should’ve, too.” Syd lightly punches your knee. She tucks her lips in a line, thinking. “I would’ve been there.”

“I think I kinda got stuck in the same thought Mikey had, with Carmen.” You prop your knee up, hugging it to you. “Didn’t wanna drag you down with me. Didn’t want you to know I— That I’m not really uhm— That I’m not all that great.”

“I didn’t ask you to be great.” Syd says it before she thinks it, and it’s enough to make your eyes water. In a good way. She continues. “I didn’t ask you to be my somme, either. I always thought you were cool. I would always think you’re cool.”

“I…” You clear your throat, controlling your micro-expressions poorly. “I— I know. I think I just… Always do too much? Like I do everything to make myself like— Needed.”

If they need you, they can’t leave you. Though, that didn’t really stop you two from growing apart, so there goes that theory. 

“You are needed.” Syd nearly rolls her eyes at you, but realizes that might be insensitive.

Syd could’ve called Terry, when the walk-in door broke. She called you. Syd could’ve called Claire— They’re not all that close, but she could’ve, when Nat went into labour. She called you. Syd could’ve called Fak, when Carmen’s oven broke. She called you. It’s insane that you’d ever think you weren’t her lifeline. 

But she clarifies anyway, “Not that— Not that you need to be needed though, for me to want you around.”

You snatch the water bottle from her. “Well, I know that now.”

“Good.”

You all but chug the water, God you’re dehydrated. Syd laughs, “It’s not gonna fucking run away from you.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” You grin, screwing the cap back on. Sniffing, you sober up a little. “We’re never not gonna be friends again.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Lest you go full on He Had it Comin’ on your fuckin’ co-workers again.”

She scoffs. “I promise to try to not stab someone in your presence.” 

“Deal.” You both laugh. You put your hand out to her, and without confirmation, do a handshake that must be more than a decade old. Dap, up-down, jellyfish out. Though, for your purposes, squid out. 

Incredible, you’ve hit Syd with love and nostalgia, she has to say yes now. “We’re roadtripping with Richie and Carmen instead of taking the Greyhound.”

“It’s so crazy that you think that’s gonna happen—” “It will be fun—” “Define fun for me, right now—” “We can get Christmas shopping done—”

“Fuck. Christmas is in a week.” “I know!” 

Syd scrunches up her nose. “What do I get my dad?”

“Sounds like you need to do some window shopping.” You could probably recommend something if you thought about it for two more seconds, but then you wouldn’t have an excuse to drag her along. “We could go to a Tiffany’s or something.”

“What and get him a locket?” “I’m honestly just naming stores, at this point.”

She’s thinking about it, really thinking about it. “...Could go to the MET, go through the gift shop. He’s a tchotchke guy.”

You hum, nodding. You can get her to fold. “Look at some expos, get some artistic inspiration?”

Syd’s eyes roll back, and she rolls her head back with them, head on the edge of the bed, in dismay. “...Are we doing gifts?” 

You shrug, “Was thinking I’d get you a little something.”

“So super over the top and extravagant?” “What’s the fun in telling?” “I hate you.” “So you’ll come?”

She sighs, husky. “Yeah…” She says it like she’s upset but you both know Syd is a little excited. 

You pump your fist, delighted. A win.

A comfortable silence fills the room. You flop your back down on the floor, laying on the carpet. “Thank you for helping Carmy.”

“Didn’t do much.” Syd shrugs, lazily turning her head on the bed to you. “He just needs pushing, sometimes.”

You hum, nodding. “Well, thank you for pushing.”

“You’re so welcome, dude.” You both laugh, and after another long gap of silence, she kicks you. “Stop lying on the dirty ass hotel floor, we paid for a bed.” 

“There’s something about laying on the floor, man.” You shake your head. “Get down here. I can see the scope of the universe from down here, actually.”

With a profoundly deep sigh, Syd rolls over to you. Your shoulders touch as you both stare at the ceiling. She hums, pointing to the popcorn tiles. “Oh yeah, secrets of the universe, right there.”

“I told you.” You nod, wisely. You frown. “...When do you think it’s like, too soon, to say ‘I love you’?”

“Oh my fucking God it’s that bad—” “Just answer!” “Definitely right now is too fucking soon!” “Well, yeah, I fuckin’ figured—!” “I’d say like, another month or two, minimum.”

“I think I might explode, by then, if I’m being honest.” You turn your head to her. “I’m really worried I’m gonna forget I haven’t already said it and I’m gonna say it at a stupid moment and it’s gonna be lame and embarrassing and bad.”

Syd turns her head to you. “Yeah, that’s probably what’s gonna happen.”

“Okay, so you’re no fuckin’ help.” You snort. 

“What do you want me to say? You love to the point of embarrassment.” She shrugs, smiling at your demise. But then Syd sobers up a little, turning her body to face you, leaning her head on her hand. “Are you sure, though?”

“I think so, yeah.” You cross your arms, nodding, assuring yourself, practically. “I feel what I think can only be described as emotionally violent— affectionately. And I think that’s what love is. Pretty sure.”

“Hm.” Syd watches you watch her. You’re absolutely getting lost in your own brain. She pokes the space between your eyebrows, you wake back up. “What’s in there?”

You blink, “Thinking of all the worst ways I could say it.” In front of everyone, accidentally while saying goodbye, off-handedly while hanging up, over text, and so on and so forth.

“Okay, that sounds awful and unproductive so let’s go to bed, huh?” Syd grunts, sitting up. She reaches for your hand to help you stand up with her. “Just try saying it normal.”

You take a breath, looking her in the eyes, say it normal. “Love you.”

“Yeah, just say it like that.”

“Oh, so I can say it—” “In two months.”

“Wait, is one more month hard off the table now—” “Now it’s three.” “Fuck, it’s gaining interest?!”

Just try to make it to next year without saying it, you’d take that happily. Just make it to Christmas. Okay, maybe just make it until you get back to Chicago…Maybe just take a vow of silence. 

You shake your head, coming back to reality.

“Wait, what the fuck, Syd, say it back!”

wooooo

was it everything you expected? i hope so. or hope not? suspense and what not. i won't rant too much about it because i'm loopy from staring at my computer at work all day and then answering asks all night. but please send thoughts!!

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Next Part

[b3ach-bunn7]

Saw your request for story ideas!

Jason with a fibromyalgic reader. He really never has to fear them they will never have the strength to over power him. Only if you want to and are comfortable

(Pinky promise this is sent in by a fibromyalgic)

Hey, I really hope I wrote this as you hoped for! I tried my best to read up on the condition before, and I hope I did you justice!

DEPOLLUTE ME

You’re weaker than Jason, but it just makes him love you even more

—————————————————————————-

Jason Todd is a man of principles. Doing what he does, a vigilante, he has to be. Dick had told him when he'd emerged as Redhood, that it didn’t work to do what you want. That, despite what he’d like to believe, Jason was privileged to have the strength and talent that he did, and it was people like them who abused it, that were the reason they were doing this in the first place.

Whatever. Dick always wants to be the smartest guy in the room, Jason thinks. These principles, though, are why he was so scared of you at first. Maybe not of you, but to be with you.

Because the problem with you is that he’s completely not scared of you. And it's all because of your condition, which makes him feel even shittier than he already does about jt.

Fibromyalgia. That’s what it’s called, the condition he’d stayed up two nights in a row reading all he could about. Books and NHS information pages. Anything to learn everything about you. You’d told him about it on your fifth date, the one he’d planned to ask you to be his girlfriend. A chronic illness, that caused pain, fatigue, headaches.

“I just- It doesn’t hinder me much. I just need you to know before this gets serious. That you’ll probably be looking after me more than the average girlfriend.” You’d said, eyes cast down to the half eaten food on your plate.

“That doesn’t bother me. It- I’ve got some mobility issues too, in my arm. Got shot once.” Jason winces at the repsponse he’d given you. Like the two were even remotely similar.

You’d smiled slightly. “It’s a little worse than that. It’s a chronic illness. It’s sort of like.. constant pain in my body? Makes my muscles stiffer, amongst other things. And it makes me sort of.. weaker, I guess. Physically.”

The two of you had talked about it for a while, before you’d changed the subject. He’d asked you to be his girlfriend still, under the porch light at your doorway, and you said yes.

It’s why he’s in your apartment right now. You’d given him a key (despite him being perfectly capable of using the window) and never seem phased in the slightest when he’s sprawled on your couch reading when you’re not there. He loves those things the most about his relationship with you. You’d carved a place for him in your life and it felt so effortless. Like you didn’t even need to think about making an extra portion at dinner or leaving a change of clothes out even after you fall asleep, because you know he always finishes his work late.

Weaker. That’s the word you used to describe yourself. And in a way, Jason loves it.

It’s only something he’d admit to you, or maybe months into forced therapy sessions, but Jason Todd is scared. He’s scared of a lot of things, contrary to what he lets other people see. He’s scared he’ll lose the handful of people he’s come to love. He’s scared that one day he’ll fight another fight he won’t win. He’s scared that one day he might wake up and he’s back there, Arkham Asylum, with that sorry excuse of a human being with him. But worst of all, he’s scared of people. Not an overwhelming fear, nothing he can’t fight through in an instance, but. He just never knows who he can trust. Who he can be vulnerable around.

And Jason isn’t weak by any means. Not that he likes to brag, but most of his body mass is muscle, ones you’ve seen, abs you’d run your hands across under his bedsheets. He can defend himself, he knows he can. He just doesn’t want to have that fear looming over his head all the time. Because it can happen. It happened once.

It had already taken so long for him to even let you in. And it was so easy. You were so perfect. So pretty, so sweet. Jason was half sure you were lying about your condition, because there was no way somebody in constant pain, 24/7, was so kind. So nice. Had patience for how long it took him to warm up to you, to let you touch him without him breaking your hands.

It was like a miracle. One he was so cruelly happy for. It was like somebody had taken all the fears he had in every relationship and eradicated them. There was no world where you could hurt him like so many others had done before. You were incapable of it. He could let his guard down completely and he’d be fine.

And he felt guilty for it at first. Of course he did. Like he was benefiting from something that caused you pain. He’d told you, but like with everything, you were perfect. You’d only laughed,

“It’s okay.” You’d snorted, amused at his apologetic face. It had been uttered in the dark of your bedroom, his arms wrapped around your waist, your back pressed into his chest.

“I don’t really mind.” You fiddled absentmindedly with his fingers, traced the calluses on his palms. “Kinda like it, actually. Most people use it as an excuse to like me less. You’re doing the opposite.”

So he doesn’t feel guilty anymore. Maybe slightly, but that little smile you give him, he hates to say it melts him enough that he doesn’t care.

The sound of the door creaking open drags his attention away from his thoughts. He looks up and there you are. Bundled in a scarf and gloves and a hat. You told him that the cold sometimes made it worse, and the winter weather was cruel. Your eyes light up when you see him sitting on the couch. You bound over, throwing the discarded book on his lap away, and sitting down.

“Hey.” You grin.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You lay down next to him and Jason moves, let you settle slowly down next to him, a hand carding through your hair. You ramble about your day and he listens.

[plant-ago]

An Open Letter to Dan and Phil

Dear beloved nerds,

This was originally going to be an (even longer) actual letter that I was going to give to you at the tour, but my nonprofit-employed ass can’t afford a meet and greet, so we’re doing this instead. I promise it’s not just trauma dumping— mostly, it’s about saying thank you and trying to cultivate some hope for all of us.

I’ve been a big fan since around 2014, when I was a mentally ill neurotic deeply repressed loner egg (average phannie, let's be honest). Now I’m a whole adult who got therapy and HRT and has joined the legions of transmascs with the Dan Howell haircut! What a legacy.

I’m making jokes because the thing I actually want to talk about, and the reason I decided to make this an open letter, is kind of serious. But in light of the election, I feel like I need to share this, both with you and with all the other queers in this little corner of the internet.

Here’s the gist: I’m a paralegal at a non-profit organization that works to help queer migrants get asylum. Mostly what I do is sit them down in our nasty sterile office and try to be kind, and help them get through telling me all the most terrible things that have happened to them, and then turn around and pare it all down into legalese that is digestible to the government to make the case they should get asylum.

It’s a horrible job, really, and one that shouldn’t have to exist. Some parts are plainly wonderful, like meeting so many queer people from all walks of life. But it’s also heartrending and difficult, and burnout is always looming. My horrible banal work is often literally a matter of life and death for the client, and I’m fighting a broken system for a chance at giving them the happiness and safety is owed to them by international law and, really, by any decent human standard, should never have been in question.

The thing is—and this is reason to hope—queer people really do exist everywhere, no matter how much repression and violence we face. In a tiny village in Colombia, there's a kid who’s all spit and vinegar, dresses like a boy and plays football and fights anyone who says that they can’t, who grows up wiry and gets black eyes because men still can’t handle getting their asses handed to them on the soccer field by a dyke. This client texts me at my work number sometimes to ask if I’ve eaten that day, because they wanted to check in on me. He asked me to call him by a boy’s name, recently. I don’t know that he’s told anyone else. I open every message I send him with "Hola, James."

Then there’s the sweet, babyfaced college freshman who got death threats when he was outed to his classmates back home, and whose parents kicked him out when he refused to marry a girl to protect the family's reputation, leaving him alone in a foreign country. He was couch surfing and just trying not to miss class so he could keep his student status and he was so conscientious I wanted to cry— he’s eighteen, guys. Eighteen. I’ll get him his papers or so help me fucking God I will kill for him. You know? You know. After that meeting I had to sit at my desk with my notebook and fill an entire blank page with the phrase “he’s just a kid,” over and over again, until I felt like I could breathe.

On a Friday morning recently I get up and open my laptop to interpret on a call with a soft-spoken older trans woman who's sat in the bleak phone room of the ICE detention facility because her immigration judge didn’t believe that she was really transgender. “An odor of mendacity pervades everything the respondent says,” the judge wrote in her ruling, where she determined the client wasn't "credible." To this day I’m still floored that she straight up ripped off Tennessee Williams—new frontiers in bigotry, truly. She didn’t even cite. In our meeting now, the client quietly tells us how hard it was when she came out but how happy she was the first time she wore makeup, and she'd rather stay in detention here for indeterminate years as proceedings spiral on than go back to Guatemala, where they'll kill her—boys, if I ever get within spitting distance of this fuckass judge, it is on SIGHT. Absolutely fucking ON SIGHT. For legal purposes, that was a JOKE.

So I finish the call and get up to get a snack. It’s only ten am but feel tired already because I’m angry, which is not unusual but also not something I want to hold onto, because it doesn't help anything. So I make some toast and look at my phone— two texts, which I ignore, a spam email, and, wouldn't you know it, a YouTube notification from Dan and Phil games! Jarring! That’s just sort of how life is though, isn’t it? Deathly serious and lighthearted in the same breath.

But regardless, seeing the notification makes me feel warm, so I have my toast and watch a little video of you two playing Roblox or dress up or whatever it is you do on that channel these days. I have a good giggle and I finish my toast and go back to my desk. It’s a crucial part of my diet really— the giggles, not the toast. I’m not angry anymore. I’ll be angry again, but for now my cortisol levels are manageable and I can put my head back into emails or whatever the fuck. Do you ever think about how plants make food for free out of sunlight but we sit around writing emails all day? And that’s if we’re lucky. Capitalism is hell.

Anyway, there is a point I am trying to make, and it’s not really about the banal horrors of neoliberal nation-state or capitalism or even homophobia. It’s to say thank you for coming back to make silly videos together, because I love them, and you never fail to make me happy. And yeah, maybe something about the story of that scared eighteen-year-old kid at the front of my mind makes it particularly sweet to watch you two goofing off and being openly queer. It reminds me why I’m doing what I’m doing, and it gives me the strength to send another fucking email because sometimes doing “important work that I value and believe in deeply” means having to send another fucking email. And sometimes I’ll rewatch your older videos, and then come back to the more recent ones, and my heart bruises, because you remind me what I’m fighting for and why. It’s nothing grandiose, it’s just— for queer people to get to have the ability to grow into themselves and be outrageous and silly and make mistakes and to love and be loved for who they are. To have the safety and support and security that no one should ever go without. That’s all.

So I am being dead serious when I say thank you for making top-tier light entertainment, and for coming back to a job that wasn’t always kind to you, and that it does actually matter. All this talk about terrible influences and legacies has made me think that sometimes you doubt whether you do good in the world, so let me be clear: you really, really do. I kind of get the sense that in order to accept sincerity Dan needs to be beat over the head with it, so if that’s the case, consider yourself coerced, you dickhead. You matter to me, and especially in times like these, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the joy you share is a precious and treasured gift. So please accept my gratitude in return.

All my love,

Jules

(I removed or changed all identifying information in this letter to protect privacy, but the stories are real).

[miley1442111]

injury-b.floyd

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: intended for fem reader, but as always imagine what you like:)))))))))

summary: how you and your husband continue after you get into an accident.

pairing: bob floyd x reader

warnings: angst, insecurity around scars/injuries, reader gets injured, frustration with injury, +

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bob and you had been inseparable since you were kids, going up in Montana together, then going into the navy together. He’d just become your husband. You two had been together since probably 6th grade and now you two were married. You were a pilot and Bob was your back-seater, always. That was until your accident. You’d gotten hurt in a flight, just some dogfighting, it should’ve been fine, but your plane malfunctioned and you went down. You went down and sustained massive injuries. 

Bob could remember getting the call like it was yesterday. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hello, is this Lieutenant Robert Floyd?” The voice on the other side of his phone asked. 

“Yes, this is him,” He answered, sniffling. It wasn’t everyday that you had to fly alone and it wasn’t everyday that Bob got sick. But when Bob did get sick, he was so ill he could barely get out of bed. 

“Your wife, Lieutenant Y/n Floyd was in an accident today. She’s alive, but she’s in St. George’s Hospital, we suggest you go to her.”

Bob’s world stopped. You were hurt. You had flown on your own and you were hurt. He could’ve been there. He could’ve saved you, he should've saved you. That’s his role as your husband, to love and protect you. He promised you 4 months ago that he would. 

“Lieutenant?” The voice spoke again. 

“I-I’m on my way.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 When he arrived at the hospital he was told that you were in surgery to stop the bleeding in your lungs and to try and repair some damage. Apparently your plane had been improperly checked and the emergency evac pulleys weren’t working, so you had to go down. 

Bob felt sick to his stomach. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After hours of surgery and days of waiting for you to wake up, you finally did.

"Hey baby," he smiled, tears in his eyes as yours opened.

"Bob?" You questioned, eyes hazy from days of sleep.

"Yeah, that's right darling," a tear fell, then another. He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss against it.

"W-what happened?" You asked, afraid of the answer.

Bob recounted as best he could, leaving out all the horrible bits that he'd rather you forget.

A nurse and doctor joined you two next, explaining your injuries and treatment plan. You sat there, listen in utter horror, terrified that you'd been hurt this badly.

You'd never fly again.

After a few months in the hospital and hours and hours of physical therapy, you were discharged and sent home with Bob. The first night was quiet, too quiet for the both of you after becoming used to the sound of the hospital. You lay down in bed together and he held you tighter than he ever had.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At home, you were constantly trying to do things you couldn’t do anymore. One of your legs had been shattered in the incident and you were on crutches or a cane most days, meaning easy things like making dinner or something as simple as making a cup of tea became difficult. Bob tried to help you as much as he could but he could feel your frustration growing every day. You barely ate, barely got up, barely talked anymore. 

“Baby,” he ran a soothing hand against your back, feeling the healed scars and the way you tensed under his touch. “Please talk to me,” he begged.

“About what?” You whispered into the dark expanse of the room, your back to him. 

“Just talk to me,” he asked, tears rolling down his cheeks silently.

There was a long pause, then you spoke. “Do you still love me? Even though I’m… like this”

Bob was stunned. He loved you more than anything in the world, you were the most beautiful thing in his world, and you were simply an incredible person. He sat up and wiped his cheeks, you following suit to look at him. 

“I love you more than anything in the world,” He promised, taking your hand. Finally, the flood gates opened and you sobbed into his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” you swore, burying your head into his chest as he held you tight. “I was so worried you wouldn’t want me anymore, t-that you’d l-leave me because, because I’m not what you m-married. Because I’m not pretty anymore.”

Bob’s heart broke. He thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world, he didn’t care that you had scars, let alone scars from something you couldn’t control. “Baby, you are the most beautiful, sexy, pretty, and gorgeous woman on the planet. I love you for reasons other than that as well, yes, but, it sure is a nice bonus to have a hot fucking wife,” he smiled at you and you laughed for the first time in months. 

“You promise?” You sniffled.

“I promise,” he smiled. “And I plan on showing you just how beautiful I think you are when you’re cleared by the doctor,” he smirked and you rolled your eyes. 

Your regular banter was back. While you still got frustrated with your injuries, and felt a little lonely when Bob had to go on deployments. You began to heal and live with your injuries, especially with Bob’s help.

Oh, and he stayed true to his plan. 

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navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games :)

[zilabee]

Tony Bramwell on Brian:

- Brian dropped in at the Cavern and, spoiled for choice, fell in love at first sight with each of the Beatles in turn

- Brian almost promised to love, honour and obey them.

- He never publicly showed his embarrassment with poor deals, but one could tell something wasn’t right because inside, he anguished. Chewed his knuckles and grew pale.

- He was a fiercely loyal and honourable friend to those he loved, and ruthless toward those he despised

- He was shy to the point of blushing and stammering, and theatrical to the point of ranting and frothing at the mouth

- His biggest problem, perhaps his only real problem, was that he was homosexual in a still very unenlightened era. It kept getting in the way. Whenever he sat down for a meeting with heavyweights like Sir Joseph Lockwood at EMI, or whoever, he felt they all knew. “They’re talking behind my back, Tony,” Brian said. “They don’t respect me.”

- Paul was fond of Brian and thought he was the best possible manager: one who was courteous, who didn’t interfere with their private lives, but achieved all he said he would do. He never criticized him—none of us did. Brian was a god.  (It was only later that the façade cracked a bit, but even then we loved him. He was like family, and you accept your family for what they are and forgive them most anything.)

- his wonderfully fertile mind continuously thinking up innovative ideas and then worrying about them

- Brian was so different when around his beloved protégés. He became one of them. He was a friend, a chum, charming, trustworthy and kind. He set out to do what he promised and they all said it would never have happened without him.

- Brian bought an off-the-shelf company named Suba Films, which I virtually ran. It was way ahead of its time, the only independent company in England making music videos

- Whenever things got raunchy and out of hand around us, he would make his excuses and leave. At times, he almost ran.

- [on writing his biography]: “You don’t think John will think I’m raining on his parade, do you?” he asked hesitantly.

- I believe that Brian’s paranoia over the Beatles’ contract and his heavy use of drugs led him to think that it was only a matter of time before everything came tumbling down and he would be left standing in the ruins, with people pointing their fingers like kids in a playground.

- He was seriously ill and desperately sought to escape from the circus of his own creation.

- He was tormented by the idea of letting down his beloved Cilla and the Beatles, particularly John.

- He underwent deep sleep therapies at the Priory, being put under for days at a time with heavy drugs.

- Whether he managed the Beatles or not, he would still get 25 percent of their earnings from record sales for nine years. This subtlety had somehow escaped the Beatles, but it bothered Brian. It gnawed at his conscience because in his heart he knew he had conned them.

- [He] was abnormally distressed, convincing himself that they weren’t going to sign up again because they loathed him. Going through months of paranoia, he looked for reasons and forlornly asked the question, “Don’t they like me anymore?”

- It was so silly because it wasn’t like that at all. At different times, all of them commented to me that they would never have signed another contract as “Beatles” but they would have signed individually with Brian.

- “No, I think John hates me now. I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t sign. What will people think? I can see the headlines now: EPSTEIN DUMPED BY BEATLES.”

- He was now seriously unhappy, not just troubled. His personality had radically changed.

- Brian had resident nurses, doctors who stayed, psychiatrists who lived in, all crowded into that little doll’s house, getting on each other’s nerves. At times he’d make an effort. He would sweet-talk everyone and then escape when they weren’t looking.

- [after Brian's death] Joanne was in shock. She had seen him first. The doors had been broken down and there he was, curled up on his side in bed with Saturday’s mail lying next to him. “We all knew at once that he was dead, but I heard myself say, ‘It’s all right, he’s just asleep. He’s fine,’ ” she said.

- It was unbelievable that the man who had got all this going—the vast money-making machine and the culture shock that had changed the world—was gone.

- The Summer of Love was over and autumn coming.

- I have been asked many times why it was that the Beatles didn’t just hire an office manager to handle their business affairs and pay him or her a salary. It would have made sense. But it never occurred to them. They just went blindly on, trying to find someone to replace Brian, like it was some kind of law. They seemed to think that they had to have a manager, to whom they had to give 25 percent of their gross income, or they’d be arrested or drummed out of the Brownies.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 65 (Personal Lows)

cw: pregnancy loss (I'm so sorry I did not plan this.)

As well as life had been going for Heather and Conrad, reality came crashing down one Saturday when Ash was in the city with the Landgraabs. Both were spending the day at work, but Heather fell ill and called Conrad.

"Something's wrong. Can you meet me at St. Sims Hospital?"

Heather was admitted for tests, but Dr. Serra delivered the devastating news. "This happens more often than you might think this early on, but there's no heartbeat. I'm sorry."

"This is my fault," said Conrad. "My fear added stress you didn't need."

"This isn't your fault," said Heather staunchly. "Dr. Serra said this happens more often than you think. You didn't stress me out any more than the rest of our busy lives stressed me out. I've worn a glucose monitor since high school and I have to remind myself to slow down all the time. You make my life so much easier, Conrad. Not more stressful."

"This can be a difficult time for anyone," Dr. Serra said gently. "I'd like to refer you both to a colleague of mine, if you're open to it. Her name is Dr. Supriya Delgato, and she's a relationship and family therapist with a focus on grieving. I think you should talk to her when you're ready. She has an office upstairs and I can let her know she might hear from you."

"Yes please," said Heather. "Thank you, Dr. Serra."

Conrad was still apologetic when they returned home, trying to think of the right thing to say while an exhausted Heather changed into her pajamas. "I'm sorry. I should have been more supportive from the start."

"I'm glad you were honest with me, Conrad. For better or worse, knowing how you feel makes everything clearer for me."

"I do want a family with you. I want Ash to have a brother or sister, and I was looking forward to the parenting classes we were going to sign up for. I wish it hadn't turned out this way."

She embraced him. "Me too. But when I was about seven my mom had a miscarriage early, like me. She got through it, and she had Hazel a year later."

"Heather, I promise you, next time I'll be ready."

"I believe you. We don't need to think about that tonight, but I think we should schedule an appointment with Dr. Delgato like Dr. Serra suggested."

"I haven't spoken to a grief counselor since I was in high school," he admitted. "Back then I was too angry at the world to get anything from it."

She held him in a reassuring embrace. "I think this will be a good thing for both of us."

They went to bed that night feeling closer than ever, cuddling beneath the covers until they both fell asleep. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: This happened unexpectedly via the Heathcare Redux mod by adeepindigo and I was really sad about it. I'm sorry to anyone who hated this development especially after we all went through it with Conrad. I considered pretending it didn't happen since it happened SO early, but I appreciate the realistic storytelling supported by the mod nonetheless. And Conrad will be thrilled about the next one, because I'm literally sending him to grief counseling to justify me changing his trait to 'Would Love to Have a Child Right Now' without letting it flip over time. No chances taken, only plot! In all honesty Heather should have had therapy in high school so in some ways this is long overdue for them both, anyway.

NOTE 2: That last shot is the first time they autonomously cuddled (to sleep, my heart!) after the Lovestruck update. Honestly their level of flirty when they're together is usually sky high and blocks out most of their sad moodlets, hence the smiles despite this really sad installment. When it comes to Conrad, Heather isn't unflirty whatsoever.

[seoafin]

pairing: fushiguro toji & reader / side pairing stsg x reader an installment to the exposure therapy au warnings/tags: mentions of sex work/escorting, gambling, don't read if weird teacher/student dynamics squick you nothing is meant to be romantic and toji is a shitty teacher word count: ~4.7k

-

“So,” Toji says, eyeing your lone figure in the classroom with a raised eyebrow. “Just you today huh.”

You look up from your book at him, and then your gaze circles the empty room, the three unoccupied desks next to yours make the room feel emptier, bigger. Sorry to disappoint, you think. He’s not the only one. “Just me,” you reply plainly.

Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko aren’t here. The three of them are in Fukuoka. Before they left, Satoru had boasted about a certain famous shrine dedicated to Sugawara no Michizane belonging to his family. Suguru had slammed his closed fist down on his head with a roll of his eyes, dragging Satoru away by the hair, leaving you with a smile and a promise to return promptly. Don’t go anywhere, okay? We’ll be back soon. 

When a sleek black car had pulled up to the base of the school, Shoko had reluctantly disentangled herself from your side, complaining about unnecessary appearances.

That had been four days ago.

You heard of a brewing storm in the area. You hope the three of them are staying warm and out of the rain. You hadn’t even expected Toji to drop in on class today. He seems to call out at the mildest inconveniences. The other day he had cited not wanting to see Satoru’s face as a legitimate reason to skip on his duties as a teacher. He’s the worst teacher you’ve ever had.

You close your book. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“Hell if I know,” he shrugs. “Got any ideas?”

You stare at him.

“Forget I asked,” he scoffs. “Right,” one foot is already out the door, “I’m out.”

He stops, back turned to you. Then he sighs wearily, as if you’ve somehow exhausted him.

You are promptly plucked out of your seat, Toji's fingers curled around the back of your collar. When you look at him inquiringly, he simply says: “Field trip.”

—

Your eyes water as you enter the pachinko parlor. You are greeted by the omnipresent acrid scent of smoke clinging to the yellowing walls and ceiling. You blink away the tears stinging at your eyes, and quickly follow Toji through the large room, passing by multiple seated older men, eyes glued to the bright machines in front of them. All you can hear are the sound of balls clacking and levers being pushed. From what you can gather, nobody has won today. It slightly amazes you how Toji thinks he’ll be the exception.

You follow his dark, foreboding figure to the back of the room, to the very end of the row, where there are only three other men. Only one spares you a glance. There are eyes all over the ceiling, scuttling about. Curses, you note, traces of all the ill will that’s gathered. 

There’s a wooden stool. He barely gestures at it before saying, “Sit.”

Toji gets comfortable in front of a large flashing machine, and proceeds to pull out his wallet.

You’re aware gambling is a vice. It’s not really any of your business what your teacher decides to do in his spare time. It’s not as if Megumi and Tsumiki aren’t being taken care of. If this is what Toji would prefer to do over buying the kids new school supplies then…

All that work into keeping Megumi only to gamble his time and money away.

It would be one thing if it was entertaining but…

He’s losing.

Badly. You never expected it to be like this. How awful. If it were you, your dignity could only take so much.

You think it takes a special kind of resilience to be a gambler, but more importantly it takes luck.

You rise from your seat to take a closer look. Not a single metal ball has reached the prize slot no matter how he tries to align his timing with the press of the lever.

You glance at Toji, face alight with a fierce concentration, jaw tight. You sigh.

“You’re losing.”

“Shaddup.”

You sigh again, turn around and seat yourself back on the stool. You open your book. You told Suguru you’d try to finish it by the time he returned.

Someone is hovering. You can see a man out of the corner of your eye. You look up at him, a skinny balding middle aged man in a worn suit, tie loose around his neck, and he nearly flinches. You can hear the plink plink plink of money being lost in front of you.

“Is something the matter?” you ask politely. You figure if anything he’ll ask you for your ID. Without the jacket of your school uniform, you can usually pass off any suspicions of being a student. You aren’t an adult, but you aren’t a child anymore either. You’re of age.

He hesitantly takes a step closer. “How much?”

There are thin, wire glasses on the bridge of his nose. You can see the perspiration building on his forehead. You tilt your head.

Anxious energy radiates off of him. His gaze is fixated on your chest. “Just for the night,” he says quickly. “One night.”

Understanding quickly dawns on you. “I’m sorry,” you start apologetically. “You seem to be mistaken. I’m not an escort.” The man blinks. You continue. “In fact, if you’re looking for one, you might want to look at the man right there.”

You wonder if Toji is into men. If it even matters. Customers are customers. Money is money, and something tells you he isn’t picky.

That elicits an indelicate snort from the aforementioned man. So he is listening.

The man looks dissuaded for a minute, before pressing forward once more. “I can pay,” he says breathily, inching closer to you. His eyes dart to your slightly spread thighs before going unfocused. 

Now, just how should you handle this?

You could take his hand, momentarily stop him in his tracks. You’d be gone before he gained consciousness once more. But you’re technically not allowed to use your cursed technique on civilians, and you don’t like doing it either, despite Satoru’s protests about the underutilization of your technique.

A shadow looms above you.

“You bothering my girl?”

You involuntarily shudder at the statement, but the man pales, looking up at Toji fearfully as if he descended from the parted heavens. 

“Y-Y-Yours—”

“Mine." Lips peel back, revealing bared teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Fuck off degenerate. Or you’ll be seeing my fist next.”

The man scrambles backwards, almost tripping on his feet. He gives you one last look before you watch him disappear through the rows of metal machines. You look back at Toji, gaze dropping to his empty hand.

“Wow. You didn’t win a single thing.” You think that in itself is a special skill. 

An irritated look crosses his face. Green eyes flash. “Damn things are rigged,” he seethes. “ All of ‘em.”

Just as he finishes that statement, shouts fill the front of the room along with shrill celebratory noises. You look at him. His face grows cloudy. You hop off the stool. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to give up.”

He changes the topic. “You look fine for someone who was just solicited.”

You shrug. “Nothing would’ve happened.”

Toji begins to trudge to the exit. A walk of shame. “He looked like he was gonna haul you off to the nearest love hotel.”

“I’ve never been to a love hotel." You had told Satoru and Suguru of your interest to see the interior of one once. They had both fallen quiet for the rest of the walk home. “But it’s not exactly the kind of place you go to alone.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a full time job, you know that?”

You look at him curiously as you step outside. Your lungs are glad to trade the smoke-laden air for fresh air.

“It’s a shame he didn’t solicit you instead,” you remark as the two of you start on a journey to the nearest convenience store. You’d like a drink. Maybe if you’re in a lenient mood you’ll buy Toji one too. “I’m sure you could’ve shown him a better time than me.”

“Dunno about that.” He gives you a scrutinizing once over. “A virgin like you? Hot commodity. ‘Sides,” he smirks. “I’m expensive.”

An unmarked virgin maybe. But any man would recoil from the scars that mark your body. All the assignments from before Shoko. And if not that, then the disfigurement of your side gifted to you from the man right next to you.

“That explains how you can afford to lose so much money.”

Unexpectedly, he takes you in good humor. “You’re a mean little thing when you want to be,” he says. “The mouth on you.”

You blink. Nobody has ever called you mean. Not to your face anyway. You think about it. Maybe this is what Satoru used to dislike about you, back when you hadn’t cared about how he perceived you. All you knew back then was that you said all the wrong things. Now you eagerly await text messages from Shoko. You like it when Satoru smiles, when he flashes you a grin so bright that you can’t help but smile back. You like the soft crease of Suguru’s gaze when he regards you. You like it so much that you can’t sometimes can’t breathe. You’re a different person now. Sometimes, you need to remind yourself of it.

Inside the convenience store, you select black tea for yourself and a coffee for Toji. You walk outside to him chewing on a pork bun and you hand him the drink. It’s a brand you’ve seen him drink before. He stares at the black label. You don’t expect a thank you.

“Tsumiki is starting middle school soon,” you say, staring out into space. “She could use some new school supplies.” Along that line of thinking, Megumi could use a new randoseru. 

He’s silent. You’d buy her some yourself, but you think it’d be more meaningful coming from the man who is technically her step-father. She’d be delighted even, you think, and Megumi for as aloof as he tries to be, can only be so distant when it comes to his beloved sister. There have been too many mistakes, too many burned bridges, but this could be a step in the right direction. You don’t think he sleeps at home.

The two of you enjoy the quiet. You finish your drink, and then stand. You’re in a familiar area of the city, and there’s someone you’ve been meaning to see.

—

“You’re late,” Marie scolds, hand on her hip. You close your eyes at the scent of plum blossoms wafting from her skin. “Think of me as one of your clients. Be punctual!”

“This one’s fault,” Toji grunts out. His knuckles dig into the side of your head with enough force to tip you over, and your eyes snap open immediately. If you were a lesser person, you’d be on the ground. You frown, your head sore. “Found her hoverin’ over some damn stick in the park.”

It would have made an excellent walking stick. You clutch your shopping bag to your chest. “Satoru and Suguru never complain…”

That’s a lie. Satoru has resorted to either holding your hand or staying attached to you at all times to make sure you don’t wander like some bodyguard. Suguru too. You don’t know why. You’d rather just find them later to save them the trouble of finding you.

“Make your boyfriends wait, not me.”

You make a face. He should’ve just left you. Despite that, you hang your head apologetically. It is your fault. You had become distracted multiple times along the way, and a specific distraction had culminated in the shopping bag in your hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Fushiguro-sensei made plans to be here by a certain time. It was my fault.”

“Damn right.”

He’s a sore loser, you think. You may have said it out loud because his gaze slides to you, mouth opening with what you think is a nasty reply.

Marie shoots him a sharp look. “Now, now Toji. A man like you knows better than to run his mouth like that.”

“Off the clock,” he replies before stepping forward. A throng of women gather around him, cooing and ah’ing, hands skirting over his arms and chest. A man like him has no need to pay for a woman, so you gather they’d sleep with him willingly for free. And from the looks of it, he has a plethora of choices. You hope they aren’t expecting more. Like money. You think many women have been reduced to tears by the man. 

Marie clicks her tongue, and a collective sigh sounds the air before the crowd disperses to their actual clients, leaving just one lucky woman who pulls him towards the back of the room, towards the more private area.

“They pulled sticks earlier.” Marie looks amused. “It’s not often Toji comes around for anything other than drinks.”

You smile. “He likes your company. You shouldn’t discount that.”

Her eyes are fond as they look at you. Her fingers brush the hair away from your face. “What a man like that is doing around a sweet girl like you is beyond me.” She sighs, shaking her head. “He’ll corrupt you.”

It’s not that bad, you want to say. Not as long as you hold no expectations about the person he is. The only thing you’ll hold him to is being a father. But other than that you’ve found that you seem to feel a certain kinship with miserable people and your teacher is one of the more miserable people you’ve ever met.

That’s when you see them. A group of girls hovering behind Marie. They span from what looks like your age to a little older, and they seem to be waiting.

“Honestly,” Marie turns to them. “What have I said about standing around the front?”

The girl in the very front pouts, glossy bottom lip jutted out. “But Marie, you said they’d be here! Those two hot guys. I want the black haired one, he was charming!”

“Then I’ll take the one white haired one. Those sunglasses…”

“No, I want that one!”

“I’ll take them both!”

“As if they’d be interested. You’re practically made of plastic!”

“What did you say—”

“GIRLS!”

They reluctantly settle. 

“Toji’s students are they?” Another girl asks, voice breathy. 

“Not like that,” Marie says chidingly. “Those two respectable high school boys wouldn’t come to a place like this if they didn’t have to,” Marie glances at you. “And I never said they’d be here. You girls and your selective hearing give me a headache!”

“We’re graduating this year,” you say. You don’t think it matters. Jujutsu High is a year longer than regular civilian high schools. Nobody in your class is underage anymore. “I’ll be sure to pass them your way after. But—”

The girls squeal. Marie winces. You’re surrounded at once, the surrounding clash of perfume making you go lightheaded. Someone’s large endowed chest is pressing against your back, and both your arms. Someone is tightly clutching your hand. Everyone is speaking. Their names, their phone numbers, their availability. Not a single girl has listed her rates. You want to tell them that they should because Satoru and Suguru have money to spend. Special grades make a salary far beyond anything normal jujutsu sorcerers do, and that was coming from someone who considered their own pay more than comfortable.

You suddenly understand every single man in the host club more than you ever had before. You, too, would pay for the experience of a beautiful woman looking at you like the only person in the world.

Your face is hot. You’ve never been surrounded by so many beautiful women in your life. Satoru and Suguru and even Toji regularly experience this? You think that’s unfair. 

“GIRLS!”

“Satoru and Suguru are in Fukuouka right now,” you say apologetically. Shoko too, you think. But that’s something you’d like to keep to yourself, lest you lose her to another prettier girl.

The girls sigh a collective “awwwww.”

You are reluctantly let go of, on unsteady feet. Marie looks downright annoyed. “I should put you all out for the night! Stop bothering the poor girl, and get back to work!” She barks.

The girls slink away, casting you pleading looks. You smile. Something flutters to the ground. You pick it up. It’s a business card with a number written on the back. Someone had stuffed it into the sleeve of your shirt. You discreetly slide it into your shopping bag. You’ll give it to Satoru and Suguru later. Satoru, when he inevitably complains about how you hadn’t bought him a gift. 

And then you feel something more in your shirt.

“Those girls,” Marie scowls as she straightens your shirt and hair with all the vigor of a mother cat grooming her kitten. You almost close your eyes. “The new ones go crazy for a pretty face. They’ll learn soon enough.”

You follow Marie to the bar, unable to help your curiosity as you glance at all the men being entertained on love seats. You recognize some faces from the women that had surrounded Toji, but instead of the excited air that had prompted a frenzy around Toji, everything now is strictly professional.

The life of a jujutsu sorcerer is hard, but in a way you envision anything else. If you ever became a hostess or an escort, you’d fail. People like Toji and the girls can do things you could never do. 

Marie pours you a drink as you take a seat. It smells sweet. “I’m sorry about that,” she sighs. “How have things been?”

“Good,” you reply truthfully. Unexpectedly so. You’re visiting Riko next month and you are carefully readying souvenirs to take to her. No deaths (as of now). Suguru and Satoru are happy. Shoko is preparing for medical school. Things are unusually good. You pause. “I was solicited by a man.”

“Oh dear,” Marie closes her eyes. “Now just where has that man been taking you?”

“Just the pachinko parlor.” And the race tracks, but that’s a story for another time. 

“Not that seedy place!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you say. For you. “But I don’t think Fushiguro-sensei has a single yen to his name right now.” In other words: you really hope the woman currently with him isn’t expecting anything other than a good time. 

“Oh,” Marie groans. “Born under an unlucky star, that one. He just doesn’t learn.”

“I’ve never seen anyone so unlucky,” you reply gravely, sipping at your plum wine. “I am curious though. I wish Fushiguro-sensei hadn’t scared him off so early. I’ve been wondering about how much he would’ve paid.”

Toji slides into the seat next to you. There’s lipstick on his chin and smudges of it on his neck. “A cheapskate lookin’ guy like that? He would’ve shorted ya. Consider yourself lucky I was there.”

You frown once again. “Nothing would’ve happened.”

He eyes you dubiously. “With you? Who knows.”

You don’t have a reply for that. He’s right.

Marie hums, cleaning a cocktail glass. “That was quick,” she says to Toji. “Done already?”

He waves a blithe hand, not responding. You also look at him.

“Oh dear,” she says in mock concern. The corners of her lips are fighting not to tilt into a smile. “Old age getting to you?”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Why don’t you find out?”

You eagerly take a long swig of your drink.

Marie straightens, not in the least ruffled, gazing down at him with the countenance of a regal queen. “Things have changed since we first met, Toji. You couldn’t afford five minutes of my time.”

You nod.

Toji grins, and it looks devastatingly charming. “No discount for little ole’ me?”

“You bastard,” a derisive snort. “I’d make you pay more. You’ve never paid for a girl in your life.”

It doesn’t dissuade him. “You know I’d make it worth your time.”

“All this with another woman’s lipstick on your face,” she leans over and lightly pats Toji’s cheek in a vaguely warm, yet condescending manner. She turns to you. “Never let a smooth talker into your bed.”

“You know I do a lot more than talk, Marie.”

Marie rolls her eyes. “Toji, dear. Shut up.” She smiles. “I want to hear about those boys of yours.”

It takes you until Toji snorts to realize she’s talking about Satoru and Suguru.

“They’re fine,” you say. Maybe she’s angling for their wallets. It’s an endeavor you wholeheartedly support.

She imperceptibly leans forward. “Is that all?”

“No girlfriends if that’s what you’re wondering,” you report. You’re sure the two of them will make her money. 

Speaking of Satoru, Suguru and Shoko. You take your phone out of your pocket and stare at it. No text messages. It’s been like this for the last four days. They must be busy. You’re not upset by it. 

Just…

Maybe a little lonely.

“Thank you for inviting me out today,” you tell Toji. Well. More or less he had dragged you out of your seat under the guise of a field trip. But you’re still glad nonetheless. You enjoyed it. The school is too big without your best friends, and Nanami and Haibara were out on a joint assignment this morning. You don’t know what you would’ve done by yourself. You don’t like to be alone with your thoughts. “It was very educational.”

An eyebrow quirks upwards. “Was it now.”

You look at him. “Yes. I’m never betting on pachinko.”

He clicks his tongue sullenly. Marie exhales a wheeze of laughter. 

Then he reaches over to pluck your phone out of your hand. After a second, he tosses it back at you.

Your phone is alight as text messages fill your entire screen. You stare at it, wide eyed as texts start piling in, the latest from Satoru, Shoko, Suguru, or all three.

satoru 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:06] what r u doing

[13:06] answer

[13:06] answer

[13:06] answer

[13:07] answer

[13:07] answer

[13:07] answer

[13:07] IT’S BEEN 4 DAYS

[13:09] are you mad at me

[13:10] fine

[13:10] don’t reply.

[13:15] hello

[13:20] hello

[13:20] hello

[13:20] hello

[14:05] WHAT FIELD TRIP ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW

shoko

[8:43] your phone is on silent isn’t it

[8:45] see u soon

[30 picture attachments]

suguru

[12:04] yaga said you were on a field trip with fushiguro-sensei

[12:04] can you tell me where you are?

[12:05] nowhere dangerous right?

[12:06] are you still with him? what kind of field trip are you on?

[12:06] this is inexcusable. you shouldn’t be on an unsanctioned field trip just the two of you.

[12:07] are you back at the school?

[12:07] you don’t need to be there. just leave him.

[12:07] please don’t do anything you would normally do

“Your phone was on silent,” Toji says flatly, if not a bit amused. “How old are you again?”

You’re too eagerly engrossed in reading your text messages that you don’t respond. Marie and Toji share a look.

“I don’t know…” you trail off, ungluing your eyes from your screen. Too many texts. You don’t even know how to begin to respond. So you don’t. 

A memory suddenly hits you. Before the three of them left you had been at a cafe with Satoru. While you had been in the midst of typing out Shoko a heartfelt response Satoru had snatched your phone out of your hands, clicked around with it, and slipped it into his pocket.

After then you had subsequently received no text messages. So he had put your phone on silent. You resolve to learn that setting as soon as you go home. 

suguru

[17:54] we’re coming back. i’ll see you at the school.

You excitedly stand, waving the text in Toji’s face. “They’re coming back!” You exclaim. “I’m going to meet them.” You quickly bow to them. “Don’t bother coming back early,” you tell Toji. Then you rush out.

—

You nearly run into Shoko’s open arms, burying your face into her shoulder. She smells like dewy grass. Back inside Satoru’s room in jujustu tech, the four of you are together. It feels as if they never left. 

“Welcome back,” you say breathlessly. “How was Fukuouka?”

“Wet,” she says, making a face. “How was your field trip?”

“Interesting. I think Fushiguro-sensei is the unluckiest man in the world.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that,” she replies. “I bought you souvenirs.”

“Me too,” you blurt out. Your face warms. “Well not a souvenir, really.” You give her the shopping bag in your hand. “I saw it and thought that…” that it’d look perfect on her, “that maybe you could wear it to the next festival…?”

Before she can unravel your impromptu gift, an airy voice cuts through. 

“So the two of us are chopped liver now, are we Suguru?”

“It seems that way, Satoru.”

“How awful,” Satoru sniffs. “After all the trouble we went through to get here early.”

“It was an ordeal, wasn’t it?” Suguru’s smile turns a hint menacing. Your fingers go sweaty. “I’m more interested in this ‘educational field trip. ’”

“It was educational,” your rebuttal is weak. 

“Is that right,” Suguru hums. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.”

You look at Shoko helplessly. She shrugs.

Satoru frowns, rounding on you. “I can’t believe you! Not a single text the entire time we were gone! Just what were you two doing anyway? Confess!”

“You’re the one that put my phone on silent,” you reply. “I didn’t even know. I thought the three of you were too busy to update me.”

Satoru opens his mouth. You can see the moment he realizes you’re right. His mouth closes. 

Suguru rolls his eyes. Shoko shakes her head. The two of them promptly slap the back of his head, earning a yelp from the white-haired boy.

“Besides, I haven’t forgotten about you two,” you say, thinking about the cards. Satoru perks up at the prospect of a gift. He’s surprisingly easy to handle at times. Like a child. It’s not bad, you think. Not at all. You smile, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a stack of cards.

“For you two.”

They momentarily glance at each other before taking the cards.

“Wait,” you pat down the sides of your body. “Ah—” three cards tucked into the waistband of your skirt that you hadn’t noticed before “—here you go.”

They stare down at the cards in their hands in silence.

"...Thank you," Suguru says, ever polite, voice strained.

You beam. “Your welcome. The two of you should go with Fushiguro-sensei next week." The two of them wear matching grimaces. "The girls really want to see you again." You look at Satoru. "Even you Satoru!"

"Hah!? What is that supposed to mean!?"

You're sure the prospect of being surrounded by beautiful women will make them more amenable to the idea. Shoko is laughing.

“Wait right here,” Shoko says quickly, getting up from the floor. A quick squeeze of your arm. “I’m getting your souvenirs.”

You turn back to them. “Was Fukouka fun?”

“...The same as always,” is Satoru’s somewhat peeved response as he throws you a box of mentaiko flavored chips. “Annoying old geezers nearing the grave. We skipped the onsen.”

The fact that Suguru doesn’t even correct Satoru on his words says enough. 

“Oh. You shouldn’t have.” It would’ve been a nice way to end their trip. You plop a chip into your mouth. It’s too salty for Satoru’s tastes, but you enjoy it just fine.

Suguru smiles. His fingers are playing with the edges of your hair, lightly tugging. “Next time, we’ll all go together.”

“That would be fun. I’d like that.” You go quiet for a few seconds. “I missed you two.”

Satoru puffs up. “Tell me more.”

“I was a little lonely without everyone. I think that’s why Fushiguro-sensei took me out on a fieldtrip today.”

In other words: he was being oddly considerate. In his own way.

Satoru deflates, pouting. You don’t notice, lost in your thoughts.

“Satoru, Suguru.” The two of them look at you. “If I were an escort, how much would you pay for a night with me?”

The two of them go silent.

[buckevantommy]

i'm aussie, so i'm watching How To Make Gravy which is a new angsty aussie christmas movie (and it's a lot of feels) and it's giving me bucktommy au inspo:

Buck is in prison. He's been there for a few months and is having a rough time - because of his looks, because of his size - and there's a particular group of guys who are giving him a hard time - leaving him with injuries, getting him thrown in solitary. Until one day, Bobby steps in before things get too out of hand.

Bobby is a fellow inmate but he runs the kitchen. He takes Buck there to patch him up - or maybe Chim is there and he does it. Bobby offers him a choice: get caught up in prison life shit, or take a job in the kitchen (and help them in the lead-up to Christmas) and work to keep out of trouble, keep on good behaviour, and look forward to getting out of there.

Buck doesn't accept at first, until another run-in (or promise of one) has him showing up at the kitchen where Bobby tells him he's welcome but also has to show up to a group meeting - usually held twice a week but in the lead-up to the holidays they're doing it every night. Buck is hesitant, doesn't want 'therapy', but ultimately agrees and is put to work after Bobby lays the ground rules and gives a brief intro where everyone meets their newest recruit.

NOTE: Bobby handpicked his kitchen crew, everyone there wants to stay out of trouble, is a diligent worker, works as a team, respects each other and the rules, and is working to be better for when they're released.

Also working in the kitchen is Tommy, who remarks to Bobby how he's 'letting trouble in' with Buck - to which Bobby says: "It takes a lot to ask for help, Tommy. You know that." And.. yeah, Tommy does know.

The meetings take place in the prison chapel with Father Brian - who is sort of a chaperone to the group, mostly just observing from the back and offering advice or input when need-be. Bobby leads the meetings, opening with what they have in common and how hard life on the inside is, but it's hard to fuckup in this room which is a safe place. He states his issues, a bit of personal history, open and honest. "That's how my story begins, but it doesn't have to define the person I am or will become." Then he poses questions, one by one asking who has experienced the same unfortunate circumstances - raised by absent or abusive parents, feeling unloved as a child, experienced homelessness, considered suicide - to step closer - they all do; proving they have more in common than they think, and that they're not alone.

The meeting continues while seated, Bobby talking and folks sharing. Tommy shares and then Bobby prompts Buck to share - Buck, who by the way goes by Evan in the kitchen and at the meetings. Buck is hesitant, unsure what to say. Chim suggests he talk about what makes him happy. Tommy tells him, patient and knowing, to just say whatever he feels.

Bobby asks about Buck's knack for cooking, and he admits that his brother taught him (when they were young), before he died. Bobby offers his condolences, and Buck, "It's not your fault.. It's my fault. He died from an illness I was made to cure but I wasn't enough (in the end). I failed my one job." NOTE: this happened years ago and wasn't what landed Buck in prison, it's just a pivotol moment from his youth. He might also mention the way his parents treated him after - like he didn't exist, like he wasn't enough. Buck tries to minimize his trauma but Bobby catches it, tells him he doesn't need to do that here, and notes how Buck deserved better.

Buck gets emotional - it's a lot to address, to dredge up, to talk about, to be vulnerable with strangers especially in prison - and then he gets angry. Bobby calms him, tells him he doesn't respect him any less for crying, and notes how difficult it is to share what he did, and how not many people are as brave especially at their first meeting. Bobby thanks Buck for sharing and they call it a night.

While packing away the chairs, Buck has a nice moment with Bobby, and then officially meets some of the guys: Tommy, Chim, Eli, Sal, Ravi, Eddie. He leaves the meeting feeling lighter than he has his entire stint thus far, a weight lifted in airing some of his trauma and not being rejected but instead seen, respected, welcomed, wanted, and know that he's not alone anymore.

[hellsite-detective]

HIII OMG HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?? HOWS LIFE?

OH THIS REMINDS ME I NEED TO DO A LIFE UPDATE POST

so i guess i’ll do that here hehe

hello all! this is Hellsite Detective, P.P.I. coming back to give everyone a proper update on everything!!

now, i sorta started this hiatus kinda suddenly, and i still don’t know when i’ll be back (so sorry for that btw i feel baaad), but things have been… interesting to say the least! my job has been going okay, but it’s really stressful and it hasn’t been ideal for my mental health. but im pushing through it! i need the money so i can finally move out of my parents house!

and on the topic of mental health… my therapy has been going great!!! there’s still a long way to go, but at the very least our experiences were validated by a licensed professional!!! i won’t get into the details here, but if you’re curious feel free to ask about it! i don’t mind talking about it, especially now that it’s official hehe

but besides that, i’ve just been relaxing! i’ve collected more yuri manga! i need to get to actually reading it now tho oops. i’ve also gotten back into Stardew Valley!! i’ve been having a blast discovering all the new things from 1.6 as well as hanging out with my pixel girlfriend Penny! additionally, i’ve made great progress on my novel series, as well as beginning to develop a WataOshi AU, so overall my writing has been going wonderfully too!!!

i think overall life has been good!! i have my dear @hellsite-hall-of-fame to thank for keeping me sane and happy (i love you sweetie~!) and i think everything is gonna be okay! again, im still not sure when ill be back, but i will be one day!! i’ve been seeing all of your requests, and sometimes i see one that just gets me itching to get back into it. so i’m sure one day ill be back! i promise!

until then, feel free to ask me about life, or about my interests, or just to check in and say hi! i haven’t expressed this sentiment yet i don’t think, but i absolutely love discussing non-post case related things on here! everyone on here is genuinely so wonderful!! so please feel free to send in any ask you want!!! i would love to talk to everyone more about stuff, and this hiatus is a great opportunity to do that!!

but that’s all for now! thank you for sticking with me, thank you for being so patient, and you all have a great day!

signed,

- Hellsite Detective, P.P.I.

[desultory-novice]

Will MariPav continue, or is it, like, canceled?

"Ides Loss Bautifal Sarla~"

I know I'm Dess of the Frequently Neglected Promises, but I hold that the day "Marionettes' Pavane" is cancelled is the day I leave the fandom for good and not a moment before.

I'll admit I have splurged on sword boy content as art therapy for the past long while because I was in a rough place and he was good therapy as NO ONE is in as bad a place as Noi-... :cough cough: but trust me that I am absolutely ill about these two, and the reason you don't see me writing and drawing little sketches for them all the damn time is that, unlike the siblings' story, where I've been writing their lore off the cuff (ie: ma~king it up~) based on fan response, THEIR story is intricately plotted out, so there is slightly less room for the many randomly inspired side content that the siblings get.

(...Because I already wrote ALL of those down and worked them into the script!)

Also, I'm still supposed to be resting my eyes right now XD

-

Title source is EXEC_SPHILIA from Ar Tonelico 2, btw. One of several songs on my MariPav Marxolor inspirational playlist. The lyrics, the back and forth, it is so them in the context of this story.

Betrayed by the world...

...You and I are much alike...

Finding comfort in their mutual, smiling hatred of every.goddamn.thing. They are such antagonists! Sympathetic ones, tragic backstories included, but oh they burn with the desire to wreck stuff (and look good while doing it, sure)

And yes, call it cliche but MariPav Marx can sing really beautifully. When he wants to, that is. Marx can and WILL sing bad on purpose to annoy people and put them off guard of his true vocal capabilities. (Should he ever step up to the mic alongside Kirby... run.)

Magolor, just like in canon, has a fondness and innate talent for a variety of different musical instruments. He rarely had the leisure to practice but the reveal of Marx's singing capabilities sparked something in him and he has since taken them more seriously.

[rev-wrath]

As promised, here are some snippets of Knight and the Gotham Rogues. (This was written like a couple of weeks before. Before I got fixated on TUA and Eight. Eight/Devotion lives in my head rent-free, and I am biting them and shaking them like a rabid dog. Knight is in the background being weirded out by it.)

“Mister Cobblepot.” “Sorry about those idiots, alpha. I’ll make sure they’re properly dealt with.” “They didn’t do any harm, beta. And I’m here now, aren’t I?” “’s a shame that the prince ain’t here with you.” “You know how Bruce is.” You let out a faux laugh, careful to make sure that it sounded genuine enough. “Hates large crowds. Besides, he’s a little ill after a day out in the snow with the rest of the pack.” You took your hand back from the beta and offered him a grin. “And what kind of alpha would I be if I forced my dear omega to do what he didn’t want to do?”

~ ♥~

“If you had wanted an invite, I could have given one to you.” “In exchange for what? My greatest fear?” The soft humming- only audible due to your proximity to him- made you want to seriously tuck him closer against you and smother him in your scent. But that was hardly appropriate in this place and considering the rather strange ‘bond but not pack’ relationship you had with the omega. “Jonathan, really?” You felt a pair of hands grip onto your waist and forcibly tug you away from the citrus scented man. Instead, you were in the grip of the infamous Riddler. Tobacco, coffee, and narcissus wrapped around you. “You give gifts to friends.” The Scarecrow scoffed but didn’t protest as Eddie languidly draped himself onto you. His cheek rested against your shoulder. Without a second thought, you tangled your fingers through his ginger hair. No matter how much you looked at him, it was still… weird seeing the change in his appearance.

~ ♥~

A hand cupped your neck, protecting you from the Joker’s touch as Quinn was roughly shoved away from you. You relaxed instinctively, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint who it was. All you knew was that your inner alpha didn’t protest at all to having this person’s palm against your glands. “Aw, Harv.” Quinn pouted as she fleeted by to the Joker’s side. “Being protective?” It clicked for you then. The familiar scent of agarwood, lemon, and cedar. The familiar warmth pressed against your back. The hand- although different in texture- cupping your skin with a fondness that was contradictorily gentle and rough.

As promised, here I am six hours later. (What a weird therapy circle)

Oz and Knight interaction! Bruce’s public omega status mention! I am interested to see who the idiots in question are, I’m assuming some elites?

Jonathan and Eddie! Tilting my head reading what’s going on with Jonathan, I’ll get context eventually. I love Eddie just going “I’m going here now” and here is just Knight. They are cuddling.

Harley! And Joker, boooo. This also implies that Harvey’s accident is happening in the upcoming chapter? Also Rogue meeting maybe? Or just one between Joker and Harley and Harvey? Knight taking a moment to recognize Harvey is also interesting to me. I would expect them to be able to pick up on it, maybe also a by-product of Harvey’s change?

[stormheartgames]

*Peeks My Head In Here*

So, hello, lovelies! 🥹 I know I said I'd update you when I could and I'm sorry for disappearing for so long, but things have been very hectic here. I'll give you a more detailed explanation under the cut, for those of you who are interested.

Everything below being said, I have been speaking with my friends and someone else who is in the IF community about coming back for realsies this time, and I think I'm going to start working on another project as a sort of mini-therapy for myself. It's going to be shorter than Calling of Metem's Hollow is by a long shot, but I will give you guys a little teaser for what I have planned shortly.

I have already started overhauling my blog a bit to make way for other games, but you'll still have access to everything CoMH related, I promise! 😘 Since I am StormheartGames after all.

I also just want you guys to know I have missed this community a lot. It's been hard being away from you all and from being away from writing in a larger sense. I do run D&D for some of my friends (oh god, do I run D&D) but that's not quite the same as creative writing, haha. Anyway, look out for more posts from me. 😘

Good news: I did get disability, so my life has gotten a smidge easier in the long run! It was just in time; I come from a poor family and we were rapidly running out of "windfall" money, so to speak, to pay all of our bills. 🥹 So my life is more stable in that way.

My medical stuff has only gotten worse, unfortunately, which is one reason I disappeared. Lots of pain from day to day, and it makes it so I can only sleep 4-5 hours a day. I won't bore you with the details, obviously, but it's been a whole rotten thing. I'm getting what treatment I can, don't worry about that.

I did not touch on this last time, but I've kind of become a full-time caretaker for my younger sister. She got very ill shortly after her birthday last year (I mean within days), and will never recover unless some kind of miracle happens. We are trying to get her on disability as well, but they are fighting us every step of the way. It has...not been easy.

But so long as things keep going the way they are, I'll have some free time to write and hang out again, so there's that. 🥹

[mint-and-authoress]

Slime HRT - First Step (Part Two)

“…and this last drug is Vasopressin, which is a standard water retention drug. Usually patients are plagued by constant thirst on this regimen, so we’ve started to prescribe this to combat it.”

This owl sure knew his stuff.

The appointment had gone perfectly, all things considered. After securing a follow-up appointment for a month in the future, Elise was walking out of the clinic with a copy of her prescription. Some of these medicines were vaguely familiar – she’d heard of salicylic acid in a chemistry class – but some of these drugs were of a fantastical nature. Myochitinase, homolipastat? These weren’t real things. You couldn’t get slime estradiol at a pharmacy.

Though…was there much use in thoughts like those anymore? She was in a city that didn’t exist, drawn by a promise from a made up company, and had been prescribed four different make-believe drugs by a six-foot-four bird in a labcoat. Reality had been blurred in the past four-ish hours, so maybe it was time to accept what she had just been given.

Plus, it wasn’t as though this city was strictly human, either. Granted, that was a majority of the population, but there were others who didn’t fit the label, not by any sense. Dragons, centaurs, other creatures of myth, and just about any kind of animal in the kingdom. Even things outside of animals, evident by the occasional dryad(?) that happened to pass her by.

Though, in spite of it all, no slimes. They could’ve just been inside, it was something like 85 degrees even here in the city. Which begged the question: what was going to change as the changes began and progressed? She’d done her research, and had asked around for advice, but the unfortunate truth was that slimes were a bit rare in this world of exotic creatures and their transspecies equivalents.

Basically, fat chance that Elise would meet someone like herself.

Such thoughts were muted as the day went on. The pharmacy in the city had the set of drugs she was in search of, and was able to set up a delivery schedule for her refills. Her medicines all looked uncannily similar to her existing HRT, but Elise could not deny that something was different about the drugs themselves, and it was hard not to describe them as ‘slimy.’

‘Well,’ she thought later that night as she took her first dose, ‘here goes nothing.’

PART TWO PART TWO GET YOUR COPY NOW

So I didn't do as much writing as part 1 (damn you writers block ;~;) so instead!!! Information Pamphlet!!

Human Replacement Therapy for Transspecies Slimefolk

Drug #1 - Myochitinase: 1mL intramuscular injection once weekly

The primary drug in slime human replacement therapy. The drug chemically changes the present myocytes (muscle cells) into chitin. Effects include increased translucence and thinning of skin, decreased muscle mass to make way for gel matrix mass, and decreased resistance to illness due to increased permeablility of the skin. 

Drug #2 - Homolipastat: 100mg gel capsules once daily

The auxiliary drug in slime HRT. Similar in concept to human feminising HRT drug spironolactone and its alternatives, where homolipastat is utilised in preventing the reproduction of present myocetes. Further decreases muscle mass during conversion of muscle to gel matrix.

Drug #3 - Salicylic Acid: 30g ointment tube once weekly

Non-specific drug used to assist in the breakdown of skin cells in preparation for conversion to surface membrane.

Drug #4 - Vasopressin: 1 μL subcutaneous injection once daily

Optional antidiuretic used for water retention during initial stages of transition.

Affirming Treatments for Transspecies Slimefolk

Slime Stem Cell Therapy - Advised after one year of medical transition

Regular series of stem cell injections promoting transformation of organs to a core. Treatment includes pain relief and at-home assistance is strongly recommended.

Pigment Alteration Therapy - Optional as medical transition progresses

Pigment drugs such as melanin or other compounds may be started to change the colour of the individual later on in transition.

I LOVE YOU ALL STAY SLIMY :3 :3 :3

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