#im fine with him being dead it was a good death and not everyone needs an arc

[tteokdoroki]

Aali!!!! I was gonna put this in the tags of your training scenario but got shy :(

but i immediately thought of Gojo!! And like he's not surprised you flipped him over due to you're strength, he has no doubts about how strong you are but it's the fact that he trusts you so much he unconsciously turned off his infinity for you <3 so now he's like !!!!!! because what!!!! but also you're on top of him and you look so pretty so now he's short circuiting double the amount!!!!

Like !!!!!!!! my brain is going crazy thinking about it - 🍓

☆༉ — SATORU GOJO. neither strong, nor weak - just in love.

about. combat training with gojo makes him realise just how strong you really are. inspired by this silly post i made yesterday, it wasn’t meant to become a whole thing but it did and now it’s…sad. im sorry. also pls don’t be shy ily :(

warnings. minors, ageless and blank blogs do not interact. sfw, angst, mutual pining, slightly unrequited romance, mentions of violence (they’re combat training), death mention, canon!verse, gn!reader.

you’re pissed. 

over the years satoru’s seen a colourful array of emotions splayed against your features. he’s seen joy, laughter, happiness — all of which are his favourites. he wishes he could have seen them more. but also sadness, anguish and a pain so deep he felt like he was dying right alongside you. 

he’s died once before, nearly, but it never could have compared to the feeling he got when you looked at him with pure hatred. because gojo had been the one to hurt you, then. 

you’ve never been one to hold grudges, you’re too good of a person for the world to hold anyone in such a negative light for way too long — but when you do experience these emotions, you feel them all too much and all too hard and everyone can see it too. maybe that’s why gojo picks up on your spike of anger so easily during training today, it could be the sick reason behind how much he’s enjoying you being pissed off too.  

because you wear your heart on your sleeve and your emotions on your face, so gojo knows exactly how he makes you feel — all of the time. “c’mon sweetheart, don’t lose focus. don’t you wanna beat me?” he taunts you, a cocky smile stretched over his lips as he dodges each of your blows, though the shades over his eyes hide the admiration he has for you.  

“fuck you.” you spit back harshly, as if the words scald your tongue. shifting your weight onto your back foot, you take a chance and swing your leg up high, just narrowly missing the silvery mop of satoru’s hair where his infinity goes up to protect him. 

for gojo, it’s easy for things to lose their meaning, slipping away from him like fine grains of sand through his fingers. at times when he should, he finds himself without a care — it’s easier to walk through life not giving a shit than to tie emotions to actions, people and places. if the strongest cares too much then people have to die. that’s why the wielder of the six eyes holds you to such high regards. you’re strong because you’re able to care — no matter what’s in your path or who might stand in your way, and what they might make you feel, you are able to be strong for those in need. 

you feel what satoru can’t. 

“i’ve been waiting all day for that, honey.” he quips back, lifting his shades just a little to bare the full brunt of your aura through his technique. “c’mon, let’s put in a little more effort, shall we? if i were a curse, you’d be dead by now.” 

everything gojo sees is magnified by one hundred, he could detect the smallest of changes no matter how close or far he was from you — and being able to witness frustration build up in your core along with stacks of your cursed energy elicits a pleasant reaction out of him. his head flops to the side, almost bored, despite how the corner of his lips quirk up into a lopsided grin. satoru loves how you’re just teeming with anger, from the top of your head right down to your toes — spreading into your fingertips as your cursed energy balls powerfully around your fist. 

and even though he catches it between his larger hands, the thin invisible veil of his infinity quite literally stopping you from killing gojo — he can still feel that you’re pouring your all into this, into him. even though you’re tired and dripping with sweat while your muscles burn so hot you fear they might melt away, you’re still trying. you still won’t give up. you’re still stronger than he ever could be. 

and he’s practically a god. 

“you would be the dead one if you didn’t have the cheat code to life.” rolling your shoulders, you step back with a menacing snarl and start again — fists flying in the direction of the six eyes as you’re  fuelled by the passion of taking him down. making him hurt. people like gojo piss you off, their existence serving as a reminder that your life is not promised and every step you take is a sacrifice to help them live on. though deep down, you know that you don’t hate him for it. it’s nothing that he could have helped. 

once again, satoru snags your fist before it can even leave a mark on him and draws you in by his infinity. for a moment, you’re scared that he might use it to repel you, harm you  — he catches the flicker of fear in your eyes before you steel your nerves and keep on fighting even as he grabs at your wrists, sweeps your feet out from underneath you and pins you to the hard ground below. 

leaning over your frame as you squirm beneath him, gojo tuts down at you in faux disappointment. “so sad, and here i was, thinking that you were strong enough to beat me.” he says, cruelly. “give up already, princess.” 

in response, you bare your fangs and dig your nails into his wrists — not letting up. “i’ll give up when you’ve killed me.” 

that makes satoru falter. 

it’s only training, really, it shouldn’t even be that serious. but his mind can’t shake the idea of one day sacrificing you for the good of others. for everyone satoru gojo has ever cared about, there has been a day where he has to choose between letting them meet their end and protecting the jujutsu world. that’s the way it’s always been and always will be. it’s not that he thinks you’re weak, that you can’t handle yourself — you’ve proven yourself capable of that time and time again. you’re strong, physically and resilient in your emotions, mentally but you’re only human.

and humans don’t last as long as gods do. 

seizing the opportunity at hand, you squeeze your thighs around satoru’s slender waist to switch your situation and rip your wrists free from his steady iron grip. so now, your positions are reversed, and he’s the one with his arms above his head — exposing all of his vulnerable vital organs. he could have easily kept himself in control and have you squirming below him for hours, but he lets you. he trusts you enough to let you prove yourself to him — just so he can have that moment, that lets you know that the great satoru gojo is not immune to the likes of you. 

he is weak for you. 

his infinity slips away unconsciously just as his back his the the floor with a dull thud — wisps of his snow white hair flying about the place with the motion. satoru lays still beneath you, unmoving like a tree rooted to its spot, and peers up at you through the thickness of his lashes. he watches how you try to control your surprise and how shocked you are at yourself for pinning him down — truth being told that if he didn’t have infinity to hide behind, if he was human, you probably would have been able to from the start. 

“think again,” you breathe, the dip in your voice doing nothing to help satoru’s crazed mind and how insane he is for you. “princess.”

you’re so pretty like this. your eyes are frenzied and and astonished, your chest heaves with every breath you take in desperation to fill your lungs with air and your skin shines with light perspiration from your training. and even then, to satoru, you’re the most precious form of life he’s ever seen. a rarity amongst unpolished gems. every emotion you have right now is laid bare against your features, coursing through your veins and it’s because of him. 

it’s nice like this, to feel weak in the knees and in the heart for someone. to be able to feel your pulse rather than see it as nothing but a flicker of a blue flame with blue eyes. 

he wants to touch you, subconsciously reaching out to brush a thumb over your cheek. “you’re so beautiful.” satoru whispers, his voice low and uneven — causing goosebumps to rise over the expanse of your skin and a soft gasp to lay wet on your lips. 

exasperated tears begin to well up in your eyes, sitting pretty in your lower lash line. you’re so angry at gojo and how you think he sees you but you don’t dare to push his hand away, instead turning your head to look elsewhere. you don’t want him to see you cry. 

“turn your infinity back on. i could kill you.” 

“you’re beautiful,” satoru repeats adamantly, not caring if he sounds like a broken record. “you’re strong. stronger than me.” you’re pissed at him too , for looking down at you. for all the things he’s said that hurt you without meaning to. your grip on his wrists loosen along with your hold on your emotions. “i wish i could be weak enough to love you.”

“i said turn it back on, gojo.” 

“look at me, please.” 

“gojo.” 

“please.” 

your shoulders sag with a shaky exhale, all of the fight you had leaving you as you sit on top of him — looking down at him. “what?” comes your quiet mumble, not daring to flinch away as his thumb traces over your bottom lip without the gentle hum of his infinity.

“i love you.” 

if you were at any other point in time, satoru’s words would have had you melting over him like butter in a pan. you would have been weak enough to say it back and let him overwhelm you with longing. because if this were any other point in time, you would have needed satoru gojo like you needed air to breathe. like you needed him to live. 

but things are different now, there’s a concrete wall built around your heart to fortify it and you’ve grown to become immune to him. like gojo says, you are strong and while you know that you always have been — hearing him admit that makes you realise you don’t want to prove your worth to him anymore. 

you would much rather have him kill you instead. 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[pokemon-ash-aus]

Your Dead AU gives me brain rot. I dunno if this was asked yet or not, but I wanted to know your thoughts on Ash’s other rivals finding out about his status as deceased. Hypothetical what-it’s if you don’t honestly see them finding out for one reason or another in canon to the AU, but I’m curious as to your thoughts on how they’d find out.

I guess I should better specify Barry, Paul, Trip, and Alain, how they’d react to Ash’s being dead?

OKAY!;

Barry doesn't believe it at all. Even when given hard definitive truth, he's under the assumption that all of this? All this deadness? It's just a cruel prank that needs to be fined for!

Paul... I imagine Paul is the one to outright calling him pathetic for dying so soon. It's both malicious in intent and not.

He wants to call Ash Pathetic, he wants to make him hurt and make him feel inferior. He wants to revel that Ash will never succeed with the methods he's going by.

But Paul isnt a cruel person by nature. The moment he says it, he's filled wih so much dread and disgust. He just called a dead person pathetic for... For DYING, nothing on his actions or movements. He's just pathetic for dying.

He avoids Ash for awhile after that. Even when Ash instigates. It's just that much level of disgust with himself. Eventually he does apologize. I can see it being at the league. When he walks up to Ash after loosing their battle and apologizes without any eyes or ears around. He's not good at it.

"That really hurt me." Ash grimaces. "Ive never been called Pathetic for Dying..."

"Im sorry you felt that way." Paul tries. "I didnt mean to say it the way i did."

Its a lot of awkward dancing before Ash realizes Paul is really Socially inept and has to clarify. It's a shitty apology for a Shitty action, but Paul is absolutely trying and Ash cannot fault him for that.

Trip. See my bias shows here because I absolutely believe Trip is 100% an asshole Racist.

But would Trip insult Ash's dead status? I think so. I think he'd sprinkle it in with all his other racists remarks. Never outright outing him, but also never letting him forget that Trip KNOWS.

And fuck if that doesnt wear Ash down. And When Iris and Cilan find out, they back Ash up without a thought but it doesnt erase how much Trip taunts how Ash died. Doesnt erase that Trip continuously makes snide remarks about it.

I think this is the one and only time Ash truly uses his own abilities and powers to make Trip HURT.

And it doesnt even give him any satisfaction! Cause Trip had successfully made him feel disgusted by his own dead status. Something mind you, he had been over for fucking YEARS, by that point!

So yeah I think Trip is the worst one and my bias will not falter.

Alain. I imagine he finds out at the BRINK of Ash getting mind controlled. And he's fucking horrified. He truly does believe that He led Ash to his death and then his partner Pikachu as well.

Just fully goes into Shock after everything calms down.

He killed someone he considered a friend.

He killed them.

And Even through soft reassurances from everyone else, it weighs so heavily on his mind. It takes Ash slapping him for him to come back to a reality where he can actually understand what their saying.

And Then Ash explains it all, how he died, how long its been, and NO Alain did not kill him, but the backstabbing was painful as shit and that would take time for Ash to get over.

Alain both believes it and doesnt, but he's still horrified his friend is fucking DEAD.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I don't have any headcanons to drop but instead a question.

What do you think Killer is even experimenting on or for? For what purpose? I need ideas 😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈

I just need to an excuse to draw Killer in a lab coat so bad

Probably things to do with Determination, strange souls, and of course; codes. He will probably try to find a way to see if any other monster can naturally develop levels of Determination by placing them in scenarios that directly mirror his experiences; aka he will probably torture them psychologically.

He could try to convince them to do something that goes against their beliefs and self concept. If someone deeply values loyalty, he will experiment with what it takes to make them do something to betray whoever or whatever they’re loyal to, or the other way around.

If someone values kindness, he will tempt them into doing or saying unkind things—or anything that makes them believe others are being unkind to them to provoke paranoia. (Drug use? To induce hallucinations and then make them believe certain things are true?)

A lot of this is curiosity, and fulfillment of sadism and power. But a lot of it may be reenactment to either make sense of what happened to him, or to see if it can be replicated, or simply to prove that there’s truly nothing he could’ve done to change anything—like. If even weaker lesser things like the test subjects fell for what he fell for, then it’s proof he was weak before and therefore couldn’t have done anything, but he’s stronger now because he wouldn’t fall for such easy cheap tricks.

The next most obvious may be messing around with fusion, soul fusion. Taking and mixing and matching, seeing what could or couldn’t result from it. And if it’s possible to force a fusion.

Uh. When it comes things like humans, he will definitely try to understand their anatomy—and he will also probably experiment with pain and death. How much can a human or monster body and soul take before death? He might carefully time and measure these things. He will probably come up with various creative methods and ways to kill—what is the easiest, the fastest, the slowest, the most painful.

He will probably take advantage of his Reset, Load and Save here too. Will they be able to recognize that they have died before? Will they feel deju vu? Will they just think they’ve been drugged or gone insane? Will they not notice at all?

He will likely test a lot of these things on himself as well. How much can this body and soul take before it collapses. He might be fascinated to realize that his tolerance for death and pain far exceeds most normal people, and if this remains true while he experiments on other versions of himself as well, perhaps this would only fuel his sense of superiority.

He may mock and criticize victims for crying and being dramatic—either because he’s being an asshole, or because he’s genuinely so far removed from these concepts that it doesn’t get why they’re all screaming and blubbering. They aren’t dead yet, and they’ll be fine by the next Reset.

Or alternatively, he may be curious and fascinated by their reactions—and deliberately do and say things to gain reactions and responses. If he’s experimenting on someone he’s found himself kinda sort liking, such as Color for example, perhaps he’d do the traditionally comforting actions—petting their head, kissing their forehead, gently rubbing or patting limbs while dissecting, praising them, telling them how pretty and beautiful they are bloody/crying/tied down/being good for him/etc, perhaps promising itll be over soon and they’ll feel better soon.

I think it’d be cool if he somehow finds a way to dissect a soul like it’s a heart.

And those are all the ideas I have right now. Im not a scientist person, so everyone feel free to chime in!

{ @toffeebrew }

[datawyrms]

It's Invisobang again!

and again im doing a weird little AU fic that's pretty short but hopefully enjoyable! Make sure to keep an eye out for the amazing art by @snazzydwarf and @chaseacer-ghostedition ! You can read the first chapter here or hustle over to Ao3 :v

It's called A Family in Frost - and Jazz is having a terrible day that a certain Danny dragon will make both better and worse c:

A frozen wasteland. That’s all there was, here. Snow, ice, and an agonizing glare of reflected sunlight she couldn’t escape, no matter the angle. It was funny, in a way. Hilarious. Of course her ‘genius’ parents managed to cook up a spell that messed up SO badly that it not only failed to summon a dragon, but instead sent a human somewhere with zero dragons. Everyone knew the Arctic dragons had been hunted to extinction centuries ago. Yet here she was! In thin cotton clothes, and leather shoes already sodden through.

Fantastic. She always wanted to die horribly in some stupid accident. Jazz shook her head, pretending the constant shudder from the endless cold was all in her mind. Being angry about this wasn’t going to keep her alive. Not much would, to be fair- but she was smart! She could probably remember some spells that might at least keep her warm, or make a signal for help. Or whatever had gone wrong in that stupid experimental trap her parents made might just snap her back where she belonged!

She totally wasn’t completely doomed to drop dead. This was fine. Sort of. It wasn’t, at all. She was doomed. How funny! Her dad always said she had a little brother that got killed by a dragon- but that was a dumb story! To scare her to behave or whatever! It wasn’t as if she remembered any siblings. If she did have some dead brother, maybe she’d say sorry for forgetting him and ask if the ‘dragon’ that killed him was their parents doing something stupid and unsafe too!

Jazz grabbed the sides of her head, pulling at the bright orange hair and using the pain to force herself to just breathe. Breathe the frigid, painful air that made the trembling worse, and her mouth and nose sting. How could she not panic? How could she use that brain of hers to do something other than see the disaster unfolding right in front of her? Positive thinking could only go so far before it was delusional!

So she should think less. More ‘what can I do right now’ and less ‘well I’m still going to starve to death if I don’t freeze’. What she wouldn’t give to have been transported here with a tome. At least she didn’t need to care too much about a magical backfire. It wasn’t like screwing up a spell could make anything significantly worse. It’d probably be quicker than freezing or starving at minimum. Haha. Such an upside to consider! She couldn’t really trust her hands to weave the spell- but there was an endless canvas of snow to use to write it out.

Just focus, Jazz. You can make yourself warm. Then use that time to build a little shelter to keep the warm in for when the magic faltered. No thinking about after that. Just stop the awful daggers of frost and her shuddering bones to start.

The symbols weren’t right, exactly. The shivering made anything even resembling a straight line a challenge. It had to be good enough. Even as the flaws made her brain scream for corrections- she didn’t really have the time to be the perfectionist she was. This was a simple enough use of power that it shouldn’t matter- her intent was incredibly obvious in this awful cold. The normal light blue she generally expected from casting was lost in the overbearing glare of reflected light- but she could feel it work. It still took some time to stop shaking- and feeling warm wasn’t going to stop frostbite, but it was progress. Time to build a little snow shelter. Snow was a good insulator, right? Anything would be better than just sitting exposed like this.

Jazz didn’t really want to waste more of her limited power on moving the snow magically- but trying to dig in with her bare hands made it clear she wasn’t going to make anything close to a shelter that way. Pulling the compacted snow up in solid walls wasn’t something she could manage without a tool.

So her little shelter wasn’t great. It was warmer inside, yes- but it was very small, and very dark if she didn’t leave the hole of an entrance clear. She just didn’t want to risk anything bigger- not if it could make the roof collapse. And she wasn’t going to STAY here that long, so small and minimal use of magic was better, right?

It was just temporary. Until she could think of a real plan. Until someone realized what happened and came to rescue her. That’s why she had to stay there, and not run off or do anything dumb. Like panic, or think too hard about how much danger there was.

Which was difficult, when she didn’t have anything else to focus on. There was the horror of all the empty space outside her tiny shelter, or the claustrophobic darkness inside it. Multiple ways to be disturbed and unsettled! What a lucky learning experience. Okay. So mom and dad’s weird trap was meant to summon a dragon. The transporting part happened- just totally wrong and to a non dragon. Why to here though? What did they mess up to get from ‘specially made circle trap’ to ‘THE ARCTIC TUNDRA’. Not that she’d have enough magic to even try to replicate it, not without amplifier stones or relics.

Being terrified was pretty exhausting. Jazz didn’t think she would be able to sleep, at all. Yet she must have. She would have heard something walk up, instead of freezing in terror at the sound of something scrabbling on the snow outside. Maybe it was one of those little foxes, or an owl. No, it was too loud for that. A bear? That would be her luck. Parents so worried about dragons she got killed by a freaking polar bear.

She didn’t want to give whatever it was a reason to keep trying to get in, but she couldn’t stop the scream when a thick claw dug through the snow and a bright green eye peered in at her. It seemed to glow- and the slitted pupil only made it even more unsettling.

There were NO Arctic dragons left. That was just a fact.

That was a very draconic eyeball leering at her through the claw-dug hole.

Just her luck. Maybe her crackpot parents were right about that whole ‘family is cursed by dragons’ nonsense she’d done her best to ignore. If fate had a throat, she’d try to strangle it.

—--

He wasn’t sure what he expected, really. The smell of magic on the wind had pricked his curiosity. He didn’t really recall the last time he’d even sensed magic that wasn’t coming from him. At least five years? More? Oh. No. Don’t think about that, that just brings the empty feeling back.

So of course he had to poke the weird little snow tower! It wasn’t natural, so of course he had to see if there was something interesting in it, or if it did something. The snow tower did not do anything but prove to be weak to his blunt black claws.

Inside though? The bright orange hair was one thing, but the scream that forced him to back up with a grunt of pain was not fun. Phantom shook his head and laid his short ears back, deep in the thick white fur to block the worst of the sound. Okay so. Someone alive made the silly snow spire! That was new, exciting. Maybe fun? If whatever it was in there stopped making so much noise. He only looked at them!

Well. It did sort of make sense. He was pretty small for a dragon, and the bright haired creature inside was smaller than him. Imagine something that had magic being afraid of him! Ha! If he could look less scary, maybe they’d calm down a bit? Phantom moved in a quick circle before crouching down, pulling his short legs in close and wrapping his tail around himself and pulled his neck in close to the rest of the thick fur that covered his body. There. Warm waiting pose and looked smaller for the scream- thing.

He kept his green eyes fixed forward as he waited. Not moving was easy. He spent a lot of time not moving, honestly. Running all over frozen ground was both a waste of time and just made him hungry. Orange-hair didn’t seem very suited for the weather. No fur, and the pale skin didn’t look very resistant. If those coverings were meant to keep them warm- well they seemed too thin to be much use out here. They were lucky this time of year the sun was always up.

“Shoo!”

Phantom tilted his head at the sound. Wait. Was that meant to scare him off or something?

“Yeah, you! Go on now! Shoo!”

Oh this was way funnier. He tilted his head again, and kept staring.

The little critter obliged his request for more hilarity by getting a bit redder and shouting “I’m not afraid of you! Now go! Git!”

“I’m not afraid of you either, silly.”

That shut them up! He didn’t think those eyes could get any bigger but they sure seemed to look like it. This was the funniest thing he’d seen in years.

“What? Never seen a talking dragon before?” As if there was such a thing as one that didn’t. Pft.

“But you’re all dead!” the voice was higher pitched and wavering now, eyes still staring at him.

Phantom snorted at that, slowly and dramatically looking over his shoulders for something amiss. “Well sorry to disappoint with my ‘being alive’.”

“No! No that’s not what I- arrrgh!” They cut themselves off with a frustrated huff, staring at the snow as if doing that would make him magically forget the stumbling around. “I’m glad apparently humans haven’t just hunted all of your kind to extinction but how? Everyone knows there aren’t any Arctic dragons left!” Frowning, they kept looking at him, eyes narrowing as they started muttering again. “Maybe you aren’t a dragon, and some sort of chimera? Or another magical beast mimicking an extinct species? Or I’ve frozen to death and this is a weird hallucination my brain is making up…”

Right. Humans. That was the name for what they were. Which wasn’t exactly a good thing- what few dragons he did manage to get words out of didn’t usually have the nicest things to say about humans, but this one seemed fine? They weren’t some dragon hunter that wanted to skin him alive or anything. Most importantly, they were the most interesting thing in years, and he wasn’t going to have some ‘oh no humans scary’ stories ruin that for him. “I’m definitely an Arctic dragon. So all your little human books are wrong.”

“Have you been in hiding? For centuries?”

“What? No! Do I look even close to a century old?” Phantom burst out laughing at the very idea, letting out a second, harder laugh when he saw their face.

“How should I know how old an extinct dragon is!”

“Use your eyes? I’m barely taller than you, and you’re puny!” Which is the closest he was going to admit to being pretty small to anyone. Which wasn’t his fault! He was still growing. Probably.

They quieted down after that, rubbing their arms and shaking instead of doing anything interesting. “So what are you going to do, then?”

“Do?” Phantom flicked his ears forward, unsure if he misheard. “What do you mean?”

They didn’t answer him, just shaking. Shivering? Oh. Maybe they were really cold after all, and he’d guessed right about the clothes not being warm enough.

“Um. Like I guess you can stay in your weird little snow tower. That I kinda broke.” He frowned, starting to get up again and shaking his paws to warm them back up. What was he going to do? “Sorry. Err. Do you want to come with me? Since my den is probably warmer than…” he paused, looking at how the snow ‘tower’ he poked a hole in fell over completely “That. Thing you were in.”

“So you can eat me later?”

“Ew? No?” Phantom made a gagging sound, fur bristling at the idea. “I’m not desperate enough to eat something sapient!”

The shivering didn’t stop, but a hint of a smile showed on their face. “So you aren’t a blood thirsty, human devouring kind of dragon?”

His tail flicked, a playful gesture he couldn’t quite suppress. “Rude. Even if I was, you totally wouldn’t be worth the effort of eating! You’re like a stick!”

“I guess I am. You didn’t get that round from eating scrawny little humans after all.”

“I’m not round!” His fur did not help his squawk of indignation, fluffing up so he was more of a cloud than a sleek predator of the tundra. “I’m well equipped to retain heat!”

Instead of being cowed by this, the little human actually walked up and poked the tip of his snout. “Which means being round. It’s the most effective strategy up here, right?”

“Shut upppppp!” Phantom stuck out his tongue and waved his tail- but it was obvious even the human could tell he was just playing along. It was nice to have a friend around here. Especially after so long alone.

[margarine-archives]

financier cookie with a dead s/o now go wild

A Dead S/O with: Financier Cookie !

notes: OH MY GOD. I HAD to do this request first (quite biased im afraid). Other requests will be delayed so I apologize for that (exams are tomorrow, and I have pending school work to do-)

- due to the trauma, financier would be more overprotective. The consul, the elders, everyone that matters to her in general. She needed you, she tried her best to protect you with the divine light, and yet you still dissappeared, right in front of her very eyes. She can't let that happen a second time, she WON'T let it happen again

- she's supposed to protect you, to make sure you're still with her until the very end. Did she not try hard enough ? Would she even call herself a good paladin if she failed to protect the one cookie that kept her high and strong ? If she couldn't protect you, what would that say about her, about her promise to you ?

- she wanted it to be a dream, she wanted that day to simply be her delusion, her lack of sleep getting into her head. Yet, when she held you so close to her, hands gripping onto yours tightly, is when reality finally struck to her. You were gonna dissappear, and yet she couldn't even prevent that. What kind of paladin is she ?

- she didn't know when, but to hear you coo at her softly as she sobbed her heart out to you made her sob even harder. She wanted to be strong at this very moment, she wanted to carry on the battle and avenge you ! But why did she feel so weak ? so fragile to seeing you in such a state

- she knew you'd want to die without regrets, and so she tried her very best to put up a brave face for you, to tell you that you can finally rest, my love, my light. It took you aback for a second despite the pain, she never called you by any nickname to begin with, it was always you, and you were fine with that. To hear her say two in your final moments made your heart feel warm (despite being in a painful condition)

- with your eyes sealing shut with a kiss on the lips, pulling her closer, you had drifted off to a place farther from the living. Financier cookie is left there with your lifeless body inside an eerie dungeon, her lips still lingering from yours. Despite her mind telling her that she's ready to fight on, her heart, who's light had dimmed out, asked for more of your touch, even if you may never respond back to her

- in the moment after battle did she finally let loose, what seemed like eternal to bottle up finally broke. No one could potentially hear her, as everyone had evacuated the dungeon, maybe it was finally time to be selfish and let her emotions out.

- the consul found his bodyguard, down to her knees with two lifeless bodies, one being yours that she holds close to her aching heart.

- clotted cream felt pity and sadness to seeing the brightest light in her darkest moments. To see her, to hear how affected she is made him sad aswell, yet he knows not to interfere in such a vulnerable moment, and to leave her alone for awhile, telling the elders that he will take care of her

- she prays to the divine light more often, everyday, praying for the impossible, praying for you to one day return, to tell her that everything was simply a delusion.

- she constantly wonders what she did to deserve this outcome, and many things she could've done to prevent it from happening. She is loyal to the divine light, she follows orders from the republic, she even listens to you ! So what sin could she have done ? how can she atone for the mistakes she possibly made ?

- financier wouldn't want to love someone anymore after your passing, she believes that the same thing would happen again if she did, and she didn't want to relive the events that occured from that day. She focuses more on training, on work, and because of the fact she had lost you, she had went back to her old neglectful habits (except it only got worse as more time passed)

- ever since your death, financier has gotten much less sleep than usual, constantly training until her body was about to crumble any moment. She couldn't let herself get any rest, she must train harder, she has to

- who knows what might happen again if she even takes a minute break. Who knows what innocent lives may be taken away this time because of her lack of skill

- she swore to the light that she'd protect you, now that she's failed what she had promised for she'd be more hard on herself, constantly belittling herself time and time again.

- it seems she can just never recover from you, maybe she will, a decade and a half at best. You've changed her life so much, and now you're taken away from her so early.

- you were even planning to propose to her.. She broke down for another time once she saw the ring

[constellation-sys]

bsd ramblings (seasons 1, 2, and dead apple)

i would commit double suicide with dazai

why does everyone have a gyatt

kunikida x dazai??????

WHY ARE THE SIBLINGS SO WEIRDDDD

ranpo’s my scrungo

atsushi has trauma and is a furry

kunikida and endeavor sound really similar

dazai <33333

what the actual fuck is wrong with the doctor 

oh hey ginger

oh those bitches are homosexual 

the way they fight is so homoerotic 

“go to hell! i was being saracastic!” — chuuya to his boyfriend

dazai x chuuya

atsushi x akutagawa 

WHY IS EVERY SINGLE GUY IN BSD SO HOT

the animation has no right to be so good 

kenji is so silly. i love him

kenji loving cows is so real of him

i need more port mafia exec dazai

“he both fears death and is drawn to it” ME FR

DAZAI <33333333333333333333

i want to hold dazai. i need to ruffle his hair. i want to commit suicide with him, my last words being heard by him only. i want to drown with this man, the holy water bringing us both to the afterlife. we will both be free. 

chuuya is so silly

“come now, take me with you to the afterlife” DAZAI AJHDISBEUDBEUBD 

dazai is a disaster bi and i love him for that

i pledge allegiance to the flag of bungo stray dogs and to the fandom for which it stands. one nation under dazai, indivisible, with fanfic and fanart for all. 

dazai is down horrendous for oda. i don’t blame him

dazai my silly wet cat disaster bi husband <33333333333333333

akutagawa is so silly

WHY DID THE THEME SONG HAPPEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE EPISODE WTF

men <3

oda is my dad now bc i said so 

the kid’s name is shinji? evangelion reference?? 

“because odasaku’s my friend” NO HE AINT DAZAI. HE’S YOUR UNREQUITED CRUSH. 

“because i know my friend better than anyone” DAZAI’S LITTLE GASP OMFG IEBEKSHWJJDEBBE OMFG OMFG IM GONNA CRY DONT EVEN WINEUEHEJEJ (friend who got me into the show) YOU BITCH

“you’re a were-tiger, grow some were-balls” KUNIKIDA YOU DID NOT

ranpo is autistic

WHY THE HELL IS THE BOSS SO WEIRD ABT HIS KID WIHDJEBE OMFG

“i can’t hear the voice of god with you staring like that” — every catholic ever

nathanial hawthorn is a silly catholic

margaret basically being the daughter of a rich plantation owner in the 1800’s is so american 

ranpo my silly

chuuya <3

q and kyouka are my children

osamu dazai my silly little wet cat autistic depressed suicidal maniac disaster bisexual husband <3

WHY IS MARK FUCKING TWAIN SO FINE OMFG THIS SHOW

lovecraft is weird. i like it. he’s accurate. 

margaret x nathan?? 

chuuya and dazai are an old married couple. i love them so much. 

“god i hate you” — chuuya to his husband who he loves very much

“don’t worry, buddy. i’ve got you” — dazai to his lover

“i’d expect nothing from you, my worthy adversary” poe to his bf

WHY IS POE FINE SOEJDIHENSHDBE

ranpo is so silly 

dazai is a cool uncle to kyouka fuck you

akutagawa and atsushi are down bad for each other 

why is scott fitzgerald a crossbreed between a dilf and a twink

cmon you two kiss each other already

is akutagawa down bad for dazai or just looks up to him

WHY IS THE WIFE NAMED ZELDA?? IS SHE A PRINCESS OR WHAT

i am OBSESSED with this show

never have i ever watched an anime with a shit theme song. i love bsd’s intro so much

hehe moby dick

if kyouka dies i’m killing myself /hj

welp guess i’m dying 

akutagawa my silly <3

nvm not dying today. hey at least kyouka isn’t dead 

dazai is akutagawa’s father figure sorry not sorry 

lovecraft is so real for jumping in the sea 

POE IS HERE WIHEEIHEIEHEUDHEHD I LOVE POE 

RANPO KISS HIM RN KISS YOU TWO KISS 

“but i prefer the women in my life to be under 12” E X C U S E M E S I R 

RUSSIAN MAN???? 

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT DUDE HELL YEAH

IWJDUEBEHE DAZAI QUOTING ODA IEHRUEBEUDHWHDUENDJDJHE IM GONNA CRY AGAIN BYE—

DEAD APPLE IS AMAZING. I WATCHED IT ON 9ANIME. ONLY SUB THOUGH

READING THE TRANSLATOR STRUGGLE IS SO FUNNY. o7 TO THEM GOOD JOB.

[daenystheedreamer]

omaegorverse au stuff its daenys marrying into the starks and having the worst fucking time of her life with her gay misogyinst husband who hates her and her problematic homophobic mother in law ^_^

anyway so in omaegorverse walton and alaric did a rebellion and got absolutely FUCKED like fully dead and burned up rip alaric stark sorry u couldnt befriend alysanne 😭 its canon that torrhen's sons and the early targ-era starks HATED the targs. i think if maegor omegafied his nephew and took him to wife theyd consider that the last straw. plus the old gods are whispering in their ear or something ^_^ there’s also a mercenary company in essos called the company of the rose i thought that was SO fun so they go back to westeros to fight in the rebellion :3

anyway viserys is crazy at this point cos he’s had three forced childbirths and people keep dying and its his fault (its maegor its all maegor. of course its maegor's fault but maegor's like um well maybe if u werent a whore they might have lived 🙄) so he begs maegor to end the rebellion peacefully. plus if they blast the starks the north will HATE them. maegor is like fuck that noise and viserys goes well ok guess ill kill myself and the kids then. so maegor's like fuck ok fine 🙄 gods youre so dramatic women are so annoying -_- nudges his squire goes heh the wife amirite always nagging and bitching!!

viserys is deeply traumatised and only halfway in reality. he arranges a marriage between daenys to walton+alaric's brother for peace and hes like itll be ok cos youll be far away from maegor. you just have to be a nice demure wife and have babies like look how happy that made me!! itll be fine also maegor will 100% make you the prize in one of his fckn tourneys if u stay unmarried for much longer O_O. and daenys is all well the angels are telling me to murder-suicide maegor and im having gay thoughts about aunt rhaena again so i guess running away from kings landing  is a good idea (kings landing is kind of alive in this it kind of tortures the targs).

it is not! she marries the new lord stark (his name is cregard:3) and he's DEEPLY targphobic. his mother was the second wife of brandon the boastful, making walton and alaric his elder half-brothers. his mother is also a bolton! her name's barba bolton she's crazy! she and brandon the boastful married as a covert bolton-stark alliance against the targs in preparation for possible anti-targ rebellions… the stark family consists of barba + her four kids: myranda bolton, cregard, lysara mormont and sybelle dustin. the starks are very weird rn cos half of them died and the other half are hated by the north. the daughters are all married off and do a lot of diplomacy, so its just barba and cregard in winterfell. boymum and her mummy’s boy that’s so normal!!!

barba has had the revolution burned out of her thanks to her husband and stepsons getting burned to death at the gates of winterfell. she couldnt intern their bones either because balerion fckn ATE them. she agrees to the marriage because there’s no way she can’t... also because the political situation in the north is very tense. everyone is mad that the rebellion failed and that their sons died, and they start a conspiracy that barba had sabotaged the rebellion for bolton power. barba had refused to let her own son fight, despite him being fifteen (which is war age for sure) and they think this was her being cunning. they think she had conspired with maegor and his catamite WHORE into letting her and her children live. and she hates the northern houses back cos she gritted her teeth swallowed her pride and surrendered to save THEM!! so if she doesn’t want some kind of usurpation she needs the backing of the targs. plus this princess has a dragon…

ALSO it was viserys the catamite FREAK who specifically intervened and begged maegor's mercy which the northerners all see as a slight on their honour. barba is also super pissy about it :3 homophobic QUEEN! on paper it is such an honour to wed a targ princess but everyone thinks the mpreg babies are abominations, the starks especially. but they cant say no since maegor mercifully didnt blow them all up.

cregard's character is very stoic and angry. he's got that stark iciness + honour/justice, but he's also got the stark wildness!! he's 14 years older than daenys (30 and 16 at marriage ew) and he sees their marriage as a transaction and security for the north. he was fifteen during the rebellion and hates his mother for locking him in winterfell. considers this an evil bitch act of emasculation but he’s also an absolute mommy’s boy. he's very classically sexist like Well a wife's job is to support her husband and give him heirs. i will give her whatever she wants materially but emotionally she is an object she is not a person. if that makes sense :3

daenys is very shy and autistic so barba thinks she is weak and will never be a good lady of winterfell she isnt Hard and Stoic enough. cregard thinks she's an airhead freak but treats her with that sort of chauvinistic chivalry. like he treats her decently enough he doesnt beat her but also her duty is to give him sons. cregard does NOT do the nedcat sept because the optics of that are SO bad. as she has married into the family he expects her to convert since well she's a northerner stark now. not that anyone is treating her like that... anyway she mostly spends her days with the horses in the stables, in the glass gardens or with her dragon:3

and YES she has a dragon and brought it north. it is very small the runt of the litter. it is from dreamfyre's clutch and daenys named her dreamsweet and calls her sweetling. the starks are very annoyed by the dragon because they were hoping for a big dragon who they could use as leverage. instead they get a runt. just like daenys :) she doesn't ride dreamsweet much, though dreamsweet is large enough to ride. cregard DOES have a large stable made for the dragon which also stunts the dragons growth but they dont know that. everyone steers clear of it and daenys turns it into her special safe place :) she paints it all pretty and uses it as a sept. its round and maybe the size of a smallish school gymnasium. it has a conical roof with a large skylight, though chains are kept over the opening. dreamsweet is allowed ONE outing a month...

not getting into the marital bed situation because sad and also thats not fun and i do this au for fun. but i guess picture the handmaid's tale if youve ever read the book :( barba is there and its all mechanical and emotionless. cregard thinks his wife is an abomination + is sexistly gay. he is nawt getting anything out of this. actually havent really thought about the gay thing all too much i just did that cos i thought it was funny tbh. maybe he’s got medieval rentboys or something.maybe he’s got a tumultuous homoerotic situationship with one of the northern lords. You decide :3 i think barba is like your vices are disgusting and dishonour house stark. use your wiles to seduce that effette lord manderly into supporting the starks again.

daenys and barba are very weird cos daenys has never had an actual mother before. barba’s like late forties when daenys marries cregard. they’re the only women in winterfell and daenys outranks her and daenys is a fucked up abomination and barba is one of those insane boymoms whos like I am the most important woman in my son’s life. i would like it if she slowly grew to respect daenys and they could have a normal mother-daughter relationship but. I doubt that. i think daenys is terrified of her and barba hates her but theyre also forced to interact, forced into the most intimate relationship women can have!! motherhood ahh!! god this post is too long. okay my final message. goodbye<3

[the-meme-monarch]

oh oh chulip headcanons, got any abt Julie? I thought it was neat she used to be an idol, and just by basic virtue of "time passed since the game was made" one of the older school type ones.

i will also do goro, love interest, and the cat bc i don't think i have enough to constitute them being in their own posts!!! and in case no one asks for them. and they are Family

-its a fond headcanon of mine that just about everyone in llt is Not Human so julie has non-retractable claws, sharp canines, and four eyes (her eyebrows) :], love interest inhereted the claws and canines. I'm not certain yet but im thinking goro is. a sentient sweet potato thing in human form based on his section in Her Heart .

-love interest's bow emotes like cat ears :]

-julie and goro are t4t. when you show julie dr dandy's card she says "[love interest] was born at that hospital". notice she didn't specify who gave birth to her

-love interest is also trans

-when love interest ran away it was moreso that she went to school one morning and just. never went back home. stuffed her telescope and sleeping bag into her backpack and left

-this isn't My headcanon but I adopted it as well. goro is so so good at making sandwiches. i think he's actually a better cook than julie(her yakitori being described by Everyone as being burnt and/or raw, where goro considers his sweet potatoes to be art and also they heal you so i don't think Julie made them.)

-love interest used to help her mom cook or help goro sell sweet potatoes :] she was the one keeping the business afloat really .

-julie and goro having been an idol and a movie director and A Couple, made llt into a bit of a tourist attraction. before then llt was literally only known about bc of lover's tree, (which i like to think that in-universe the "[name] and [name] sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g" rhyme came from! it is inaccurate to actual lover's tree lore and it pisses llt residents off So Bad!) anyway them being individually popular and Together put llt like Actually on the map. but julie was a one hit wonder and goro's career fizzled out around when love interest was born (his last movie being akuma doll). julie opened a restaurant to try to keep an audience, but well. she is Not a good cook.

-goro was famous for his movies bc they were so bad they're good. y'know.

-goro and julie don't really wear their wedding rings, with julie cooking all the time, and goro's just not much of a jewelry guy, but he wears both their rings on a string/necklace tucked under his shirt :']

-also according to the jp guide book goro isn't good at expressing his emotions. so not a headcanon but i think it's worth mentioning

-also sorry to be a goro stan but i need to mention it. julie is not faultless in their relationship. please remember that julie threw out his movies (which were important to him. he literally ran a movie theater) and she belittles him in every interaction they have up until she thinks he's Dead. she slaps him when you first meet them. goro is not physically abusive. him throwing the bottle was a Final Straw type moment. not that goro isn't also without blame but it makes me fucking seethe that people put all the blame on him when the point of julie's kiss quest was highlighting that they're Both flawed people but can Both grow and become better. i can only guess people treated him as the aggressor like that bc of his alcoholism, and how julie was the one harmed at the apex of the bar scene from the wine coupon, and the "she likes cats, she'll be fine" line WHICH i think that translation did it a disservice. I think he meant "she's like a cat. she'll come home when she's ready". y'know.

-we know Julie has been living in llt since she was at least 8 years old (when you show her the micro gum she tells you about an incident from then) but she doesn't know that microgum makes you small? and she doesn't know that the graveyard doesn't mean an Immediate death sentence. I think she just didnt know abt microgum bc She Was Eight and then her time as an idol made it hard for her to connect with the rest of town (being hounded by the media/fans/paparazzi) so she never even found out that That Kid probably didn't Just Disappear he probably just got small, and then even after that she just didn't get out much bc she had family and restaurant to maintain. maybe only a few people even know that being sentenced to the graveyard doesn't mean Instant Death. policeman does just shoot on sight at night after all

-julie and policeman seem to be/to have been friends? he knows that the hair pin poor boy stole is julie's and that it's special to her. and julie says he's a good man .

-the cat disappears behind the hospital every night. i like to think it knows everything abt everyone in town for it's quiz at the end bc it lives in the walls of the hospital and is eaves dropping/reading dandy's documents

-love interest straight up did not name the cat. but maybe post-game she does :]

-this is less of a headcanon and more of an idea for a potential re-release, but i think it'd be neat if you Could kiss the cat, but as you level up the cat gets more and more upset with you, until eventually trying to interact w it at all it attacks you. then in Her Heart we find out it's because you've been getting closer to love interest and it's jealous you're going to take her from it (it's line in-game "[poor boy] is trying to steal my [love interest]"). and rocky. let me kiss rocky

[ask-the-sexyman-squad]

Double Trouble would be a horrible parent have they realized the full extent of what having children would do to them?

Are they willing to give up their free and somewhat chaotic life to make sure that these kids are actually taken care of?

And don't get me started on alastor

Is he even prepared to take care of the kids?

(Im so so sorry. 😭😭i love them, but everyone loves a good agnsty)

//TW: blood, glitching images, bloody weapon. Carry on! <3//:

"Ohohohohoho...you really wanna start this shit, huh? Well then: bring it, bitch."

This girl is willing to defend her family to death if she had to. She still hasn't cleaned up after that last anon, but why would she when she had to deal with this one?

"I'll sure as hell show you why I'm the Radio Demon's adopted daughter---"

"Sweetheart, don't. You shouldn't be doing this type of stuff...and there is blood all over you. Where'd you get that bat anyway? Just how much did you hit someone?"

They were more confused than concerned, annoyed, even. Still, they grabbed a wet cloth and started cleaning one cheek, and their hand went on the other.

"Plus it's too late to back down now, due to being further in. So..."

"But I wanted to protect you guys! This jerk started bein' mean to you and Dad!"

"I know, I know, but we're adults, honey. We can handle this ourselves."

"Your nari is correct, Little Miss Sunshine. You needn't worry about a thing."

His tone was somewhat on edge...truthfully, he was not in the best mood. With all the...interesting asks from the anons as of late, it was becoming more and more frustrating. How many people did he have to kill this week? Last week? It was too many...

"Now, give me the bat please~"

"No."

"...what?"

"Oh no."

"I. Said. No."

"Oh ho ho! Surely, that's meant as a joke, my dear! You're quite a jokester, well played!"

He kept his hand outstretched for her to give him her softball bat. Yet when she glared at him, things certainly got interesting. Her defiance was new...perhaps she was passionate about what she was fighting for here.

"Oh, so funny I forgot to laugh. But I'm keeping the bat."

"My my, how charming! But I'm being serious, hand over the bat please."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no, I'm not gonna let this anon go unscathed. They're being a douche!"

"We can handle ourselves."

"But I want to help."

"You don't need to."

"Can you just let me?!"

At this point, she sounded rather...uncharacteristically bratty. This was new...and he didn't like it.

"...ahah. Well, I didn't think I'd have to do this."

"...Alastor, what are you going to do?"

"Oh, nothing too horrendous. But just enough for her to listen."

The smile dropped. He looked dead serious and dead tired now, given on how much his eyes were narrowing.

"Give me the goddamn bat before I ground you for talking back to me, Samantha."

"....fine."

"Splendid! Now, clean yourself up honey, because there is no need for any more violence!"

All she did was mumble something incoherently and tread off, still annoyed. Bat in hand, he brandished it out of boredom.

"I wonder what's wrong with her."

"She's probably just annoyed with the anons, Al..."

"...ah. True..."

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

[caelanglang]

ive noticed that everyone seems obsessed with fem skk and all that so allow this ask to be a breather. im gonna tell u about my newest bsd fanfic idea!!! i mean, i have other ppl to tell it to as well but they're not invested into bsd like i am. this is more or less a small passionate rant from an author so there's rlly no need to make this into one of ur inbox sketches or anything like that but i don't mind it if u do lmao

ok ok so i LOVE pretty much any humanoid creatures who primarily prey on humans (vampires, zombies, etc.) and now ive been thinking about the possibility of a zombie apocalypse au that's kinda kunikidazai based in which kunikida and dazai were separated from the rest of the ADA but still use their office as a shelter in hopes that they'll find their way back and be reunited. everything is normal up until dazai literally dies from blood loss after being attacked by zombies and kunikida, unable to simply toss his coworker's corpse into the ocean or smth even though he KNOWS he's gonna turn, decides to bring him back to their shelter and barricade him into a spare room. the next day, he wakes up to a now zombified dazai growling and scratching at the door, trying to get out. at this point, it's like a rlly good delve into his ideals and morals, and how far he'll go just to ensure that no one he cares about gets hurt/killed + it gives him a moment of irrationality in his otherwise logical mind. he should've gotten rid of his body, he should've left him behind and not have brought a massive burden on himself but he CARES!! it's evident he does even in canon in one of the light novels so i need to make more content for that.

anyways, days pass. he feeds dazai raw meat from his own rations, believing that it'll calm his friend down until he can find or make a cure for him to bring him back. and then he meets ranpo, the sole survivor of the other group of ADA members (yes, even yosano. zombies are undead and aren't close enough to death for her ability to work on but it's like a rlly fine line) ranpo, in short, is rather jaded. he lost his friends and even the person he viewed as a father figure. when he moves into the shelter in the office, he's reasonably upset by kunikida keeping what he likes to refer to as 'dazai's walking corpse' in a spare room that they could easily put to use now. they argue, ranpo says there isn't a cure and that kunikida should just let him go, kunikida asks why, and then ranpo presents The Glasses™, puts them on, then tells him the truth. there is no cure. he'd be the first to know, other than the creators themselves. once kunikida is stubborn enough to still keep good ole zombie dazai around, ranpo states that he doesn't want him eating their rations if he insists on feeding him. there is still a way to feed him, however. cut to them finding the nearest dead body and then tossing it into dazai's room and hearing him feast on it. not a good day for kunikida's values, that's for sure. oh wait hold on did i mention that i also want kunikida to make a endless supply of ammo with his notebook just in case he encounters danger (that would be cool, but he'd probably try to limit his notebook page usage)

ive also considered adding chuuya and akutagawa, as they got stranded when it happened and have been wandering around by themselves for awhile now. i feel like the cast of characters would be an interesting combination, plus they all have connections to dazai and are all upset about his current condition (to some extent). also chuuya could look at ranpo and go "you're that one punk from the agency that trapped me in a damn book!" cue him almost actually punching ranpo this time but kunikida stopping him somehow. everyone's abilities would be so good in a apocalyptic setting though. rashomon tearing into zombies long before they reach them, or for the tainted sorrow crushing hordes of them in emergency situations. great stuff

i haven't decided on the ending yet becuz there are a lot of contenders. kunikida could make a cure, or he could finally decide to deal with dazai, or they could all get zombified, or maybe he could just leave dazai stuck in that room forever while he, ranpo, and the others find a different place, becuz the ADA and PM are no more.

thank u for reading this rant btw! i enjoyed writing it

— dream

It was a wonderful read :)) Thanks for sharing this! I love love the idea of the bsd assemble set in a zombie apocalypse with their abilities intact! (manga spoilers// similar to the bram's vampirism but not induced by an ability kinda) There's so much to work with in that tbh, a lot of adventures and action and cool combos~

And I love the idea that it centers on Kunikidazai with Kunikida not wanting to leave Dazai behind ;w; I think it really fits them well. I remember reading an adorable webtoon similar to this—two best friends getting caught up in a zombie apocalypse, the main character tries to survive as a human and his best friend becomes a zombie that for some reason is not aggressive or attacking (protective bf troupe lezgooo) It's a very cute one, though I lost track of it's update TwT)) sorry if the comparison might sound offensive! It wasn't my intention, I just really like those kinds of troupes in apocalyptic settings hhhh /gen

Whatever route you choose for the plot, I'm sure it would be fun :)) I'm cheering you on for this au! I just hope you don't take the evil angst route /j

[bababaka]

Sooo. Red queen. I didn't like it. But it had so much potential. So i am going to ramble about what i would change. It's nothing serious. And i just think its fun (and also might help me improve my writing skills. So les go!)

Ok. One of the things that bothered me the most about red queen is Mare's relationship with her family. Mostly talking about Shade and Gisa.

When Shade died i just couldn't care less. Mare and Farley's suffering was just not it. In the same book we got Shade back, we lost him. Which, okay, fine. But i think this had so much potential for angst.

Mare lost Shade twice.

If maybe Mare truly mourned him in the first book. Talked (or thought) about her memories with him(he was supposed to be the sibling she was closest to besides Gisa!). Imagine how elated Mare got when she reealized her brother was alive again. How protective she would be of him afterwards.

I wish instead of letting Shade get beat for the sake of the mission, she had blew it for his sake. If when seeing her brother there, beat up to a pulp, vulnerable, weak. The letter just resurfaced into her mind. "Dead in combat. Dead. Dead. Dead. She can't lose Shade. She can't. Not again"

I would be crying along Mare when he died. Because he died. She lost him. Again. Because of her. To protect her.

We could even work with some self hatred from Mare. Just drowing in guilt and doubt.

Gisa is just... I don't even know. Like her purpose was to make Mare feel like a weight, out of place. Sure, after the first book, it got better, but still. I wished we had flashbacks or just Mare telling us how they were before all of that. How they got close. Why they got close. When you envy someone, normally your relatioship with them is not good. When we have this between siblings, it just leads to them competing against each other.

So i guess instead of Mare just "oh. She is everything. She is beautiful. Works. And im dirty and steal" i would like a more "she is beautiful. Has a future. Such perfection must be guarded from being tarnished". Like at the same time she does feel somewhat out of place, she also just feels the need to protect Gisa. She is so frail. So pretty. So held together. Stainless.

While Mare is dirty. All over the place. A thief.

So instead of being uhul. Joined at the hip. Or being close. I think i'd like to see Mare growing distant from Gisa. And then on later books, Gisa would ask why. They used to be best friends. Thick as thieves. And yet, somehow, somewhere along the way, Mare left her behind. Left and only gave her an excuse of a purple earring.

Then, Gisa and Mare would talk and cry and bond. This could happen after Shade's death.

Ok. For now, that's it.

(That's just my opinion. If you want to debate, please be nice. Let's talk about it.)

Next topic: The pairings. And Mare being everyone's crush for no reason.

Here is part 2

[nine-fingered-entity]

it's been a bit because college and the horrors and actually yeah thats really all but. great ace attorney brain dump time. currently just met the 3 witnesses in trial day 1 of resolve case 4

i would like to buy ryunosuke a stiff drink (of tea. or sake. either works) this has been a week and a half or so of just. a lot. my man.

will admit it. i like van zieks. he may be the worst, but he's grown on me like some kind of mold. mold man. also i think ryunosuke likes him (begrudgingly) so its fine. (ryunosuke also might be too nice for his own good, but that's a whole other thing)

greg :(

he was going to go to Paris to protect Gina :(

the picture of him, Klint and Barok... smiling... :(

i think Greg is the first AA character death of a major character that does not serve as the opening turning point of a game (rip mia/kazuma (not dead but)) and so I was Stunned. Shook. Bamboozled. like you really get to know him. the epic highs and lows and then. he's Dead.

what was he doing though???? are we going to learn horrible dark secrets in this trial?????????

and why was Van Zieks investigating him...

i have a bad feeling about all this

okay. herlock. um. yikes.

he's been more unhinged lately. more douchey. i trust he has good? reasons for his lying and evasiveness and like. his attitude, but. y u like this bro. can you say one nice thing about ryunosuke without immediately making it about yourself?

truly the fics out there must... need to finish this game. do not ask who i ship.

also we still don't know his connection to the Professor Case. my crack theory is Mycroft. and Mycroft being another victim, but I have literally no evidence but vibes.

red hair herlock was kind of a look tho. go off.

ALSO

okay so the red haired league is one of the actual sherlock stories i kind of remember. in it, the whole job thing was a setup to get this ONE redheaded dude consistently out of his house, i think so they could search it??? okay i dont remember the reasoning, but. fascinated to see how it works out here.

Bepo -> Sandwich. I assume that's a consequence of his perjury? from the last game. got fired and such? idk

also okay these are disjointed but i have two facts

1. reaper thing is statistically real. and bad.

2. van zieks does not know what the hell is going on there (apparently)

fascinating. he quit prosecuting like 5 years ago-was it because of the Reaper? although he never seemed too bummed about the whole thing (till Albert. lol)

but the Reaper for McGilded was Audrey- so are all the rest of them connected? or not?

bleh.

KAZUMA WHAT ARE U DOING

ryunosuke is going thru it

kazummmaaaaaaaaa talk to your friends this vagueness is infuriating just... trust us. pls. man. stop the mixed signals :(

my thought is he wants to defend his father? clear his father's name?

other thought is that either He or Herlock will be the final defendant. i think???

Stronghart is the final villain and i will bet money on that. misguided sense of justice, woot!

im unsure if Genshin actually did it. i will not be surprised if the game makes him innocent in the end, but i honestly kind of think it might be more interesting to not take the easy way out. he did it. and now Kazuma and everyone else has to grapple with that. but idk. i think i trust them to do the path they pick justice

conclusion: dont know Shit. must keep playing

[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

the party doesn't start until i walk in LCBAB reaction let gooooooo

He put on a nice sweater, one without holes in it, and fluffed his hair a bit. He wanted to look nice but also not make it apparent that he had made some effort.

oh alec you virgo (is there gonna be any reaction to your fic where i stop mentioning alec virgo ass? maybe not)

It should be normal to think constantly about your friends 24x7 without it having any romantic intent.

the word alec is looking for is obsession. it always romantic feeling with friend and never a job

Alec wanted to meet the person who introduced the word beautiful. He wanted to ask that person what or who made them use this word and then tell them that beautiful was nothing compared to what Magnus looked like.

dont raise the dead just so you can be a simp its against the death code, dead ppl HR gonna have your head

Magnus jolted awake at that and started screaming. He took out the knife from under his pillow and launched it at Alec.

“Don’t come near me or I will kill you.” Magnus shouted.

when magnus keep a knife under his pillow its revealing detail on him and his background. when i keep a knife under my pillow im a danger to society????

“2nd May.”

no way in hell magnus is a Taurus at least pick a Scorpio date

And Alec was just—Alec.

and water makes things wet. we all know this

“I’m sorry.” Magnus said earnestly and it was all it took for Alec to forgive it.

alec needs to STAND UP i know he can. no virgo should forgive forget that easy stand UP

“Are you really using your childhood trauma to get out of being punched for saying stupid shit?“

Jace pretended to wipe fake tears from his face. “Is it working?”

the fact that you are making me relate to jace...evil?!?!?!?

Because how the hell was he supposed to survive without talking to Magnus for an entire week.

stream midnights by taylor swift it such a good album i know right

“Why does it matter to you? What the fuck does it matter when it is?” Magnus asked angrily.

me when im writing every essay. alec should have replied with "nothing" purely for the aesthetic

i was gonna make a joke about birthday as birthslay but my brain not functioning

Magnus held his face gently and Alec leaned into the touch. “I love you, Alexander. I’ve been in love with you since the day you had that law test and you forced me to quiz you for 48 hours and I hated absolutely every minute of it but I still did it. I love you more and more every day and I don’t know how to stop. And even if I knew, I wouldn’t want to stop.” Magnus breathed.

again stand UP

Alec was 32, and if he was being honest, he didn’t know why people had to work too.

actually nobody knows this it is another Bermuda triangle

“He is in a meeting with Abigail, right now. But he should be free any time now. I’ll just check in.”

um the amnesia au tease? are we okay?

Alec was fine with other people having a thing for Magnus. As long as they don’t act on that desire.

oooh amnesia au gonna wreck alec, serve him right for being a simp we cant be all too lovey-dovey around here

“I tried for ten years and these three convinced you in one night?” Alec said petulantly, bringing a chuckle out of Magnus.

maybe if u stop thinking with emotion and start thinking in strategic mode

this fic is just angst + trauma + alec being mega whipped to the point he can start a whipping cream brand + ari being the cutest + tease for hiadt when alec got dumped and his ex-husband moved on with his ex gf. again LAYERS

“Don’t raise the dead just because you want to be a simp” sent me. Your reactions like always are superior anh>>> I cracked so hard at the entire thing

Simp Alec would never stand up for himself and if you think it’s bad in LRHWY, wait till you read about HIADT Alec getting walked all over himself lmao. Also yes!!! Loved throwing that lil bit of amnesia au tease lmao.

I have honeslty no idea how this fic ended up being as angsty as everyone is saying it was lol. That’s what I’m saying—I can never tell which chapters or fics are going to be angsty and which ones are not. I’m in this with you homies jsjssjsk

P.S. Ari really do be the cutest I am love only one girl

[carmenized-onions]

Zero Pulse. | Oven Hotfix

logline; It's Friday.

[!!!] series history, this is the tenth; You're gonna need to check to make sure you're caught up babe because there's a LOT of context behind this one.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. Wish you could sort by emotions, on playlists, but this is really a very good playlist i think.

portion; 12.5k Jesus Christ, new record.

possible allergies; Incredibly excessive hateful self-image, very frivolous way of talking about mental illness/death/Mikey, I'd say just like ? stress? BLOOD ALSO !! minor cut dw

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets she/her'd into oblivion this round, mb)

said it before i'll say it again, this is the new best and longest chapter i've written-- of all time now. and im being so fr if i don't get actually like harassed in my inbox with the amount of people chattering about this i will WALK INTO THE PIER BITCH

It’s Friday morning, and today is the first day in possibly years that Carmen has actually snoozed his alarm. Opting to sleep in for an extra hour, despite how uncomfortable his whole body is where it lays. He’s trying to avoid waking up today— Because he knows, he can tell: Today is just not going to be his day, today. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, today— Not even—

He fell asleep on his couch, last night. His TV is still on and when he turns it off, it sizzles from being on the stupid Cooking Channel for so long. He’s covered in crumbs, hands coated in chip dust— Chin and neck sticky with spilled Diet Coke. Just don’t wake up and you won’t have to clean it. The day can’t get him, if it never starts.

But then his alarm rings again, for maybe the hundredth time, and there’s no real reason as to why this time is different from the other times, but he suddenly remembers why he fell asleep on his couch, last night. Why he had such a difficult time crawling just fifteen feet further when he got home last night. His face grows hot and red with shame and embarrassment, like a child.

A plate was sent back. A plate he made, was sent back.

Most would find it too dramatic, but he really did almost throw up. Syd gave him an antacid— From a pocket pack that you gave her. Did it help all that much? No. But at least he kept everything down. He just heaved a lot, in the walk-in. Probably good that he didn’t eat much of anything, yesterday.

He’d been thinking far too much. Spent way too long thinking about what to make for you, tonight— Which is fine, you’re inspiring— But he should’ve been keeping those thoughts to pen and paper. But he was making the stupid fucking roux for the stupid fucking order and his autopilot system got all mixed up and suddenly he was making a fantastic Montmorency, but an awful roux. Fucking brain dead, Berzatto. Talentless. Can you not handle this?

How is it possible, to fuck up that bad? You’re terrible at this. His instinct— Everyone’s instinct was to tell the patron to get off their fucking high horse. There’s always that one guest, that thinks they own the goddamn place. But then the dish came back to the kitchen, and everyone just stared. Silent. He was mortified. Is it too much for you? Practically unrecognizable, from what was ordered. It was entirely his fault. Dumb fuck. So fucking slow.

What happened to him? Seriously, what the fuck happened, to him? How could he possibly forget what’s important here? What’s at stake? He can’t look himself in the eyes when he brushes his teeth. Why are you so fucking slow? You are bullshit.

Regrettably, you happened to him; in a good and bad way.

He sighs, washing your conditioner out of his hair in the shower. Scrunching it, as you’d directed. He listens, he does. He takes direction well. Go faster, motherfucker. And he likes you, Carmen does. You are not tough. And he doesn’t fault you for being a good person, no, he faults himself.

He’s not meant to be a good person, he’s meant to be a good chef.

He’s not meant to be a good work partner, with Syd— That doesn’t get results. Everyone thinks they’re happier when he’s happier, sure, but they’re in the red. They’re not gonna be so fucking happy when their cheques start bouncing. It doesn’t matter how good a person he is— What matters is what he’s actually capable of providing— And it’s not amusement or enjoyment— It’s fucking talent. But he sought out your affections, your approval, in a key moment, in every moment— In place of who he should’ve— A Michelin Inspector.

He's let himself forget, what it meant, what it takes, to get a star.

And that made him fuck up a dish— A simple fucking dish. Again, not your fault, his. But God, he wants both. Carmen needs both. He can have both. You should be dead. He just needs to lock it in, keep it tight, push it down, comb it back, you should be dead—

He needs to spray his hair with rosemary, it’s looking thin. The basil on his balcony is coming in nicely, though.

It’s just hit four o’clock when you’re mostly finished getting ready— Well, you are ready, but, y’know, final checks and all that. You smooth out your palazzo pants. Gotta look presentable. Or at the very least, normal.

The Bear is high-class, you’re not going there as a repairman, tonight, for once. Plus, Richie wears suits twenty-four fucking seven now— So you need to dress accordingly, or he and every other guest there are going to look at you like you’re some broke freak. Which, like, not inaccurate, but still hurtful. You’ve broken out the good but not too good jewelry. Money talks, wealth whispers, or some shit. Black turtleneck, blue pants— To match the stupid fucking Executive Chef’s eyes, or whatever, shut up! The pants are not actually that bright, but you think they’d still pair well with Carmen. And even if they didn’t, they match The Bear’s aesthetic, and you like to remain on theme, even when there isn’t really at all a required theme.

Not like you’re going to be seeing much of Carmen tonight, anyway. As much as you’d like to see him, he didn’t send you his Connections, this morning, not even after you sent yours, and you’re taking that as a sign that today is probably rough. And not in the way that can be helped by talking to a person, either, in fact, probably the exact opposite.

You debate whether or not to wear Carmen’s jean jacket. This is a thin turtleneck, and it’d go really well with the whole outfit, and like, Sydney already caught on— It’s only a matter of time before the whole kitchen clocks it.

Yeah, fuck it, hard launch this situationship. You toss it over your shoulders. Okay, okay, one last last final fit check. Hm. Yeah, you’ve definitely gotta put the necklace away. You kiss the plastic pendant for good luck, before tucking it under your shirt. Not ready for that story, just yet. You will be, eventually. But you certainly don’t want Carmen to notice and ask about it. Soon, though. You will, soon.

You grab your purse, your keys, your finished art piece— Wrapped, neatly, in brown paper, with a little card taped to it. Okay, that’s everything. One last last last final review. Makeup? Great. Hair? Perfect. Outfit? Stunning— Fuck, what shoes are you going to wear? Fuck fuck fuck—

Alright, you know it’s not the shoes you’re worried about. Just get out the door, Chip. It’s gonna be fine, Chip. Dinner’s gonna be good, and normal, actually, because two people having their first real one-on-one conversation after their mutual best friend killed himself just under a year ago is historically always super calm and chill and normal, actually. That’s how that works. It’s not gonna be tense, at all.

This is immediately so tense. “Hey. Good to— Good to see you.”

You go in for the hug, so does Richie, only then do you both realize how full your hands are. And then it becomes a weird side hug from you combined with a full hug from him. It’s terrible, this is terrible, this is so tense. Maybe you can still run and have it not be weird, somehow.

“You— Too.” Richie clears his throat, “Cousin.”

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen each other since, no, you’ve seen each other thrice now, but it was different all those times. You were helping Carmen escape a freezer, or having an episode over a broken toilet, or delivering a baby— It wasn’t awkward all those times because it couldn’t be. You didn’t have time to be awkward, they were always emergencies.

“So uh, Fak’s gonna be our, our server?”

“Yessir.”

“He any good?”

“No-sir.”

But this meet up is intentional, booked. It’s got a point to it, and both of you know what it is. You’re just anxiously waiting for the other person to be brave enough to bring it up. Thankfully, neither of you have to, just yet, as Fak sidles up to the host stand.

He’s pushing so many buttons on the P.O.S. before even speaking to either of you that you’re starting to believe he doesn’t know what the fuck the buttons he’s pushing are doing. Based on the way Richie starts to lean over the stand to see what he’s doing, you’re pretty sure you’re right.

“I— I got it, man.” Fak puts a hand up, defensive. Richie backs up, then gestures for Fak to get the fuckin’ show on the road. He does.

“Table for, for uh, how many are you?”

“Oh wow.” It comes out of you instantly, in a true state of shock, at how bad this is already going. You cover your mouth, uh oh, inside thought became outside thought. “Sorry!”

Richie loses it, next to you. You slap his shoulder with your free arm, but you’re laughing too. “Don’t be mean!”

“You’re the one bein’ mean, Chip!”

“I didn’t— He’s trying.” You turn your head back to Fak. “I— Table for two, darling. M’sorry.”

Fak is quick to fold and forgive you, you’ve just called him darling— If a siren ever called to him, he would be dead. “Right, right this way— My name is Neil, I’ll be your server, tonight.”

You follow him to a table that lets you see pretty well into the kitchen. It’s a decent trade-off for not getting a cozy little booth. You look into the window, everyone’s far too focused to know you’re here, right now, but that’s okay— It’s not rushed right now, though, so that is a little… weird.

Richie pulls out your chair, fake Italian chivalry, and what not. When you’re half way through sitting down, a few things are realized instantly, and all three of you speak simultaneously.

“Oh, I should drop this off in the back, first.” Your art piece, you mean.

“Is that Carmy’s?” Your jacket, Fak means.

“You’re fucking Carmen?” What the fuck else could Richie possibly mean.

“I—” You pause, pointing to Fak, first. “Yes, it is.” Then pivot to Richie, “No, I’m not. It’s more like a reservation—”

“Don’t talk about your sex life like it’s a restaurant.” He waves his hand in the air, immediately regretting asking. Listen, it was just the first metaphor on the brain.

“You fuckin’ asked! And we haven’t done shit yet— Not even a fuckin’ date, a’right? Technically not even dating.” It takes maybe, two seconds, in the presence of Richie, for you to go full Chicago accent. It’s unhinged. You have to stand up. “I’m gonna drop this off, in the back.” You lift up the wrapped piece. “I’ll be back, don’t be weird.”

As you walk off, you do your best to pretend you don’t hear Fak mumbling, “Bet it’s one of those sex paintings.”

But it’s very hard to do so when Richie all but booms out a resounding and genuinely baffled, “...What?”

As much as you’d like to continue to hear that insane conversation, you swing through the door, and it’s thankfully a pretty soundproof divider, considering all the yelling you know happens in here.

“Chefs, table twenty-four, two people.” “Yes, Chef.”

Or… Maybe… It’s instead, weirdly subdued? In a tense way, not a calm way. Like when a knife falls off a table, and you’re not sure if it’s going to stab you in the foot and there’s no time to pull back.

“Twenty-one, four people.” “Yes, Chef.”

That kind of quiet. The calm before the storm, maybe. The fall before the blood, you think may be more accurate. God, Syd looks exhausted and it’s only half past four. The rush hasn’t even started yet. Why are they pushing so hard, right now?

Carmen’s on expo. Which, based on the night terrors he told you about, seems like a recipe for fucking disaster. Again, he’s not yelling. His voice is monotone, it sounds dead, frankly, and you’re wondering if you would prefer him screaming, actually.

There’s a mantra, amongst first responders, that it’s better to hear screaming than silence, because then you know they have a pulse, they’re drawing breath, they’re able to feel. You can’t honestly tell, with Carmen.

Syd hands off a plate to expo, to Carmen. He calmly, quickly— And like, really quickly, barely more than a two second glance is given, to the dish, before he says, “Refire, Chef.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Not your business, not your restaurant, don’t overstep. But God, it hurts to watch the order hit Syd in the face, like a splash of cold water. She repeats, in disbelief. “Refire?” The dish looks fine to her— And it sure as fuck looks fine to you.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Why, exactly? Chef?”

Carmen does not look up from his system, he does not watch what is practically heartbreak, mortification, tempered anger, play out on Syd’s face. “Not perfect. Fire twenty, twenty-five— Two waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

“Heard!”

“Not perfect?”

He looks up, finally, at her. You can only see the back of his head, so you can’t tell the look. “Sauce is broken.” It’s definitely not. Well, at least to your untrained eye, it’s not. “We don’t serve what’s not perfect. Do we, Chef?” He slides the plate aside, deading it.

“Do you want your star, or not?” You don’t think he means to be antagonistic, or at least hope he doesn’t, but it really comes off that way. He rubs his chest, but his tone lack empathy.

Syd closes her eyes, taking a breath. She has so many words, for this man, but she holds her tongue. She does not rub her chest in return, she just restarts the dish. “Yes, Chef.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

There’s a lull in orders, for the moment, so you very gently place your hand on Carmen’s back, to make him aware of your presence. As gentle as you try to be, he still flinches. Anyone over his shoulder would make him flinch right now, but it’s you. “Oh—!”

Now, do you let out a small yelp, inadvertently, when he turns to look at you, and you see him as he is right now? Yeah, yeah you do.

“—Good to— Did you just scream, at the sight of me?”

Syd puts a hand over her mouth, heavy exhale of laughter still escaping through her nose. Schadenfreude.

Your mouth hangs open, for a second, squinting, goddammit, inside thought got outside, “…No?”

“What— What, I look bad?” He’s immediately looking over himself, trying to find the culprit. And though the emotion he’s feeling right now is insecurity, you feel relief that at the very least, the glow of anything is shining through him, right now.

Doesn’t make you a fan of the slicked-back hair look, though. That’s what made you yell— Like when a dog or a baby doesn’t recognize their parent. Like when Mikey shaved for the first time after you met him, and you considered him completely unrecognizable. You practically ignored him until some stubble came in. What did he expect?

You also just don’t like it. Clean-Shaved Mikey nor Hair-Gel Carmen. The pomade is overpowering your shampoo, and now he doesn’t smell like you. Doesn’t smell like him. His curls are all gone— Man, his pattern was just starting to revive, too. He looks just too clean, too cookie-cutter, too… Someone else. He just doesn’t look like— “No, Bear, you look good— I just— You look— Don’t look like the Carmy I’m used to, is all.”

Who are you to tell him what he looks like? You don’t know why, but the energy today is just making you feel like… You’re intruding, you’re stepping in on a space that has nothing to do with you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth, right?

He nods, compartmentalizing, only acknowledging that you’ve said he looks good. “You look nice.”

“I clean up.” You shrug, it gets a nearly imperceptible smile out of him. Hm. Where’d your Carmen go? He’s really making you work for it, tonight. You gesture to your painting, holding it by your knees. “Not here to disrupt, M’just gonna put this in your office, for later.”

“Painting?”

“Incredible guess.” Again, that smile and that exhale of laughter, thin. “Yes, it’s the piece— Wait ‘til close, to open it, please.”

He nods, when you start to walk off, he grabs your arm. “Ah, uh—” He lets go. “Can I, uh— I planned— I planned an off-menu main, for you, is that, that okay—”

“It would always be okay, yeah.” You nod, reassuring. It would be more than okay, if Carmen decided and designed every meal you ever had for the rest of your life, you think. “Trust you— With, with my taste buds.”

You’re not sure if it’s the right move, but you awkwardly step forward and kiss Carmen’s temple anyways— In his hairline. He seems to care a lot about appearances, right now, so you don’t want to get lip gloss on his forehead. Despite your quickness, there is still a very childish ‘ooooh’ reverberating throughout the kitchen. But he’s ignoring it, so you ignore it too. Carmen, more than anything, would like to reciprocate, but he’s running a kitchen, and he cannot let himself nor the crew get distracted. He nods, smile small, and turns back to his station.

“Waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

You don’t take it personally; the guy is busy, what can you do? You drop the painting off in his office, leaning it against the table for Carmen’s perusal after close— It’s not the kind of piece he should look at during his break— Who are you kidding, you saw him, he’s not taking a break tonight. God, he might hate this piece. What if he hates this piece? It’s a risk you have to take, it’s art. Hopefully the card will help smooth any questions over. You’re clearer over text, you think.

On your way out of the kitchen, you nod to Marcus and Tina. A sign of ‘Hey, I’m here, I know we can’t talk, but I’m here.’ They nod back. When you pass Sydney, you take a moment to squeeze her shoulder. That star thing was rough, but you don’t know enough about cooking to intervene— It’s not your place. Still feel for your girl, though. Awe, you’ve only just noticed, she’s wearing your collar pins. She puts her free hand over yours, squeezing it in return, just for a second. She doesn’t turn to face you, but the silent encouragement and sympathy is exchanged. She gets back to work, and you get back out to the front.

If there was time for it, you’d be her designated coach and cheerleader, find a motivational bookshelf to carry somewhere again and give a speech, but there’s not. So, this will have to do, for now.

Fak is absolutely bombing every step of this introduction, when you sit back down. The second-hand embarrassment is truly eating you alive, as he stumbles through today’s specials, which, you’re pretty sure is not the order these things happen in—

“Hey, uh, Neil, wasssit?” Richie scratches his nose, attempting to play the part of blind customer. “How ‘bout drinks first, bud?” He’s trying to keep a sympathetic attitude, which is making all of his pointers come off as extremely passive aggressive.

“Yeah, for sure, right, yeah— What’uh— What can— Drinks? Hey, hey you want? Drink?”

You cup a hand over your mouth, to block your mortified expression. “Yeah, yeah, Neil, I’ll just have a water.”

“Water!” Fak yells back, way too fucking emphatically, “I— I love water, that’s so crazy.”

“Jesus Christ.” Richie holds his face in his hands, elbows on the table. “I’ll get a fuckin’…” He lifts a hand to wave in the air, willy-nilly, still not looking up. “Chippy, name a wine.”

“Red?” Richie usually doesn’t have wine. It’s the rich man’s beer. But when he does, it’s red.

“Mhm.”

He’s probably gonna get steak, just go with a safe bet, “Cab Sav, for the gentleman, please.”

Fak writes it down, but seems bewildered and confused, staring at it. “You want a taxi?”

“Oh my god.” You and Richie are in unison. Two very different tones, though. You sound baffled, he sounds like he’s two seconds from lunging.

Which, isn’t an entirely unfair reaction, Fak has been training for this moment for a month. Rich thought he’d at least be ready to start with you. You’re the least intimidating person he knows, you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe that’s what makes it so difficult? That you’re too nice? Even still, Fak should at least know this, not choke as hard as he is, right now. It’s embarrassing for Richie, when his staff are flailing this bad, especially in front of the people he loves and admires.

Rich wrings his hands together, looking back up to you. “I fucking taught him this, just so y’know.”

You nod, looking to Fak. You’ve just gotta get him out of here, honestly. “Cabernet Sauvignon, baby— Just a glass, not a bottle. We’ll look over our menus, in the meantime, maybe?”

The sleeper agent line has been spoken, and the server autopilot in Fak’s brain finally turns on. “Right. I’ll just give you lovely two a second to look over your menus, alright, haha, be safe— Be back with your drinks, folks.”

The delivery may need a little work. Though you think his edits should probably start with the way he walks backwards, eye-contact unyielding, and almost trips as he pushes backwards into the kitchen door. That might be considered bad, to some.

“Trainwreck.” Richie presses his palms into his eyes. “M’fuckin’ sorry, Chippy, Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, leaning back in your seat. “I don’t see a problem, it’s dinner and a show, baby.”

Richie laughs, at that, after a few seconds of silence, he adds. “He’s not gonna fuckin’ last.”

“Probably not.” You shrug. “But it was worth a shot. N’ he’ll do in a pinch, if you’re ever short-staffed.”

“We are always short-staffed.” Richie grumbles. “Do fuckin’ servers ever actually stage? Need the free labour.”

“What the fuck is stage?”

“I honestly still don’t know.” You both laugh. “I fuckin’ did it and I still don’t know.”

“What have you been up to, besides uh, staging?” You finally open Pandora’s box.

Well, it’ll stay small talk for a little bit, to be fair, gotta warm up to the real stuff—

“Tif’s getting remarried.”

“—Oh, holy shit.”

He nods, looking aimlessly nowhere, certainly not your eyes. “Engaged, at least— Haven’t gotten a fuckin’ invite, or anythin’.”

“You think she’ll invite you?”

“She asked.” He closes his eyes, for a second. This has been hanging over his head, all day. “Called, this uh, this morning, cause of Cousin Vinnie n’ Mira—”

“She comin’ to that?” You’ve never actually met Tif. They were on the rocks when you’d come to The Beef, so it was mostly just waves through car windows, if anything. It might be better if it stays that way, you think.

He shakes his head, “Someone’s gotta take care of Eva, n’ she’s got work. But the invite made her think of my invite, and uh, if I’d want one, come when it may.”

These are the moments you wish you had a glass of water, so you could sip and do something with your mouth and hands, as you think of what to say. He continues, because he knows you’re going to ask, “Said I’d think about it.”

“I think it’s okay, if you don’t want to.” You lean forward, as a show of sympathy. “That’d be a fuckin’ lot, for anyone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but it’s uh, it’s— I’m good, Chip.” Richie leans back in his seat, swiping at his nose. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready, and you know that. He makes eye-contact, again, finally. “How’ve you been holdin’ up?”

You bite at your lip, alright, its fucking game time, this is what you’ve been prepping for, time to tell him everything you’ve been thinking about, for the past year, time to tell someone other than your former therapist what the fuck is in your head. “I—”

“Drinks! Hyah!” Fak busts through the door, far too boisterous. It scares a few patrons, and honestly you, a little bit. He returns to your table, pitcher and bottle of wine on a tray— Hey, it actually is a Cab Sav, he did it! Gotta celebrate the victories, here.

You can’t help but notice, as Fak pours your glass of water and attempts small talk, that he seems a bit more distressed than he did before he went in the kitchen. You crane your neck to peek through the window. Hm. Syd and Carmy are not where they were before. They’re talking. It doesn’t look like a fight, though. Let it lie. You’ve really got to let it lie, because Fak is in front of you, staring straight forward like he’s in a catatonic liminal state, not acknowledging either you or Richie with his gaze. A touch disconcerting, possibly.

“So, hey, you guys, you guys like food?”

Your lips form a line. “Fak, are you okay?”

“I’m great—” His voice cracks, oh dear. “Am I doing great?���

“You’re certainly trying—” “You’re fucking this up tremendously.” At least Richie is honest, and usually you are too, but, when it comes to a trainwreck, you’ve gotta tell the train they’re doing a great job. You just can’t bear to let it know it’s on fire.

When your glass of water starts to overflow, you take the pitcher from Fak’s hand so he can’t keep overpouring it in his fugue state. Jesus Christ, what happened in the kitchen? Who died? Actually, probably don’t joke about that.

It’s in within this moment that you learn a lot of things very quickly. First thing you learn, Sweeps is a server now, you guess. He’s in the suit, coming out of the kitchen, terrified, serving tray in hand, two champagne flutes wobble upon it. Second thing you learn, Sweeps is not a good server, or at the very least, isn’t right now, he’s too shell-shocked to keep any level of awareness of where he’s going. He bumps into Fak’s back. Third thing you learn, Richie has great reflexes, he catches the wine bottle from Fak’s tray. You have decent reflexes, managing to reach an arm out in time to keep Sweeps from entirely falling over and eating shit.  

You were however, not able to keep the champagne flutes from elegantly flying off of Sweep’s tray, and falling to the ground, shattering. Sonofabitch.

There’s a silence, then an overlapping chorus from the two distressed servers, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it—” That’s the fourth and last thing you’re able to clock immediately. These two know serving is not for them. They do best sweeping or fixing, not fucking talking to people. Breaking something and needing to clean it up is like a gift from God, to them, they’re genuinely fighting to be the one to clean it up. They end up tag-teaming it, as they feel Richie’s quiet glare burn into them. He’s gotten very good at silently laying down the law. They apologize, scramble to clean, hastily apologize, and rush back into the kitchen as soon as possible.

Fuck. It’s like Richie texted, Fak has shit the bed, and that almost certainly means your dinner is gonna get cut short. You’re not going to get the chance to tell him everything— Let alone anything you wanted to get out. You won’t get to apologize properly, and then he’ll head right back on his shift, and you’ll just be the kitchen’s friend that’s taking up a table. Fuck, you’ve got to try to stumble something of note out.

“I missed you, Rich.”

The man in question turns his head from looking through the kitchen window, back to you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I was here.” Could’ve visited.

“I know.” No, I couldn’t.

He nods. The unexchanged words are still understood between the both of you, somehow. You fiddle with your fingers, gearing up to just say your big speech, you practiced it in the car ride here, if you just cut it down to the key bullet points, you can probably get it all out.

“Richie, I’m sor—”

Once again, Fak interrupts, door swinging open, he looks extremely panicked this time, tripping over nothing, sweating like it’s a million degrees, looking to both of you, alright the kitchen situation seems to have escalated. It seems like he’s about to scream to you— But then remembers that there are guests other than you and Richie, in the front of house, and so he speed walks to your table.

Richie is the one to ask this time, “Are you fuckin’ good—?”

“Uh-uh.” Fak shakes his head, in repetitive, tight small swivels. His posture militantly straight, taught, eyes darting everywhere, like there’s spies lurking in the booths, watching him. He speaks through tight teeth, to hide his words from onlookers. “Bad. Bad bad.”

“Bad bad?” You repeat after him, waiting for him to lend any explanation to the subject, he doesn’t really.

“Need you.” He nods to Richie. Then nods to you. He looks… Disdainful? Remorseful, maybe. To be doing so. “You too. Bad.”

Richie looks to you, letting you make the call, here. You look at him and sigh, your plan has been utterly ruined, your speech— Dashed. He adds. “Intermission?”

There’s no way this is just going to be an intermission. “Intermission.”

You both stand, he takes his wine glass, then takes the bottle, a bit more realistic. You take your water. Cheers, and into the cesspool you go, abandoning your table, for what Richie hopes is for an interim, for what you both know is for the night.

The first thing you notice, Carmen’s not at expo. No one’s on expo, actually. Which feels like a problem. The second thing you notice is where Carmen actually is— In the walk-in— Not locked in, no, not this time. No, you notice he’s there because he’s yelling, better than zero pulse, but you still wince. All yelling makes you wince.

“Who was on veggie prep today?! What is this dice, Chefs!?” He storms out, large deli container of onions in his hand— He’s bringing it to his station— Which was Syd’s station, but he’s now co-opted it, seemingly, as she’s not there. However, in her stead, are five more containers of pre-diced veggies— You imagine Carmen brought those out, too. “We are not serving fucking sandwiches, anymore, Chefs—”

Carmen stops short of his aggression, when he sees you. You can’t tell if you like that. You’re pretty sure you don’t. What’s that stupid idiom? Mean to the world, good to your girl? Don’t like that. Don’t like two faces. Don’t like the shade on the old sandwiches— Mikey’s sandwiches, either.

Carmen doesn’t move to you, or anything like that though, no, he’s busy— With what exactly, you’re not sure. No fucking way he’s redoing all the prep right now, right? That would be insane. The dices are fine, and they can’t just waste food right now with their budget nor their time— Fucking Christ, he is actually redoing the prep and making Tina use the old for broth— Oh dear God.

The third thing you notice is where Syd really is, in lieu of her station. She’s having what looks like a panic attack with Sweeps by the ovens. Your legs move to her before your brain really registers anything else, and you can hear behind you that Richie has gone to Carmen and is handling expo. Fak did not need to tell either of you what your jobs needed to be back here, you just know.

“This is, this is just fucking great—” Syd heaves, holding onto the handle of the oven. Next to her, Sweeps is still in his hosting attire, but he’s mopping up water by Syd’s feet. There’s a tipped over mop bucket on the ground. He looks significantly more comfortable now, but still equally as distressed as the rest of the kitchen seems to be.

You put a hand on Syd’s shoulder, leaning down to her level. “Bubs, what’s going on? M’here.”

“Fucking everything is going on.” She starts to catch her breath; she brushes your hand away. You know it’s because she has sensory overload, it still kind of hurts, though. “Carmen’s fucking freaking…”

“No shit.” You step aside and lift your left foot, when Sweeps needs to mop by your feet. “Why, though?”

“On our opening night, he had a fuckin’— Episode, I dunno.” She’s still keeled over, hands on her knees, but she’s breathing. “N’ he had this like— Like saw this guy, who wasn’t actually there. Out—” She nods her head to the window to the front of house. She stands up, again. “Out there.”

“His, his old Executive— Chef.”

“Oh.”

The night terrors. The oven. The fire. The wanting it to happen, even just a little bit. The man who’s in his head, talking to Carmen, every night. The man he saw on his opening night, apparently. Your poor Carmen.

“Yeah, yeah he was like— Apparently kind of a dick—” Understatement of the century. “But like, so is he.” Syd nods to Carmen. You can’t completely deny that. You wish you could. “Anyways, he called.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I fucking know.” She nods, emphatic. She then realizes that this story is going to take a second, and gestures to the oven behind her. “This won’t turn on, spilt water on it.”

“Oh.” You take a beat, then remember this is what your job is, “Oh!” You feel around the pockets of your pants. Should’ve expected to bring a screwdriver, at the very least, it’s The Bear. Get with the program. The tools are in your car, to be fair, but for a quick simple check-up—

You call out, “Yo, Fak—” “Yes?”

You jump, he’s standing a mere inch behind and adjacent from you. You hold your heart, stepping back from him, just a touch. “…Do you… Have a screwdriver?”

Neil leans back, like he’s tough, like he’s sizing you up. “Something broken?”

“Tryin’ to figure that out.”

“Cause you’re a repairman.”

“Cause I’m a repairman, yeah.”

“You got a degree?”

“Just give her the fucking screwdriver!” Syd yells before you can answer. Fak begrudgingly and with a lethargic show, hands you the screwdriver from his chest pocket.

Jealous, is he? Oh, that’s cute. That’s very cute. He’s the one that said he wanted to host— Whatever, no time to tease or bicker, you’re pulling the oven out, trying to lift as much as possible with Syd’s help, to keep from scrapping tile, but it’s inevitable.

You kneel down, taking the screws out the back, “So Exec dude, he called?”

“Uh-huh.” Syd focuses on her pan on the oven next to you— Thankfully that one did not get fucked in the crossfire— so they’re short but not fucked, just yet, at least. “Called Carmen, said he’d heard about the opening— That he wants to come try the place.”

“Right, but he’s from New York, isn’t he, you’ve got time—”

“He already took a flight here; he’ll be here in thirty.”

“Oh, my fucking God.”

“I fucking know.” Everything is going on. It’s all starting to make a lot more sense now. The kitchen’s general distress, Fak and Sweeps dropping shit from anxiety but also an inadvertent way to guarantee Richie does not table them with the fucking guy, Carmen’s sudden paranoia over someone noticing a decimal less than perfect dice— Because he would, he will.

The man in Carmen’s head that’s been torturing him has at the very least been confined to his head. And now he will be materializing, before his family, to dress him down at any opportunity, in thirty fucking minutes. Oh, your poor Carmen…

“And this guy—He’s like, like fucking big, if he likes the food— Likes The Bear— We might end up getting an inspector, in here.”

You lean out from the back of the oven, practically being swallowed by it. Confused. “Getting an inspector is a good thing?” To your knowledge, inspectors are what shuts down restaurants.

“A Michelin Guide Inspector.” Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, I fucking know!” Syd replies, emphatic, Richie calls out an order to her, from expo. She clears her throat. “Heard, Chef.”

A Michelin Guide Inspector. What’s that mean? Well, if you’re thinking correctly, it means a star. It means accolades. It means recognition. It means money. It means 800k. It means not going under. It means clawing their way back out of the woods. It means everything. Oh, fuck.

“So, anyways—” Syd sautés, violently. “Carmen fuckin’ finishes that call, storms out the office, and like demands shit to be perfect— Which like— Like it should be, I know, but like— Tellin’ me to fuckin’ mop already perfectly clean floors, is like, like fucking stupid— Especially when I’m fucking cooking here, like what?”

It’s amid this retelling, as you stand, that you notice Syd’s hand— The left one, the one on the pan’s handle, is bleeding, two of her fingers, cut. “And I— I fucked up, like, like I know I did. I dropped the mop bucket, n’— n’ now my fucking oven won’t turn on.”

You take her hand, she tries to rip it away, you don’t let her. “I cut it on the edge of the bucket, stupid sharp plastic, I’m good—”

“Lemme just bandage it.” You’re already fishing through your pocket, with your free hand.

She’s quick to shake her head. “You need to figure out how I fucked up the oven.”

“I already know what’s wrong with the oven.” You pull out your wallet, flitting through the bill fold with your fingers— You keep band-aids there, in case of emergency, because of course you do. Syd tries to tug her hand away, again. Her blood is rubbing onto your fingers. It’s not a big cut, but it’s enough. You can’t help remember the ye old days of you as teens, hearing about the concept of blood brothers for the first time, and genuinely considering going through with it. Funny what time does. Funny who it brings back.

“Then fix the oven.”

You mumble, tearing the paper open with your teeth. “This first.”

“I’m fucking good, Tony.”

“Don’t bark at me.”

She grimaces when she notices they’re children’s band-aids, with goofy little cartoon heroes on them. “I don’t fucking need—”

“Sydney, I love you.” There is no subtext, behind it. You look her in the eyes, stern. Tone inarguable. It catches the words in her throat, and keeps them there.

“Will you let me?”

She shuts her eyes, tight, for a second, and just looks away, hand going limp in your grip. Which means okay, I love you, too. She does not need to say it. You wrap two band-aids, one around each finger that got cut, and let her go.

Syd takes a second, to look at it. She looks at you.

“The Miles Morales feels racially targeted.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.” You point at her, you both break into laughter. Richie barks out another slew of numbers and orders, and it’s like getting caught talking in class. She goes back to her cast-iron, you start walking off to Rich. From behind you she mumbles.

“Love you, Inky.” Oh my God. Chippy’s a flashback, Inky is like a history textbook.

“Love ya, Squid.”

At expo, Richie’s sweating, he turns to you, and you speak at once.

“Carmy give you the run down?” — “Syd tell you the bullshit?”

You both nod. You’re first to ask, “Fuck dinner?”

“Raincheck. Let’s say.” He shrugs. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t need to be.” You nod to the oven. “Thermocouple in your oven’s broke. I have backups in my car.”

“You have backups in your fucking car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of the one hyper-specific part we need?”

“Yeah, the timing is crazy—” “Ey, when’d you get a fucking car, Cousin?” Richie realizes a discrepancy he simply always forgot to ask about for the past few weeks.

“Early this year. It’s a piece of shit. It works.”

He nods. “Hands!” Fak, swings by you, grabbing the plate from Richie, “Got this!”

Richie nods, smiling, very clearly fake, turning his head to watch Fak walk all the way out and have the door swing shut behind him. When he’s sure Fak can’t hear him, his head snaps right back to you. “We cannot let any of my fuckin’ staff near the fuckin’ big shot.”

It’s honestly nice that dinner is over, despite how bad you wanted to talk because now it’s this. Now it’s nostalgic. Now it’s comfortable— Distressing— But it’s you two, again. You nod. “So you’re gonna run expo and serve him at the same time?”

“What, you think I can’t?”

No, you don’t. “Of course you can, you’re Richie Jero—Uh, whatever the fuck.” You’re already walking to the back door to grab your tools.

“Jerimovich, Chippy! Not that fuckin’ hard!”

You should put oven expert on your business cards, when you eventually get to making new business cards. This is like, the third oven fix you’ve done in two weeks? And you just changed a thermocouple a few days ago! It takes you maybe five minutes tops, to switch the old wire for the good one.

When you push the stove back against the wall and test the burners— It works, thank God. You might’ve hyped yourself up a little too much before even checking that. Once you do, though, before even saying it’s fixed, Syd violently shakes your left shoulder, as a point of approval. Tina, on your right, slaps you on the back several times as her vow of praise, too. This is like riding a roller-coaster, and not in a good way.  

But it ends soon, as they’ve got to get right back to work, since Richie calls out—

“Guys fuckin’ here!” That’s like, ten minutes early, bullshit— “He brought a party of five—” Are you fucking kidding— “Booth Twelve— When I say booth twelve, don’t fuck up booth twelve, a’right, Chefs?”

“Heard!”

Where’s Carmen, right now? You look around— He’s at his station, on the final part of the line. He’s simultaneously making a dish completely on his own and doing the final touches on plates before they get sent out. Alright, okay, so maybe it’s best expo doesn’t get foisted on him, right now. But fuck, how is Richie gonna serve five and run this fucking kitchen?

Tina claps your back again, bringing you out of your state of worry. “Baby.”

“Yeah, T?” She turns your attention to a big pot of stock, on the burners that now work, thanks to you.

“Can you just stir this, f’me, for just a minute? Make sure the—”

“I’ll get the brown off the bottom yeah.”

She slaps your cheek, approving, “That’s my baby.”

And so, you stir. It’s an easy job, it just takes time— Time this kitchen doesn’t have, time you’re happy to give. Tina rushes over and takes over expo, while Richie moves out to take in stupid fucking booth twelve.

This kitchen is dysfunctional, the constant switches of expo require everyone to find a new rhythm, every time, and T needs to play catch up. Tina, Carmen, and Richie run expo just a touch differently from each other, since it’s a pretty cookie cutter job— But those minute differences change a lot. The tempo and tonal switches throw everyone off just slightly. They’re small mistakes, like a poor aesthetic sauce splatter, like Syd cutting her hand, like Marcus fucking up his saffron placement like five times in a row— It takes seconds off, it takes time. Time you do not have.

But what can you do? It’s all hands-on deck. Except for Fak’s hands. Get that man a water and a corner to sit in. He needs a second. So does the rest of this kitchen.

When Richie comes back in, it’s with a whine, he’s already so tired of this stupid fucking Michelin Exec. “—Wants to see a fuckin’ wine menu, do we have a fuckin’ wine menu?”

“No, Chef!” Syd and Carmen both chant out from other sides of the kitchen. Your ears perk up. They could’ve just asked you to make one, you would’ve. But, guess you don’t work here, technically.

Richie grimaces, “I know fuck all, bout wine.” He takes a swig of the red wine he left sitting on the expo podium. “Tastes fuckin’— Red, I dunno.”

Finally, something you can actually help with, in a critical way— Well, you just fixed an oven, but that doesn’t count, in your head. Most things you do don’t count, in your head. “T! Switch!” You whistle to her, and though she doesn’t love being ordered around, you’re already walking away from the pot, so you don’t really give her a choice.

“Rich, let me take it.”

Richie looks at you like you’ve grown two heads, but also, he finds those two heads very amusing. “Chippy...”

“I fucking know wine. I tend. I’m personable, I—”

“You don’t know how to kiss ass.”

“But I could.” You’re already peeling off Carmen’s jacket— Hey, thank God you dressed on theme, right? This could absolutely be a server’s fit. “Under duress.”

If it were up to Richie, you would already be out there. But his name is not on The Bear, as much as he’d like it to be. He looks to Carmen, who’s been staring at the both of you this entire interaction. Which is kind of concerning, he should probably be focusing on his three-quarter dice or he might to chop his fucking fingers off. No, he’s wouldn’t. He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

Carmen looks from Richie, who’s silently asking him for permission, to you. “Y’sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod, tucking his jacket under the expo podium. You don’t catch the way his face hardens, just a bit— Because you turn your gaze to Richie. “I’ll just do the drinks part, like an actual somme— Warm him up, f’you, when he’s ready to order. Let you stay on expo, longer.”

Richie rocks his head back and forth, considering it. You tack on, “I’m stage— What the fuck did you call it?”

“Staging.” Carmen answers.

“That one.”

Carmen stares at his cutting board, thinking and working, working and thinking. He does not look up at you, when he makes his decision. He just nods, “Okay.”

You nod back, happy. You don’t wait for him to change his mind. You take one quick overview of their wine rack, noting what they do and don’t have, and then you’re off, out the door, to the front of house, to a warzone.

The motherfucker at Booth Twelve sticks out like a sore thumb. There’s something about the aura he radiates, that tells you immediately that it’s him, despite not knowing his face or name. Bet it’s fucking Tony, somehow.

He’s doing his best to peer into the kitchen window without being obvious about it, which, he’s currently failing at that. Richie sat his party in a good booth, it’s just the worst booth for a good view of the kitchen. Smart. This guy is an asshole, and it’s clear from his stupid equally punchable looking friends, that he’s doing all of this on purpose.

The big party, unexpected. The him, unexpected. The asking for a wine menu. He wants you all off guard, he wants Carmen off-guard, he wants Carmen’s breath to hitch, he wants Carmen to sweat, and most importantly, he wants to watch.

You stand in front of his view, on purpose. “Hi, pleasure to serve you lovely people tonight, I’m—” No shot you’re giving this guy your real name. “—Jack, I’m your sommelier. I heard you wanted to look over a wine menu?”

“Yes,” His voice is just as stupid as you expected it to be. This is the fucking voice Carmen hears? God, lock it in, bite your tongue. “And I see you are not holding one.”

“Well, actually, we don’t carry a wine menu because we at The Bear believe in a personally curated dining experience.” You don’t miss a beat, you don’t hitch, he hates this and you can tell. “I like to think that I’m your wine menu, flip through me at your leisure.”

Your eyes crinkle, as you do an expert customer service smile. This stupid fucking table laughs at the lukewarm joke, he just smirks, because rich men don’t have time for laughter. So, their cronies do it for them.

“Well then,” He gestures his hand, giving you the floor. “What’s the menu?”

“Ah, well, was there anything on the main menu that caught your eye, so I can best pair you?”

“Hmm…” There’s a glint in his eye, and you know you’ve just expertly set him up to say ‘No.’ And then you’ll have no fucking comeback. You’ll probably throw up on the table, fuck fuck fuck— “Yes, actually.”

Oh, thank God. “The Wagyu steak with wild mushrooms and hazelnut-gruyere croquettes?”

Oh, that’s the one Carmen made for you, weeks back, you know that one. “Ah, one of my personal favourites. I’d recommend a young Pinot Grigio, maybe a 2006 Gravner?” How the fuck did you remember that? Doesn’t matter. What matters is this motherfucker is not getting under your skin.

“And what about the braised oxtail wellington?” The hot pocket, he means. You’ve had that, too.

“We have a fantastic Barolo Brunate to pair with that, Giuseppe Rinaldi 2019.” You have no idea if it’s fantastic. Who fucking cares. It’s expensive, you know that much. You only bothered to review the top rack.

“Lot of Italian vineyards.” A woman next to him comments.

“Well, we are Italian owned, so.”

It does not end there. No, why would it? No, he and his compatriots go about naming every single fucking thing on the menu, asking you to pair it. And not to toot your own horn too much, but this is, really, the one job you feel the most trained to do. All those games with Syd, all those men at Eden’s, all the parts and tools and forty different types of wrenches you have to keep track of and memorized as a repairman— Your brain is trained for this. This isn’t easy for you, sure— But you are maybe more equipped for this than any other person you could possibly think of. Good think you don’t have to think of people, you have to think of wines.

Once you survive the gauntlet, his ‘friends’ order their actual wines— Each by the bottle. Alcoholism in the food world is crazy. Also, how are you going to carry four to five full bottles here? Dear God. Whatever, you’ll live, and make insane bank— Or, The Bear, will, rather. That’s like a thousand on wine alone. When you get to Him, he puts his menu down and sighs, it’s very clearly fake.

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I’d want for nothing more.” You’d want for a lot more; actually, you’d want for him to shut the fuck up. But this is kind of a good thing. They’ve wasted a solid ten minutes just talking wine— Giving the kitchen ample time to catch up. This guy just shot himself in the foot with the sweat plan.

“This is a fine menu, but as you said, The Bear believes in a personally curated experience.” Fuck. “I don’t know if you know this, but I have a very personal relationship with the owner.” Fuck. “Would you hate me, if I asked for you to… Surprise me?”

He doesn’t need to ask for a surprise for you to hate him, is what you want to say, but instead you just smile, appeasing, kissing ass. You hate yourself just a bit for it. “I’ll see what we can do, sir. And so, you’d like a surprise wine, as well then?”

He does a customer service smile right back. You’re both passively cursing the other. “If that’s no trouble. Oh—” He tilts his head, cocky attitude really coming to a head now, “And budget isn’t a problem. Just the best.”

“I couldn’t imagine giving anything less, sir.” Another coy smile from you, before bowing and leaving their table. Your tight shoulders fall as soon as you walk back into the kitchen.

“I want him dead.”

“Agreed. Temp check?” Richie hums flitting through his notes, “We’ve got five steaks all day, Chefs, kill two. Fire now, Chefs.”

“Yes, Chef!”

You sidle up next to Rich, “They’re trying to make us sweat with quizzes. Just know your shit and they won’t be able to touch you.”

“Heard.”

“They ordered like five fucking bottles of wine.”

“Christ.” He turns to you, at that. “You upsell?”

“Didn’t have to. Named the most expensive bottles and they didn’t give it a second thought.”

He daps you up, it is difficult to hide your pride. “That’s my fuckin’ Chippy!”

You quell your smirk to the best of your abilities, especially since it isn’t all good news, “I think they’re ready to order, one problem, though.”

“Problem?” That’s when Carmen tunes in. He hands a finished plate to Richie, who hands it off to Sweeps, who begrudgingly heads out to deliver. “What’s the problem?”

“He says he wants to be surprised.”

“Like fucking Ratatouille?”

Carmen squints at Richie, for this, incredulous. You cannot back up your man, in this case, fully on Richie’s side. “Don’t act like you didn’t fuck with Ratatouille.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t see it?!” Carmen’s always liked it, when the two of you speak in unison. Carmen hates it, when you and Richie speak in unison. “You’d love it, Carm.”

Any other time, he’d love to entertain you, on this, but he can’t. It makes you both feel very cold, when he brushes past the idea. “I’ll think’ve something.”

You nod, already moving to the wine cooler, sorting out bottles. “You have time, I’ll stretch out serving them—Richie, help me bring out bottles? Take their orders? Two birds, one stone?”

“It’s bullet.” “It’s not.”

The wine pouring is nothing to write home about.

“Don’t mind us tag-teaming, didn’t want anyone to feel left out for a minute!”

But is definitely a weird vibe, when you and Richie serve this table. You’re both equally personable— Though, going as fast as you can without making them feel rushed. Richie needs to get back on expo A-S-A-P.

Despite the fact that both of you are just as nice as the other… This fucking guy is absolutely giving Richie more attitude, in comparison to you. You have a feeling the only reason he didn’t shut you down earlier with the menu is because you’re a hostess. Yeuch. Gross man senses are tingling, but maybe it’s just you.

Richie whispers to you, when you’re walking back to the kitchen, “He’s a fuckin’ creep, eh?”

Okay, not just you. You know it’s bad when another man notices it. “Yep.”

Whatever. Use it to your advantage, in this case, if possible. Not like you have anything to worry about, just about everyone in the kitchen would jump him for you, upon request.

Would Carmen?

It’s a weird thought to have, but it’s a thought you can’t seem to stop yourself from having. Would Carmen choose your safety and comfort, over the chance to get a chance to get a star? …He would, right? He’d choose you, right?

“M’sorry for derailin’ dinner with our bullshit, Chip.”

The door swings open, Richie lets you in first. “You kidding? No where I’d rather be, than in your bullshit.”

Maybe this is better, than any apology you were planning to give. Better that you show with your actions, that you’re both actually back. That it’s you two, again. That you’re not going anywhere, this time. That even if you did leave, Richie’s gotta know, with a certainty, you’d rather be here.

Richie smiles, and you think you’re right. While he’s shouting out Booth Twelve’s orders, Carmen hands a plate to expo. You tilt your head, curious. He slides a folded-up card, with it. You don’t recognize the plate at all from the menu.

“S’yours.” Is his simple answer, already getting to work on Booth Twelve. He’s scribbling down notes and quick sketches of what surprise dish to make for the Exec. On the front of the card, it says ‘won’t have time to do it myself’, alongside a smiley face, for levity.

You open the card, flitting vision between the dish, the note, and Carmen. Digesting the recipe he’s written for you and your eyes, only. He knew he wouldn’t have time to explain it verbally, so he wrote it down for you. You could throw up, honestly.

This is, the sweetest, most thoughtful, most complex thing, anyone has ever made for you.

You have done your damndest, to almost never be the one to instigate a kiss, not a real one, with Carmen, because he asked for distance, so you try to give it. But right now, more than anything, you’d like to assail this man to the floor right now with your affections.

But you can’t. Because he’s busy, and he needs this, not you. Carmen needs this to go well. He needs this guy to like the food, he needs the inspector to like the food, he needs a star. Fuck, even without the prospect of an inspector looming over him— He needs to prove the man in his head wrong. There is no time for any of the love you have to give.

…Did you just think love?

Gotta table this, for now…

“Thank you, Carmy.” His movements relax, when you say it. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t pivot to you and confess some long-standing prose of love, but he nods, and his shoulders untense. That’s practically the same thing.

His phone, laying on the expo podium, rings. Sug. You furrow your brows. “Carmen.”

“Hm?” He’s tense, and still not himself, but he sounds so sweet, when he hums.

“Nat’s calling.”

“Let it go to voicemail.”

“She’d know you’re working, right now.”

“She’s got mom brain.”

“Mom brains’ aren’t dumb.” You frown, a touch worried. Always doting, aren’t you. “Could be an emergency.”

Carmen wants to say it’s not a big deal. That there’s bigger fish to fry. That if he fucks this dinner up, it could mean Nat won’t have a job to come back to. That with all the love in the world, he does not have time for this, right now. And then he thinks of his brother, and suddenly he has time for this, right now. He picks up his notepad and pen, he can work anywhere, it doesn’t need to be at his station. “Give me.”

He takes the phone, shouting to his crew, “Taking two minutes, Chefs!”

There’s a half-second of complaints before a resounding, “Heard!”

Carmy points to you, as he walks to his office, “Eat.”

“I will.” You nod, and lie.

You won’t be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you.

You already made your decision, when you saw the plate. When you read the note. When you saw the frantic scribbles at Carmen’s station, loose pieces of paper everywhere, all crumpled. He can’t come up with shit for the man in his head. You already made your decision, when the four other plates showed up on expo for his table, and all that’s left is the surprise dish, for The Man.

You will not be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you. The man out front, the man in Carmen’s head, will.

Carmen needs this.

Your heart just short of breaks, when you put it on the serving tray, handing it off to Richie. “What’s this one?” He asks, not knowing, not having paid attention. He would’ve refused, if he did.

Syd was, though. She looks like a puppy watching another puppy get kicked. You swallow the feeling down, ignoring her stare. You don’t need to reread the card, it’ll stick in your head, for the rest of your life.

“Lamb saddle, roasted, pink. Aigre-doux eggplant, means sour sweet sauce, with lamb confit, fresh spring garlic, Montmorency sauce— It’s a dark red cherry sauce, topped with cherries and baby basil.”

You wouldn’t know any of the French terms, if they weren’t defined for you in the margins. There’s a parenthetical, next to the lamb— Mentioning that it’s roasted, explaining why saddle is a superior cut of lamb, noting why it’s best served pink— Mentioning that it’s similar to pork. Your favourite. There’re exclamation points next to the cherry additions, because it’s your favourite Italian ice flavour. They need to be emphasized, in the recipe. There’s another parenthetical, next to baby basil, ‘(yours)’. It’s your basil, from your balcony to his, now to his kitchen, now to your plate.

In spades, this is the best gift anyone has ever made you, and you watch it leave, through the swinging door. You can’t stop your expression from twitching, falling into a frown. Your heart sits heavy in your throat. When Syd silently stands next to you, taking over for Richie on expo, she returns your tiny container of Tums. You take one, eyes distant, looking at the kitchen, Carmen’s kitchen, biting down on the antacid.

Cherry.

This isn’t sad. It’s just a plate. It’s literally just a plate. Carmen can make it again. Carmen can make it a million times over again. So why does it sting like this? Why does it carve its way into the pit of your stomach? That was yours. Carmen— Carmen’s plate was yours, and you had to give it up. You want nothing more than to rip the dish from the stupid fucking Exec’s greedy fucking hands, take it for yourself, eat it whole, in one bite— Decree that he can’t fuck with Carmen anymore, that he holds no ownership anymore, that he is not the be all end all, that he is not the gavel and the sound block.

But he is. It hurts, because he is. Carmen is still under him, and so, you, being by his side, are under him too. You know you made the right call, giving the plate up, but the meaning behind it all hurts insurmountably.

Syd takes your hand; the wrinkles of her band-aids are a nice texture to return to. You appreciate that she’s comforting you, but you can’t help but notice, “Uh, uhm, let’s fire table twenty-five, twenty-eight, and— And fuck, twelve, Chefs.” She’s not great at the whole expo thing. She’s fast as a cook, she’s slow as a speaker.

You take a look over the book on the table, and bump her aside with your hip.

“Chefs, I’m gonna need ‘ya to fire six fish all day— ‘kay?”

“Heard, Chef?” The crowd is confused but they’re not gonna stop you.

“Good, good.” You note the dead plate by you, “This asparagus is fuckin’ dead can I get hands on flashing it, please, Chefs?”

“Yes, Chef!”

Syd eyes you, on the sidelines, perplexed. You shrug, “You and Carmen are not the first people that tried to get this fuckin’ kitchen in order, check yourself.”

You didn’t do all the French bullshit, but some days at The Beef definitely ran better when they had a former Lead EMT barking at them— With love, though. Always with love. Syd just laughs, shaking her head. It’s a delight, to always be learning new things about you. How overarching your handful of talents are. You really are a Jack of All Trades.

You run things a little differently than a typical actual expo would. But sometimes, that’s kind of a good thing.

“Baby, where are we at with table twenty?!”

“T,” You say names, instead of Chef, more often than not, “If you yell at me like that, I will, what—?” Your call and responses, are a bit different. “Start crying, yes, thank you, Chef. Table twenty’s plated, we’re just waiting on placement from Syd, take your time but not too much, babe.”

“Heard!”

Levity, temperature, ease. It’s what you bring to the table, in everything you do. And sometimes, yeah, that’s not what you need. But right now, that’s everything this kitchen needs.

When Richie eventually comes back, handling front of house almost entirely by himself, he’s relieved to see you on expo, and the kitchen functioning, but he seems a little thrown. Off his rhythm.

You put a hand on his shoulder, as he stands next to you. “You good, Cousin?”

He sighs, he’s not good. “M’good, Chip.”

“Can I get an all-day on pasta, Chef?” Marcus’ voice doesn’t really occur to you, in the background, right now. You’re all about Richie.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothin…” He kisses his teeth, “S’just, man’s a real piece of work— N’ I can’t— Can’t give it back to him.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just, just kinda… Made fun ‘a—” Richie pauses, clearing his throat. “He made fun of my voice. To his fuckin’ friends. Called me unprofessional, said the suit’s prol— Probably a knock-off— Which, it is, but—”

“Chef, pasta?”

“One second, Marcus!” You call out, quick, not taking your eyes off Richie. You hate to hear him attempting to switch, all the syllables fit uncomfortably in his mouth. You frown. “He’s an asshole. Don’t listen to ‘em. You should bite back a little, I think.”

Richie hums, arms crossing, guarding himself. He sighs, finally voicing the worry. Son of a bitch, this guy’s in Richie’s head now, too. “…D’you take me serious, Cousin?”

You soften, while simultaneously growing so angry, at how quickly Richie’s become demoralized, “Richie— Cousin, of course I take you seriously.”

The moment is cut short, however, by a reasonably frustrated Marcus, at his limit. “Tony, all-day pasta, shit, c’mon!”

About a minute or two earlier, Carmen went into his office to take a call. He’s still jotting down notes, trying to come up with a recipe, not knowing the effort is meaningless now.

“Everything alright, Sug?”

“Hm? Yeah, everything’s good, I just wanted to call ‘stead of text ‘cause my hands are full of baby.” He told you so, not an emergency. “You guys busy?”

“Yeah, actually, s’maybe I’ll call you back, after?”

“Sure, sure, yeah, I just wanted to let you know I didn’t get Tony’s invoice.”

He pauses, no longer writing. “What’d’you mean you didn’t get her invoice?”

“She said you took care of it.”

“She told me you took care of it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, as Natalie thinks, trying to recount. “Well, maybe I’ve just got mom brain, but I swear she told me you covered it, thought I wrote it down…”

“Yeah, you did.” Carmen flits through the folder he was looking at yesterday, finding her sticky note. “You wrote down to ask me for her invoice.”

“Yeah, so I could get a copy for our records. Maybe I just got mixed up and left it somewhere— Just double check before you ask her for it again, I like her, Carmy, I don’t want her to think we’re unprofessional.”

“We are unprofessional.” And you like them anyways. He pops open the desk drawer, flitting through folders, most of them labeled ‘stuff’ ‘shit’ ‘bullshit’ ‘bullshit stuff’. Carmen loves his brother but sometimes he curses the fucking sky. There’s every chance Sug slipped your invoice into one of these by mistake.

“Yeah, but I don’t want her to know that.” Carmen can hear little baby Michaela murmuring on the other end of the phone. “Tell her to come see the baby, by the way.”

“I will. I’m plannin’ on it.” After dinner. Maybe when he opens up your painting and he forces you to tell him ad nauseum what you thought of the cherry and lamb dish. Your dish. That shit is never getting put on the menu, no. It’s a lot easier to think of plates when they’re for you, it’s fucking impossible to come up with a dish for his old Head Chef— He really needs to get back out there, actually, he’s out of thinking time, he just has to throw shit at the wall.

But then he sees a folder he’d never paid attention to, before. ‘ICE Chip’s’. Another one of Mikey’s extremely confusingly titles. Carmen always figured it’d been a weird way of naming a folder meant for bulk orders of ice for drinks or for the walk in— But now, Carmen knows better, Carmen knows you. No harm in looking, right? He’ll take a quick peak, see it’s actually for ice, and then he’ll go back out there, rip his hair out, and put it on a plate for the fucking man out front that talked to him during his entire morning routine, today.

Except there’s not invoices for ice, in this folder.

“I’ve been reading her Frog and Toad, almost every night, by the way, Mickey loves it.”

No, it’s you, in this folder. Carmen wants to throw up. He’s being dramatic, he needs to relax, the blood in his veins is freezing and boiling at the same time.

And maybe if Carmen's day had started off a bit better, if he was acting like himself today, and not the man in his head, in his restaurant— Maybe he'd be a little more reasonable, right now. Maybe if he ate family earlier, instead of skipping it to re-tape all the containers in the walk-in, he'd feel a little more forgiving. If he wasn't so tired, if he wasn't so hungry, if he wasn't shaking off a minute cold he got from walking to your house past midnight, a few days ago, he'd be a bit less inclined to spiral.

But there’s a handful of film photos with the two of you— Just the two of you— Richie’s in one or two, but it’s mostly just you and Michael. His arm, over your shoulder, in again, most of them. Mikey looks non-plussed in half of them. You’re always holding some sort of cupcake or cake, in all of them, and there’s always a numbered candle, being blown out. There’re a couple different times there’s a One candle, a few Twos, only one Three.

You knew Mikey for two to three years, didn’t you? Anniversary photos?

Carmen is going to fucking throw up. Why are there multiple ones? One week-iversary? One month-iversary? He has never imagined his brother to be some fucking sap sentimentalist, and it’s making his skin crawl. You dated his fucking brother? He is just a fucking gap filler, he is.

There has got to be another reasonable explanation, for this. You wouldn’t do this to him— Someone would’ve said something to him— Richie would’ve at the very least made some sort of stupid fucking derogatory comment about him getting sloppy seconds— There is no fucking way you dated his fucking brother—

‘I’m with you Bear!!’

‘Just one more, Mikey’

‘love you’

Sticky notes. Your handwriting. There are sticky notes with your handwriting in this forsaken fucking folder. Telling Mikey you love him, and to keep going— You called him Bear. That makes sense, everyone calls all three of the kids Bear— But that was— You— He needs to throw up. It cannot stay in his throat; he cannot let this stay in his throat— ‘We go under together’ — And yet he cannot stop reading them. ‘Same team.’

Same team. You’re on the same team. With his brother. Isn’t that fucking sweet. Isn’t that just adorable. Isn’t the fucking photo booth strip of you two, clearly taken after seeing a movie, fucking precious?

The last thing in this folder is the nail in the coffin, the knife in the hand. Paperwork. Not an invoice, no. Not the fucking thing he was looking for. No. An old agreement form.

A joint bank account. Wells Fargo. Signed by both of you. Photo IDs photocopied, side by side on a black and white piece of paper, stapled onto the end. This feels more intimate than any piece of paperwork that has ever existed. Even a fucking marriage certificate can’t hold a candle to this. You had a joint bank account with a fucking two-bit junkie—

You fucking trusted him with your credit score— You loved Mikey enough to ruin your life— You wanted to go under together. That’s what you fucking wrote, isn’t it?

Every fear Carmen ever had is more than affirmed. He is here to fill a void, he’s here because his brother isn’t. He is nothing but a series of stories his brother has told you, to you. Nothing but another Berzatto man that you desperately try to rehabilitate and fix and inevitably fail with, because they’re all fucking hopeless, before moving onto the next.

He doesn’t even need to kill himself, this time, no— You’ll realize he’s a lost fucking cause when you realize he’s nothing like his brother, when you find out he’s sharp and rendered, that even if he was a good person, he’s still him, and that’s a rot that not even you can fix— You’ll leave him unfinished like all the projects in the corners of your apartment. Because that’s what he is, to you, a project, something to fix. He’s like all your other jobs. He’s a job. Just another distressed restauranteur. Nothing but a fucking replaceable part, that you’ve got ten more spares for in your car.

Carmen doesn’t need to be fixed— He’s perfectly fine the way he is— He was fucking great before you showed up, actually— No, he wasn’t happy, but he was talented, and he wasn’t so brain-dead that he’d fuck up a basic meal thinking of you, he wasn’t so stupid that he’d speak out of turn and call you pretty, he wouldn’t have gotten a cold walking to your house in the winter, he would’ve just taken a hot shower until it hurt, without you— Carmen was— is— A Two Michelin Star chef, he’s fucking great without his brother— He runs The Bear without him just fine, he did everything without his fucking brother just fine, it didn’t hurt when Mikey stopped picking up the phone, Carmen doesn’t need his fucking brother, so he certainly doesn’t need you.

“Carmen?” His sister is still on the phone. Waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to entertain the idea of being a good uncle. He doesn’t need his sister, either. He hangs up without as much as a simple ‘bye’.

He hears Marcus, yelling for an all-day, yelling Tony. Even still Carmen’s expecting Richie’s voice to reply, but instead, it’s yours that reverberates in past the office door.

“Aye, Marcus! We’ve got three alfredo, two cannoli, one gnocchi, okay, sweets? Same team, right?”

“Same team, Chef.”

Oh, so it’s a fucking Beef thing, too? That’s so fucking cute. It’s so cute, how you’re everywhere, in everything. It’s so goddamn tender how he finds you carved into tables, finds you in filing cabinets, finds you under his booths, finds you in his walk-in, finds you in his shower caddy each morning, finds you on his balcony in a plant pot, finds you in his fridge in a spray bottle, finds you with Syd, finds you with Richie, finds you with Tina, Marcus, Jimmy, Mikey.

So cute. So fucking cute, that he’s gonna see you out there, running his kitchen, fixing everything you deem wrong with him.

Carmen Berzatto doesn't need anyone to ruin his own life except for him. He'll prove it.

i know i know i know i know--

I said it wouldn't be that much of a cliffhanger but when i got through writing the last fourth of this chapter i was having a lot of trouble because pace wise it just really really needed to be a separate part-- and this way, i get to do a fun format style change that i planned but thought i wouldn't get to do TURNS OUT I DO GET TO!! yeehaw

so much happened this chapter, like while writing it, when i'd go back to edit, i was like oh my god that was this chapter?? jesus christ. I was really waiting for y'alls reaction to this one, so please do harang me wherever you feel comfortable ranting to, i love to see it.

But yeah, really fuckin brutal, eh? And a lot of half lore dumps! You think they dated? You think it's something else? The RichiexTony and SydxTony crowds are eating fucking good tonight, also. Love those cuties and their friendships.

We've got a taglist now, I'm bad at keeping track of it, but remember if u wanna be added to this silly little thing you need to hand in an essay (more like a cute lil paragraph) tellin' me what you thought! And also ask. Duh. BUT YA GOTTA DO BOTH!~

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin

Next Part

[ketavinsky]

happy lunar new year everyone. vent post here. i just need to get it out somewhere and at least here there's some space for it.

growing up i always had this suspicion that my mother wanted me dead. i always had this suspicion that she for reasons i was not privy to associated my existence with the death of her parents and resented me for it. it was hard to vocalise when i was younger -what a monumental accusation, that your mother wants you dead- and when i did i was rarely ever believed and i suppose over the years i cultivated this sense that i just did not belong. i used to always think, what's worse? what's this chewing hollow at the centre of my life? why do i feel like im being dragged to some inevitable monolithic Thing every day of my life? i was planning how to kill myself before i ever conceptualised growing up and getting big and having a life of my own. i thought- was i born wrong or was i made wrong? which one is it worse? the hopelessness of never having a choice in how i turned out, or the grief of having that choice taken away from me? and every year it got worse and there were flashes of it getting better and i became a hundred different people trying to rationalise the world and my lack of place in it and i wrote.

it's no secret my project is rife with tragedy and circularity and parents and children eating each other and failing each other, and this question, was i born wrong, was i made wrong, was there ever a choice for me, does that make it better or worse, and as naive as it is i was hoping that one day my father would be able to read it and he would understand. first there was the fantasy that one day he would come by my house and see me peering out the bay window and take me to live with him and i would finally be free from home- but as i grew older i just wanted him to understand. i thought if he could read my books and look me in the eye and say i'm sorry i left you to this i could say it's fine, i never resented you, i love you, and i could say to my mother i love you and i don't know how to live with how it's been for us that would salve some kind of wound. this used to drive me up the wall. my dad is old. he likely won't be around for when i finally finish my tragedy series, because i want it to be good, something that could outlive me, and i have so many more things to plan and so much to write, and he likely won't ever read any of it, and i wonder often if it's worth writing at all.

anyways. earlier this year i finally gleaned the answer to the question: was i born wrong or made wrong. i'll never know which one is worse, because it turns out the answer is both. i was born and made wrong. in the midst of an argument about the nature of my upbringing (classic WHY DID YOU TURN OUT LIKE THIS and emotionally ripping strips out of me until i unfortunately broke and responded in turn with the ol WHY DID YOU DO ALL OF THAT TO ME) my mother revealed to me as an argument failsafe, as a trick lever, as a GOTCHA! to turn the argument in her favour that i was a child of rape or at the very least sexual coercion. my father raped or coerced or assaulted my mother, and when they separated the ensuing custody battle meant that she wasnt able to return to her home country as her father died, and her mother never recovered from the grief, and died soon after. i am the remnant of the Bad Thing. i am the face of the Bad Thing. i am the mocking face of the Good Life she could have had if not for the Bad Thing.

before i knew this i told my mother i understand. i understand why you do the things you do. mum, i understand. when she told me shouting that sure she may have done a few unsavoury things over the course of my life, but surely her financial support of me outweighs it all, i told her i understand, mum. i forgive you. i already forgave you. i said i don't know how to live with how much i understand. i don't know what to do with all of this. she pointed at the open window of the apartment she was staying in and told me to jump if i could not live with it. she would take the window in the other room, and we'd be free from each other.

knowing what i know now i just don't know how to live with all of it. born wrong and made wrong. my mother's life rests on me my father's life rests on me my stepfather's life rests on me and i can't make it better for any of them. in the last correspondence with my father, itself the first time i was able to contact him for years, he told me how proud he was of my work and how far i'd come and how much he and my czech uncles missed me. apparently we're not even czech, we're russo-ukrainian. apparently my father and his brothers fled czecha to new zealand when they were young men. apparently my father was the runt of three. at the end of his email to me he wrote please forgive me. please forgive me. i love you, shaarka. the name my babicka gave me when i was young, the only name that's felt like mine. apparently he has three or four children now, all afterimages of me, all spawned after the nightmare of his relationship with my mother. everyone in my family lies. i don't know what's true. no one in my day to day life can understand the magnitude of the disconnect i feel from my life, or the grief i experience, or how hard it is to live with.

i am grateful for the life i have and the people that i love though i have to fight to live in it and i have to fight for the chance to be someone they could love too. it's hard for me to be loved. it's hard for me to be happy. born wrong and made wrong. convinced by my mother i was destined to suffer and fail and die and i know in my heart she never expected the things she did to damage me in any way, because now when i see her there's true horror in her eyes when i speak. born and shaped perfect by my mother's careful hand and harrowing experience, only to turn out like this. me, the self-fulfilling prophecy, writing books about tragedies and faith and my parents and God and the inability to differentiate between them. what do i do with that. what do i do with it all. i was right all along. she would have aborted me if not for the cultural stigma. neither she nor my dad wanted me when i was born and there i was anyways.

i have a dead sounding voice. i struggle with ordinary eye contact. sometimes my friends can't look me in the eye and they tell me it's because it feels like someone else is staring out at them instead. my partner says my stare unsettles people. it unsettled him for a good while. i don't know how to live in this life. i don't know how to life. i was planning to kill myself when i moved out of the house with the best friends i'd ever had and here i am. here i am with what i know and some chasm between me and every other person i've ever met fighting and failing to chart the distance.

i don't know. i don't know what i'm doing. when i started putting writing online and i first received messages that said this helped me put my hand on a nameless thing, this made me feel seen, this made me feel held, this touched me and allowed me to touch it, i thought, i really thought Oh My God. if i can make one person feel like someone else in the world understands The Insurmountable Thing, the knowledge that cannot be lived with, then it's all worth it. i never really felt like i was meant for the world. if i could reach out and tap the shoulder of someone else and let them know it's not just you it would have been all worth it. here i am with my miserable story about mind-destroying epiphanies and irreversible clarity and horrible transformations and family as the mouth that swallows you and the belly that digests you and the people that i've shared my work with irl laugh a little about how i so desperately need to get it out, and about how lightless and bleak and gnawing it is, and well, that's how it is. that's how it is sometimes. that's just how things are sometimes.

i don't know what i'm doing, man. all i can do is fight to keep going. i've outlasted each one of my deadlines for suicide and now i have to live. when i pick up the phone and listen to my mother gush about what she got from the farmer's market i wish i was dead. she's so happy, you know? she's so happy when i'm not there. when she can just interact with the faceless concept of me. when she doesn't have to look me in the eye. i love her so much. i love my dad. i miss wanting to be like him when i grew up. i love my stepdad. i know that he loves me because he came from an abusive home and he doesn't want me to resign myself to the life he resigned himself to. i miss the time before what i know now. i miss being younger when i believed there was a chance things could be different and i miss being a teenager and at least armoured by the certainty of how wrong how it was all going to go.

oh my god, it's so much. i thank god for the life i have but it's so much. it's so much and every year the space between me and everything else widens. every year i get more tired.

[audible--silence]

Heard abroad…

Whatever the question, the market is the answer

“Too many white people not enough markets”

“I mean i still didn’t understand any of it but i understood it was nice”

Pedophile and a dead aunt. You love to see it!

I exist to do the dumb thing and subsequently encourage everyone else to also do the dumb thing

“At least it isn’t Kevin”

“Home is the place where you keep ending up and you don’t really know why”

“Home is where you keep going back to your abuser”

Death is good business but without the repeat customers

As long as you have enough to buy linch on your first day, you have enough to figure it out

“Fucking cyrus man…” on cocktails and cacao ceremonies

It feels like im looking at the relic of a golden age that doesn’t know its past its best before date

Lots of people breeds competition in both capitalism and creativity. Capitalism also breeds racism.

Nobody gives one fuck about you here which is both amazing and kinda isolating

Its like if every city ive ever been to merged into one and did a bunch of drugs

I have fewer ideas but i have a lot of resolution so when i want one to work i just throw everything at it till it does

luck favors those who need it/rely on it in good faith

I was busy being sad and shit so I wasn’t in the mood for a heart attack

How lucky we are, to know that as long as we have charge on our phone or an internet connection, we’ll never go without

Going nowhere the long way

“Fuck you”

“What?”

“I was talking to the aircon”

Calories dont work on Mondays

Chicken is made by man, duck is made by god

Thats why i pay the rent

The only case there is is a quesadilla

It’s strangely captivating.

A city of nine million perfect strangers and nine million deranged fucking maniacs.

Everyone fits in. Because theres no such thing as “too different” out here.

Milk that mfer for every lil drop of lactation in it’s scary asymmetrical titty

Everybody be skipping to the calm down phase of life without ever experiencing the youthful fuckaround stage

The lifeline on my hand seems to doing fine.

The other two, I cant quite remember what they’re supposed to mean. Something about happiness or love.

They’re looking a little worse for wear lately.

“Look Ill extend him an olive branch but only so i can whack him over the head with it”

“After all, the universe continues to surprise, bewilder, and enchant, irrespective of our inquiries. As the tale concludes, may it inspire a subtle nod toward the dance of untamed contemplations—a dance best performed with an enigmatic grin.”

Thinking is for Jerry's (2023) - Professor Longwang

I feel glad to have an end date but miserable to end it

Scared of old reality but excited to confirm or deny it

Confused about my choices here and whether my feelings were made from genuine feelings

“How was the quality of your call?” Asks the messenger app.

To which I cannot reply.

Because to reply honestly would not do justice to the quality of the app, and instead be a comment on my experience of it.

The feeling in my gut when she said she met someone.

The thoughts back to all the times where I wanted to tell you i was yours.

All at once.

With a vengeance

Stabbing in the chest

What am i doing here

Accidentally drunk off a Manhattan i didnt want and a quarter pint of Guinness

In New York

In the rain

Trying desperately to find a job

In a field im hardly good at

It seems to me that it boils down.

When you look at the root of it all

What do you want

What do i want

How you utilize the two to make a life that brings you joy

Kill me, im french

Traveling is honestly comparable to hard drugs at this point: intense, euphoric, lands you in sketchy circumstances and often leads to living in very questionable scenarios. It also has a tendency to leave you broke as fuck and wondering where the last six months went

It do be a lil comedic,

A city of 12 million mother fuckers buzzing around packed in like a hive, and I’ve hardly made a friend.