#important context i think: i wash my whole body

[skruffie]

wait how are you all defining shower time, because the time I have in the actual water under the show varies depending on if I'm washing my hair or not (in the 5 to 15 minute range but 15 is pushing it), but if we're talking about stuff like post-shower styling or whatever it really varies??

Ok this might be a bit of a weird question but I keep arguing with my mom and sis about this so I need y'all to answer this

[For context my mom and sis keep telling me I shower for too long but my showers are usually 45 minutes to an hour]

(edit: *your showers not you showers)

[wowie-zowie-art]

Husk Redesign!

(Please do not repost or claim as your own for either.)

(Reblogs over likes please!)

As you all could probably tell from the sneak peek, Husk was the next character I wanted to tackle! (Though I will workshop Lucifer's concept soon.) His design in the original, at least to me, was okay at first glance, but once I began to study it and take notes of it for the rework, I began to realize that this design is pretty much the culmination of every issue I have with the art in this series.

Too much detail, lack of body diversity, a strange and nonconforming shape language, the same black and red and yellow color scheme, this time only aided with a slight bit of white, and most of all, a lack of personality and explicitness of who a character is and what they do in the design.

(Rant under cut, skip to the end if your interested in my design process!)

From what I can gather on this character, Husk is supposed to be an alcoholic, someone who gambles or at the very least used to be a gambler before losing big, and from what I can tell, works as a bartender for the hotel. But, his design doesn't really tell you any of that. He has a top hat looking thing, a bowtie, buttons/marking on his chest, and a pair of suspenders. He looks like a magician, or at the very least, some sort of entertainer for the crowds. You could assume that maybe he specializes in card tricks, based off of all of the aces and clubs and spade imagery he's got going on, but that still is a stretch.

The whole point of character design is that it's supposed to be a method for displaying personality, occupation within the narrative and the character's world, and establishing themes about them or in the work, all within a drawing, model, or concept that should help connect the viewer fairly quickly and make them feel something towards the character.

Things don't have to make immediate sense and not all of the design has to specifically say something thought provoking about a character, but most things should be intentional to some degree, even if it boils down to something as simple as; "This would looks really cool!" You can even further build off of this and make it important or cool to the character as well!

That's probably why for so many people, including myself, that the designs from Hazbin Hotel fall flat or are disappointing. Because they don't really do any of that, and those with unique traits are spread pretty thin, and many of those traits are underutilized or repeated elsewhere. Designs need to convey personality to even the most casual of viewers and even outsiders, but as someone who's never watched the show and has learned everything secondhand, I can't really see any of roles or personalities that the characters are supposed to have in their designs. They just all feel...kinda samey.

But, I don't hate this design, especially knowing the context behind it (A design drawn up/or thought up by the head writer's younger sibling which was then brought on to the show, which is pretty cute honestly.) I just think it could be much better if some more thought was put into it.

I apologize for the rant, but I just wanted to get my thoughts out there. Now on to the ideas that went into my redesign!

For starters, I wanted to remove the reds entirely. Gone, too much of it. The black was still salvageable however, and I decided to make this color scheme much more focused on blues and browns instead, with some pink and orange thrown in too! (I know it looks red in the picture, but I promise you that's pink.)

I also wanted to make his body type evident immediately, he now has a big beer belly and is generally very round and saggy overall! I was attempting for him to look washed up and tired, so I'm happy with how that was accomplished. The vibe I was aiming for was someone's uncle who lives out somewhere in Florida and still smokes a pack of cigarettes everyday despite everyone begging him not to.

I tried to minimize the detail on him as much as possible, seeing as that was a issue I had with his original concept, but I don't know if I succeeded that well on that front. Which is why I included a sperate version without the pattern!

I also bumped up his age! Or at least made it more visible. He is voiced by Keith David, who has a very deep, mature, and older sounding voice, so I made the design fit that!

I imagine in this universe, Husk is some sort of old contact that Alastor has, a former business friend or partner, who he invites over as the first "inhabitant" of the hotel, which isn't really a hotel at all here and is instead more so akin to a rehabilitation center or nursing home dedicated to helping redeem people. He's a former big name in hell, but lost all of his status and physical power when he ended up gambling his wings away.

I forgot to mention on my previous posts, but all of my designs are free domain essentially! You can draw them, animate them, whatever you like! So long as you give me credit for the designs and use them in ways that aren't harassing or harming to others.

And that's about it! Husk was definitely my favorite to draw, and one I had a clear idea for off the bat! I like him quite a lot, though I might go and change his eye color in the future to something else, maybe orange instead of the pink.

Thank you for reading if you made it this far! :)

[pinkmarbella2050]

A Wild ETN Wattpad Fic I Read

So... I just remembered this really wild ETN fic I read from when I was still on Wattpad. So wild, I've decided to summarise it and share my thoughts. This is probably gonna get REALLY long, so buckle up! (TW: This fic summary/review contains mentions of parent murder, childhood trauma, an affair, bulimia, suicide, just a ton of smut and a lot of death, period. There's also an arson in Chapter 6. If any of that is a trigger, do not read below the 'Keep Reading').

P.S: I'm not naming the fic because I don't want the author getting shamed. Not that I think anybody on here would, but just to be safe. P.P.S: This isn't me shaming writers for writing what they want. I can tell the writer clearly enjoyed writing this fic in question and I'm under the assumption that they were young and didn't know any better. This is just my opinion, I'm not trying to attack anyone and also, this author's been inactive for about four years now.

OK, so for some context, this fic is set in an AU of Escape The Night Season 2 where the cast are actually in the Victorian Era (specifically 1897) as their roles and nobody dies... at least in the way they do in canon.

So there's no supernatural sorceress murder shit going on, OK?

Just so you can see how unhinged this is... I'm just gonna summarise it chapter-by-chapter. I apologise now.

Chapter 1: The Trip

So the fic opens with DeStorm getting out of his carriage and going into a library. He peruses through some books he hasn't read and doesn't find them interesting, but then he finds one - Escape The Night.

Yes, that's right. Escape The Night in this universe is a book. And at that moment, DeStorm's so excited to read it... that he doesn't check who wrote it. Keep that in mind, its important for later.

So he checks the book out of the library, races home and reads it. He reads the whole book in a night and then, the next morning, he checks who wrote it in case the library has any more books by them.

...The book was written by Alex - who goes by his real surname Burriss in this version - who DeStorm has despised since he was eight.

MY THOUGHTS

So this chapter was actually alright. It was by far the least strange chapter of the fic (which you will see later).

One major thing I had an issue with, though, is that for some really weird reason, the writer kept shifting between the first and third person, sometimes even in the same paragraph.

Here's some examples:

I read the blurb and it was VERY interesting I was dying to read it. I eagerly checked the book out and ran back to the carriage.We arrived home and took off. DeStorm ran up to his room, coat tails flying behind him. He sped through the book catching every detail in the first chapter. He then closed the book. 

When DeStorm woke up, the only thing on his mind was the book. DeStorm quickly got up, undressed and headed into the shower. I lathered myself in body wash and rinsed it off. I dressed and headed to the book.

So that was a bit strange. Also, before anybody asks, yes, the lack of description is recurring throughout the fic.

Another thing - which is just another pet peeve of mine - is that the name on the book is literally just Alex Burriss. I find it weird that, considering his full name is Alexander, they wouldn't just put Alexander. They were probably really posh like that.

But all in all, it was decent.

Chapter 2: 29 Years Back

OK, so this part of the fic is set in 1868 (yes, I did the maths) and gives us the backstory as to why DeStorm hates Alex so much, which is pretty traumatic, yet a tad confusing in places.

So what happened is that basically... Alex's parents murdered DeStorm's parents when he was eight, and he saw their dead bodies. Since his parents were high in power, Alex's parents went to jail for life and both boys were left orphans.

He met Alex two years later and 'accidentally' shoved him over at a local playground, starting their rivalry. Then its randomly mentioned that Alex's adopted parents had a son named Andrew (which is important for later, even if handled very weirdly) and then, when DeStorm and Alex were in their 20s, they saw each other again and had a fight.

The chapter ends like this: Neither Alex or DeStorm would've expected what would happen next.....

MY THOUGHTS

OK, so the part where they were kids was actually OK. I mean, it makes sense that they'd both hate each other's guts considering their circumstances. The only issue I had with that section is that its mentioned that DeStorm was told about Alex by another child, to which I'm like:

Why do these kids know DeStorm's parents are dead? I didn't know kids could read newspapers.

2. WHO JUST SAYS THAT TO A GRIEVING CHILD?!

But outside of all that confusion about how fucked up Victorian children are, it actually made sense.

Also, the playgrounds in Victorian times were really dangerous, so IDK why the hell these rich people were sending their kids there, but that's just me being a history nerd and being a bit nitpicky.

When it came to the mention of Alex's brother and DeStorm and Alex meeting up in their 20s, I really think this could've been handled better, especially because, later in the fic, we see Alex's POV, so we easily could've worked in the mention of the brother through there. The fight in their 20s was also handled messily because it just gives off the vibe that they were shouting at each other in public and, assuming they're both upper class, I don't think that'd be good for their image and they'd know that, so what the hell?

But outside of that, it can stand on its own and it was fairly enjoyable if you ignore the shock value of it.

Chapter 3: Tea

So now we're back in 1897 - presumably - and we're in Alex's POV. And based on the chapter title, I think you can guess how this chapter opens.

That's right! Alex is pouring a cup of tea!

So after the tea shenanigans, Alex gets given a letter from DeStorm that says this:

Dear Alex Burriss,

I have become a big fan of you when I read one book. I know we are sworn enemies, but you are interesting. Maybe it wasn't you fault, Mr. Burriss. Could you please stop by my house so we could talk about it?

Sincerely, Destorm Power.

So he's reading it and then Lauren - Alex's girlfriend, just like in canon - comes in. Alex prepares to go write something, but then he agrees to help with cooking because Alex's brother, Aaron (yes, the Andrew from earlier - IDK how the author got his name wrong either), is coming over.

So they cook a bit, then Aaron finally arrives, but then Alex leaves to go visit DeStorm, questioning why he suddenly wants to be friends (just like I was when I reread this fic).

So then we end on a cliffhanger, shift to Lauren's POV... AND SHE'S HAVING A FUCKING AFFAIR WITH AARON. OUT OF NOWHERE!

So Alex gets to DeStorm's house, gets a tour (which takes an hour and a half, for some reason), goes into the bathroom and gives himself a pep talk, gives DeStorm some cornbread he made for Aaron as a gift and the pair agree to be friends.

DeStorm asks him to stay for dinner, but Alex declines since he told Lauren he'd be home by then.

MY THOUGHTS

This chapter is so weird and I have so many things to say.

First of all, the letter is kinda shitty, in my opinion, especially considering the context backing it. I get the point is to acknowledge that they are making amends and we're showing DeStorm 'grew up' or whatever because he finally realises that Alex isn't the same as his parents, but they still got into a fight last time they saw each other... which was over a decade ago (going off of the math, DeStorm would be at least 37 in this).

But Alex just accepts this and is like 'I didn't think he'd... apologise!'. I also understand that he probably felt victimised by everything and just wanted to forget, but I don't really understand why these two are associating with each other, tbh. If I was either of them, I'd wanna avoid the other person to forget my past. I wouldn't wanna be around them, period.

But that aside...

The whole thing with Aaron is really weird. The author not only got his name wrong last chapter and spelled it wrong several times here (it was spelled Arron several times), but the affair really just felt like shock value and like it was vilifying Lauren just to have DeStorm and Alex get together.

On the topic of DeStorm and Alex, it really feels like its moving too fast. Like, DeStorm read one of his books - just one - and now wants to get over the fact that ALEX WAS LINKED TO THE TWO PEOPLE WHO MURDERED HIS PARENTS and be friends again!

Where's the tension? Where's the 'will they, won't they'? Where's the bonding?

...Yeah, I hated this chapter. And the fact it only gets worse from here makes me die a little inside.

Chapter 4: Two Fingers

So we open in Alex's POV. He and DeStorm are hanging out and the latter decides to draw his house. Alex decides to draw some roses because he got Lauren them for his first date. At the mention, DeStorm opens up about how everyone who dates him is a gold digger, but Alex reassures him how he'll find love.

As DeStorm draws his house, he admires Alex and thinks he's pretty. Meanwhile, the roses Alex are drawing are FUCKING DEAD and CRYING. How lovely!

He then draws Alex asleep in the guest bedroom (I'll rant about logistics later), and they exchange drawings, with Alex getting the drawing of DeStorm's house. Then they go out to somewhere Alex picked, with him being in awe of DeStorm's carriage.

They sit by a pond and talk for a bit, then they go home and DeStorm makes chicken pasta for dinner. They have it, but then Alex asks to go to the bathroom.

...OK, so then it turns out Alex has bulimia and skipped dessert because of it.

DeStorm offers Alex a place to stay at his house because it started raining and he didn't want him getting sick from going home in the rain. DeStorm then kisses Alex on the head at the latter's childlike excitement. Alex goes to sleep.

We then randomly jump to Lauren and Aaron fucking because THAT makes a ton of sense.

So then we're back in DeStorm's POV and he's rereading Escape The Night. He then goes to check on the sleeping Alex, and his drawing of him asleep in the guest room is exactly what he sees when he goes into the room. DeStorm can't find him the next morning... but then Alex comes in with a batch of black roses. After breakfast, Alex leaves.

So then we're back in Alex's head. He goes home, catches Lauren cheating with Aaron, gets his bag and then RUNS to DeStorm's house. He then goes to the bathroom and throws up, gets rid of the evidence and then explains to DeStorm what happened, with the latter comforting him.

The chapter ends with Lauren (naked, for some reason) finding the drawing of DeStorm's house.

MY THOUGHTS

OK, I'd prefer if the chapter meant two fingers getting cut off than this shit.

It really feels like the author skipped over the bonding because the chapters opens with: DeStorm is so sweet! I didn't think he'd open up so easily. Too easily.

So we just skipped the whole-ass bonding conversation, the whole appeal of enemies-to-lovers! I don't even like that trope and I know that.

We do get some instances of them talking, such as them at the pond, but even then, its incredibly rushed and we don't go very deep, and pretty much all their conversations feel like it because we skipped the main one due to the way the chapter opened.

With the drawings, I'm very confused because how would DeStorm draw Alex in the guest room if he was drawing the front of his house? I had to assume it was two separate drawings, but even then, getting to that conclusion took a hot second.

The two bulimia instances read really badly to me. IDK that much about bulimia and I've never experienced it in any capacity (the only instance I've really seen of it is through Melanie Martinez in the K-12 movie and the song Orange Juice), so I don't think I can comment on it from a place of experience or extensive knowledge. However, from some research I've done and what I do know about it, I do feel that it was used as a form of shock value and wasn't handled respectfully, especially because Alex is only shown throwing up throughout the fic and doesn't show any other signs of symptoms throughout the entire story, such as body image issues or having binge eating sessions, just to name two.

The guest room thing, though cute, is a little weird because DeStorm just casually kissed Alex on the head and we're expected to just go with it. Dude, its the first kiss of the fic. Why are we being so nonchalant about it? I don't think the affair thing should've been in the fic at all, but even with it being there, I still feel like it got resolved too quickly. Like, we've only known about it for a chapter. I also still don't understand why we needed to even villify Lauren for this ship to work; this could've been so touching and interesting to see Alex grapple with his feelings for DeStorm despite having a girlfriend, but NOPE.

We could've had a Malec moment! Lauren as Lydia would've been amazing! But we got THIS.

I will say, though: The drawing scene, for all its confusion and the somewhat clunky writing, was interesting. I did enjoy the drawing scene. It was just everything after that that went downhill.

Chapter 5: Drawings

OK, so we open with Alex going into DeStorm's room whilst the latter is still asleep. There's a ton of papers on the floor, each predicting what happened towards the backend of the previous chapter (i.e: Alex calling Lauren's name and running to DeStorm's house and sleeping on the couch in Chapter 3 while DeStorm made dinner).

...Oh, yeah; DeStorm has this weird power where what he draws can predict the future and its mostly just becoming relevant now.

DeStorm wakes up and is chill about Alex 1) being shirtless, for some reason and 2) randomly coming into his room. They have breakfast and DeStorm gives Alex the option to move in, which he gladly accepts.

So they buy Alex some new clothes and decorate the guest room (which is Alex's room now), but whilst thinking about DeStorm... Alex gets hard.

Eventually, it goes down, DeStorm finds Alex's journal (and the latter freaks out) and they have dinner. Alex then charms his way into DeStorm's bed and the pair screw.

As they're coming down, they both finally say 'I love you'.

MY THOUGHTS

All in all, this chapter was fairly decent, better than Chapters 3 and 4.

I really liked the opening with the papers. The visual just scratched my brain in all the right places, even if part of me was like 'wait, so was he drawing while Alex was running to his house? When did he draw the couch drawing?', that kinda thing.

After he offered to move in... I started getting a bit iffy, especially considering that Alex just got cheated on, like, a day ago. Like, dude, we're moving a bit quick here.

And as much as they are cute together at times, I'm still struggling to shake the fact that this relationship started off as two people who hated each other because one party's parents murdered the other party's parents... and that childhood trauma is just kinda ignored.

I get that the writer just probably did it so one character could have a tragic backstory because who doesn't love a good one of those - emphasis on good - but at the same time, if you're not gonna do anything with it... yeah.

The sex scene between DeStorm and Alex made me uncomfortable. It was very clinical and just off-putting and, even in the lead-up with Alex charming his way into DeStorm's room, it all felt a bit sudden. Additionally, its a bit weird, to me, that the author warned for the two sex scenes with Lauren and Aaron, but never any of the sex scenes for DeStorm and Alex. Like, what the hell? Keep it consistent.

I did like the chapter. Its just in some places, it got a bit iffy.

Chapter 6: It All Goes Wrong

So the chapter opens with Lauren and Aaron planning to get revenge on Alex. Lauren's plan is to set wherever Alex and DeStorm are going on fire and then make a run for it.

Alex is gardening when DeStorm tells him they're going to see a play, so he goes to get ready (and also throws up while he's at it) and takes a shower before getting dressed. They then get in the carriage, but are followed by Aaron and Lauren unknowingly.

So they go to the play (which is being put on by Gabbie - go figure), but then suddenly, flames start flicking up everywhere so everyone, including Alex and DeStorm, legs it out of there.

The place is burning, but Alex and DeStorm manage to get out. When they get there, Lauren tells Alex this: "Well, you're ugly, a bitch, and don't deserve to live. Go kill yourself."

DeStorm and Alex go home, with DeStorm rereading Alex's book for the THIRD TIME NOW, and the chapter ends with Alex purging again.

MY THOUGHTS

So outside of the obvious vilification of Lauren that I've talked about several times now, I had a major issue with this chapter in the form of the headhopping. This chapter jumped between four POVs; DeStorm's, Alex's, Lauren's and Aaron's.

Everyone's POVs were really short and we were jumping all over the place all the time and it got a bit confusing.

Also, Lauren's line was so laughable and it gave off so many 'evil promiscuous ex in a romance novel' vibes that it was ridiculous. And I also understand that Alex was hurt by that line considering he did love her and she cheated on him with his own brother, but the fact he was crying feels a bit melodramatic, at least to me.

It would've been more interesting if Lauren used some of the things she knew about Alex when they were dating to her advantage to hit Alex where it hurt and didn't just swing and miss like a blindfolded child trying to hit a piñata.

Also, this plan was worded terribly. The author worded it like they were gonna burn down DeStorm's house, so when they burned the theatre down, I was SO CONFUSED.

But I liked the play aspect and the cameos from the Season 2 cast (since Tyler appeared along with Gabbie), so it could've been worse.

Chapter 7: Secrets Come Out One Way Or Another

So we open with these two diary entries from Alex:

April 7th, 1897

Sometimes I think about burning all my stories and killing myself. Lauren always stopped me, but I don't know about DeStorm. He just randomly sent me a letter. Yeah he's good in bed, but I don't know if I can trust him. My whole childhood I felt guilty for killing someone's parents when I didn't even do it. I don't hate DeStorm. I just feel out of place. Why would he be interesting in me?

April 8th, 1897

I really hope DeStorm doesn't find out about my bulimia. If he did, he would be pissed. I can't imagine that. I was trying to get better, but DeStorm is so fancy and I always want to look my best. I don't know what's going on. Lauren is also not who I thought she was. Ever since she cheated on me, I've felt depressed all the time. Life just isn't going my way.

So DeStorm made breakfast and Alex goes to shower, but then DeStorm finds the journal and reads it, finding out everything.

They have breakfast and Alex says he's gonna go use the bathroom, but then DeStorm confronts him. Alex gets upset, then pictures Lauren and Aaron happy together, so he grabs a bucket and starts throwing up to the point he gets a hole in his oesophagus and ends up passing out.

DeStorm takes him to the hospital and he recovers, but after he gets out, we get more smut OUT OF NOWHERE. They go for, like, three hours, too!

So a bit later, Alex and DeStorm go have a picnic, with the former trying to forget Lauren and Aaron's happiness. After the picnic, they go home and Alex has a dream about cutting open Lauren's body and ripping her guts out, same with Aaron.

We then end the chapter with Alex revealing that he threw his journal away since he had no reason to keep it.

MY THOUGHTS

I have several issues with this chapter and its portrayal of Alex's issues, especially extending upon his bulimia and making him suicidal basically out of nowhere. Like, I get he's had a hard time, but stop giving him mental health issues just to advance the plot. It looks really bad.

Speaking of which, the way DeStorm confronted Alex was so weird and honestly insensitive. Like, he said that he knew why Alex was going to the bathroom after he ate all the time, but then started SCREAMING at him, which led to Alex getting the hole in his oesophagus. Like, dude! I get your hurt that he didn't tell you, but screaming 'WHY DON'T YOU TRUST ME?!' at him?! Like, did you not read the entries?! That explained it!

Also, that is not how you help and support someone with an eating disorder. You don't criticise or judge them, you explain why you're concerned, which DeStorm clearly didn't do. And yes, he did realise what he did wrong and apologised once Alex got upset, by the way, but still. I also have an issue with how DeStorm confronted Alex. He confronted him right before he was going to purge again. Like, THAT IS TERRIBLE TIMING! I think it would've been more realistic if DeStorm found the journal, sat with his thoughts for a bit and THEN talked to Alex instead of springing it on him right then and there.

But for all the shitty eating disorder/helping a person with an ED portrayals in this fic, one thing I will give the author credit for is that getting a hole in your oesophagus is a real thing. Its called perforation of the oesophagus and it can be caused by prolonged vomiting and forceful retching, both of which Alex has been doing throughout the fic. The fic also acknowledges that DeStorm is glad that they got to the hospital quickly (within the first 14 hours) since the chances of Alex's survival are high as a result. Perforated oesophagi have an 85% survival rate if treated within the first 24 hours, so I will give the author points here for medical accuracy.

However, the descriptions here were also a bit weird because the author just described it as Alex feeling a hole in his oesophagus getting bigger and bigger. Why not describe the pain? Its not like he can see the hole.

The sex scene felt very out of place and strange considering Alex just got out of hospital for his oesophagus and DeStorm was shoving his dick down his throat. Like, DUDE.

I also find it very weird - and a bit disconcerting - that Alex's form of a happy dream is violently murdering his ex and his brother. Like, dude, I know you got cheated on, but we don't need any more men writing women! Or worse, any more incels.

Yeah. I was very mixed on this chapter.

Chapter 8: Happy? Hell No.

So this chapter is in the 3rd person and serves as the epilogue of the fic.

Alex goes out into the backyard and DeStorm's dead there with a knife through his head and, obviously, he's a mess and he falls to his knees crying.

DeStorm's funeral is the next week and, after that, Alex ends up cutting his wrists and killing himself in the kitchen.

Jump to 2019, and a man called Ryder now lives in DeStorm's old house. There's also a vase that used to contain the black roses that Alex gave to DeStorm.

MY THOUGHTS

...This is giving off similar vibes as Me Before You. Not because anyone here's disabled, but because of the whole idea of ADVOCATING FOR SUICIDE.

I'm genuinely tryna wrap my head around how in what world this would make sense. Alex killed himself for the man who he probably believed, for the longest time, got his parents put in jail. I get he got fucked up along the way because his girlfriend cheated on him with his brother and all, but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

I also get what the writer was trying to do via tryna get the fic to go full circle with the black roses which Alex gave to DeStorm, but it did feel a bit forced and I don't think we needed to introduce a whole other character and a time jump to do it. You could've had someone visit the house, find Alex dead and then explore the house and discover all the symbols of their love (like the drawings from Chapter 5) and then find the roses last.

Yes, it wouldn't ignore all the glaring shoehorning of several mental health stereotypes to make this fic a 'tragic love story', but it would make a lot more sense and contain some neat callbacks.

Another thing I didn't like about the timejump is that the author didn't really go very deep into anything. They just said the floorboards didn't creak as much as they did when Alex lived there. Why not explore other things? Like, was there blood on the floor from when Alex cut his wrist? Give us SOMETHING!

There was so much wasted potential here!

OVERALL THOUGHTS

On the surface, this fic seems very interesting, especially when you consider Alex and DeStorm's canon relationship. However, its not as enjoyable as the premise lets on, mostly due to the forced twists, the barely-there bonding and, by extension, rushed relationship between the main pairing and also some pretty shitty portrayals of bulimia and suicidal idealisations.

I'm trying not to knock the author for this, though, and I don't think that what they wrote here is a reflection of who they are as a person, since I'm assuming that they were quite young when they wrote this and didn't know any better, but I still think this is something that should be discussed.

Another thing I didn't enjoy about the fic is the vilification of Lauren. She's an absolute sweetheart in canon and, in this fic, she's such a bitch and really plays into some 'promiscuous ex' stereotypes from a lot of romance stories, original or fanfiction. Once again, I'm not knocking the author since Lord knows they're not the only one whose done this - hell, I did it at one point - but it still really took me out of things.

Despite that, I did enjoy some parts of it. I liked the initial cameos and Alex and DeStorm had some pretty cute moments together, but all in all, I really found this fic to be rocky.

But anyway, all of the above is just me and my opinions on this fanfic! I really hope my review wasn't too harsh, especially because this is my first time really reviewing any fics and I'm just tryna dip my toes into the wide variety of fics this fandom has to offer, but I hope you all enjoyed my first attempt!

Thanks for reading, Your Author, Marbella. <3

[cleverrpgnamehere]

a monument to all of our sins

Fandom: Worlds Beyond Number

Relationships: Ame & Suvi, Ame & Suvi & Eursulon, Suvi & Soft & Stone, Suvi & Steel

Story tags: Worlds Beyond Number Episode 14 SPOILERS, sponge baths, Suvi's relationship to magic, somatic spell mechanics and notations.

Content warnings: Brief mention of nudity within the context of bathing, implied mention of Soft and Stone being deceased.

A/N: Brennan's moment with the reflexive indicative got in my brain and wouldn't go away, so I had to write a fic about it. While I adore Eursulon, this fic doesn't feature much of him but instead focuses on Suvi's relationship with Ame and her relationship with magic.

I am also tagging @quiddie because even though it's not smut, I just needed Aabria to know I have Suvi brain rot now. Can also be read on AO3, but I posted this on mobile so I guess I'll call it the source?

Summary: Once on the airship, Suvi gives Ame a bath and talks with her parents.

---

Suvi looks at Ame, almost unnaturally still and quiet on the bed. She sees her, and sees Grandmother Wren like this, too, and shakes her head to remove the image from her mind. Ame is not dead. She won’t die, not if Suvi has anything to do with it.

Ame is filthy, and while Suvi could just Prestidigitation the dirt off of her, the thought makes her skin crawl. It’s fine in a pinch, but it’s not the most pleasant of feelings. Plus, she’s pretty sure that Ame would hate being cleaned by magic.

So, she orders supplies and receives them, and tells Eursulon to lift Ame. He does, and Suvi lays towels down before Eursulon lays Ame on top of them before he’s shooed out of the room by Suvi. She’ll take it from here.

She adds soap to a basin of warm water and rolls up her sleeves. Carefully, she undresses Ame, stripping her of her dirtied clothes, which she adds to a pile to be washed. She covers Ame again with a sheet, hoping to keep her as warm as possible throughout this whole thing. She dips a washcloth into the soapy water and starts on Ame’s face, gently moving the cloth in a circular motion. Ame smells like salt and sea and kudzu.

Suvi places the first washcloth in the soapy water again, then grabs a clean one and wets it in the plain water. She rinses Ame’s face, making sure to remove every trace of soap until only the fragrance remains. A quick dry with yet another towel and her face is done. And then Suvi moves to the neck, repeating the process of soapy gently scrubbing, then rinsing. Right arm, left arm, chest, legs–Suvi gets them all. She spares a moment to lament that there’s no way to wash Ame’s hair as she rolls her friend onto her side.

It takes a while, but eventually Ame is clean, washed of any trace of Port Talon and smelling faintly of lotus and sandalwood. Suvi dresses Ame in one of her own nightgowns, pulls the towels out from under her, and settles the blankets around her friend again. Something still stinks, and she knows what it is: the Fox.

Suvi grimaces as she picks him up by the scruff of his neck. He smells like fish guts and she can’t stand it anymore. She dunks his body into the soapy basin, taking up the cloth again to get his face and neck, which she won’t submerge. As Suvi scrubs, she can see the dirt leeching into the soapy water. He’ll be mad when he wakes up, but it will be worth it.

She makes sure to scrub every inch of him, too, before rinsing and drying him off. Suvi wishes Ame were here to cast Gust, but she figures getting the Fox dry is the most important bit, so she uses Prestidigitation to make sure she gets all the water off of his fur. She replaces him under Ame’s right hand, and takes hold of her left.

The feeling of uselessness slowly starts to creep back in now that her task is done. Suvi looks at her friend’s face as she bites her lip. She knows that Ame has been training for this sort of situation and is fighting as hard as she can. She just wishes that she could join Ame in battle, lend her some strength and additional power. Suvi thinks about the battle with the boat captain, how Ame nearly died, crumpling to the ground. Her mind easily supplies her with the image of Ame collapsing in Suvi’s room, convulsing and expelling black bile from her mouth.

She squeezes Ame’s hand. “I should have stopped you,” Suvi whispers. “I know I can’t stop witches or wild ones, but I should have tried, at least. I know Steel would have the resources to help in this situation. I should have made you wait to do it properly. And I’m so, so sorry Ame.” She feels the damn break, and the fear overtakes her. She sobs, her head falling to Ame’s chest, shaking so much she can’t feel Ame’s breathing. Suvi curls around Ame and cries herself out.

---

When Ame doesn’t need anything, Suvi spends her vigil on the bench under the huge window in her room. Eursulon sleeps on the floor by the hearth, where an arcane fire glows blue behind the grate and keeps the room at a comfortable temperature. Suvi spares a moment to adjust a blanket over her brother as he lightly snores. She spots a small rip in his shirt and Mends it without a thought.

When she sits, she pulls out the book she has from Morrow that used to belong to her parents. Holding it in her hands, gently turning the pages, Suvi is struck by the thought that her mother and father once held the book like she does now. Did Soft’s eyebrow furrow like hers as he worked on a complicated bit of spellcraft? Did Stone’s elegant fingers curl around the pages protectively, guarding the secrets within? Did her parents bend their heads close over this book, whispering secrets of magic like lovers’ poetry?

Suvi pauses for a moment, overwhelmed with her own imagination. She never truly knew her parents, her own memories of them hazy and disjointed. What she actually remembers is stories of memories about them, told to her mainly by Steel. Suvi can’t remember their faces, just their portraits. She’s not sure if she actually remembers dancing with her father, Soft sweeping her off of her feet and twirling her with a laugh. She likes to think that she can recall her mother’s voice telling her “Be strong, Suvi, for there will be worse trials than this” as they both stared at a windstorm that had scared her. But holding this book in her hands, knowing that her parents have done the exact same thing with the exact same object, feels like a tether through time.

Her fingers trace her father’s somatic notes, picturing him in her mind’s eye as he scribbles. There’s a low-level spell in the margins, scrawled hastily as an afterthought. The ambitransitive lexical, future inchoative, passive relative, reflexive indicative with null cleft–

“What?” Suvi whispers out loud. “That doesn’t make any–no, you, you need that. You have to–uh–”

She cuts herself off as she realizes she’s speaking aloud. But Soft is wrong , he has to be, the reflexive indicative is what makes the magic flow in the first place. Suvi decides to prove it, moving through the somatic components of the spell, and she realizes that he’s written down her mother’s Mending spell. The one with the small contraction that makes it a little quicker to cast, cutting out a motion to flow from one casting to the next as if rocking with the tide. How had she never noticed before that the one thing they cut out was the reflexive indicative?

“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, you’re right. That makes–” Suvi cuts herself off, laughing a little.

“Suvi, who are you talking to?” Eursulon mumbles from the floor.

“My dad.” She doesn’t look away from that small, scribbled note, running her fingers over it again. Suvi understands it now, her mind working with breathtaking swiftness. If Mending doesn’t need a reflexive indicative to work, then what other spells will still work with it removed?

Suvi guesses that this is just the tip of the iceberg. Presumably, if the reflexive indicative is what makes the magic flow and it is unnecessary in a cantrip, she has to assume that all other cantrips don’t need it, either. Is it because they’re just that low-level? She’ll need to do experiments, for sure, but for now, Suvi considers the likely outcomes. One, cutting out the reflexive indicative will work on cantrips and no other spells. Two, cutting it out will work for cantrips and low-level spells, but will eventually hit a threshold where more energy is needed. Or three, cutting it out works for every spell, every time, and is always a stupid flourish at the end of a spell, functioning as a period in the somatic sentence. Four, every spell, every time doesn’t need it, and the reflexive indicative is–what?

If Mending doesn’t need it, why are most wizards in the Citadel taught that it does?

Who gains? she thinks urgently. Who gains what from this simple little note? Suvi bites her lip, hunching over the book. If the Citadel is lying about the function of the reflexive indicative, then they must gain something from it. What is most precious to the Citadel? Information. Information and raw power.

What if this note could be tracked? What if the Citadel could tell what spells were being used by every trained wizard on the planet? And what if those spells pulled some power the Citadel’s way? Suvi feels slightly dizzy at the prospect. Hundreds of thousands of wizards, casting what must be at least a million spells a day. At that scale, tracking everything would be a nightmare. The only reason to teach the reflexive indicative in every spell is if there’s that siphoning of power.

“Oh,” Suvi says again. Her world is tilting as she sits with the book. Why does the Citadel need that much power? Yes, there was a war going on, but the somatic components have been the same for generations, before any war, since humans discovered arcane magic. So what are they hiding?

There’s a knock at her door, and Steel’s voice, muffled through the wood, says, “Suvi? You awake?”

Belatedly, she realizes she’s been crying. She pulls out a handkerchief, wiping her eyes and nose as she answers. “I–uh, yeah, yes. I’m sorry,” Suvi replies, clutching the book to her chest. Her father’s note presses against her heart as she crosses the chamber and answers the door.

Steel’s eyes quickly take her in, assessing and appraising. She doesn’t say anything. She’s never said anything when Suvi has cried.

“We arrive at the Citadel within the hour,” Steel says. She rests a hand on the hilt of her sword, her mouth twisting into a small frown. “Uhm. We should talk.”

“Oh,” Suvi breathes, afraid for a moment that Steel can read her traitorous mind. But no, she needs a crystal ball to do that. “Oh. Yeah.”

She looks back into the room at Eursulon and Ame. Suvi has a sudden and clear fear grab her heart. Did she lead her brother and her friend straight into a trap? Or has she been the trap for the whole time she’s known them?

“It’s–It has been a long time coming, and there has never been what feels like the right moment, but the time has come to speak of Soft and Stone. Of the last night that you saw them. And I need to tell you about Yorrin.”

[ladytanithia]

All the lines - tag game

Tagged by both @dirty-bosmer and @mareenavee - thank you for the tag!

Tagging the rest of my friends, but as always, you're under no obligation to either read or participate. Conversely, if you're not tagged, you can still join in, but tag me so I can see your answers!

@gwilin-stay-winnin @skyrim-forever @thechaosdragoness @thequeenofthewinter

The clean list of questions is here: All the lines tag game

A line from your fic that makes you laugh

Okay, it's not a line, it's a segment, for context. From Chapter 15 of "Out of the Ashes"

Once they were outside, Tel whistled – or tried to, and only partially succeeded with the scarf over his face – and shook his head. “Damn, woman, I can’t believe you spoke to a General like that and didn’t end up in the stockade.”

“Speaking your mind isn’t a crime, Tel, and I didn’t disobey any orders. I asked him for permission to be candid, and I also made sure to include ‘with all due respect.’ My father taught me that. I know when I’m within my rights.”

Teldryn chuckled. “I like a woman with cast iron balls. I bet your dick is bigger than his.”

Miranja grinned and blushed with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. They were still standing between the door guards, and there was no way the guards hadn’t heard the whole conversation, but they were wisely keeping their mouths shut. She knew the barracks would be abuzz later, though.

A line from your fic that makes you sad

From Chapter 22 of "Dalliances with Dunmer" (name deleted to avoid spoiler, Miranja's first great heartache and loss, but not her last)

Miranja had washed their tea mugs and was putting them away when a knock sounded at the door. She opened the door to the bluish face and sandy mane of Elder Othreloth. He carried a beautiful Dwemer urn and put on a kindly smile when Miranja greeted him.

“The blessings of Boethia, Mephala, and Azura upon you, child,” he said with a little bow. “Your loved one has been committed to the holy fire, and his earthly remains are entrusted to you.” He offered her the urn, and she took it reverently and invited the elder inside. He politely declined, stating that he needed to get back to the temple.

“Thank you for taking the time to bring this to us, Elder,” Miranja said softly.

“It was my honor,” Othreloth replied. “Mephala cloak you, my dear.”

Miranja closed the door and embraced the urn tightly, the tears flowing once again as she wished she was holding ******’s intact, warm body and not an urn full of cold ashes. Neloth had come up behind her at the door, and now he turned her toward him, took her head in his hands, and kissed her forehead tenderly. Quietly, he asked her for some paper, some ink, and a quill. She told him where to find the items and sat down with the urn at the table near the hearth to commune with ****** while she waited for Neloth to take care of business.

A line from your fic you're proud of

From Chapter 20 of "Out of the Ashes." The war did nothing for Miranja if not force her to mature and do some serious introspection.

She had taken Ulfric’s bracers as a memento, and after her bath she sat naked on the edge of the bed while Tel took his turn bathing, turning them over and over in her hands, stroking the leather with her thumbs, thinking about the man who had worn them. For all the good it did, she wondered if she might have persuaded him to take better care of his Dunmer and Argonian citizens if he hadn’t been obsessed with his crusade against the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. Thinking of the Aldmeri Dominion made her think of Ondolemar. There were too many regrets, too many what-ifs. But her biggest what-if was this: what if people just minded their own business when it came to others’ personal choices that didn’t affect them – like religion or who they slept with – and worried about the important things, like love and the pursuit of happiness, enjoying what they had been given and sharing any excess with those less fortunate? She’d said it many times before and still stood by it. People were all just trying to do the best they could with what they had, trying to live peacefully and survive the hardships of life so they could enjoy the fruits of their labors. No one had any business intentionally making the lives of others harder than life already was.

A line from your fic you think could have been better

Truthfully, half of the first chapter of "Dalliances with Dunmer" needs reworked, since the story told me it didn't appreciate my only wanting it for sex - haha! But if I had to choose a specific line, I'd be hard-pressed. This paragraph gets on my nerves. And yes, Miranja was an impulsive and rather immature character when I started this fiasco, but she's always had a good heart and would never intentionally hurt anyone (who wasn't trying to kill her first).

As a dedicated disciple of both Mara and Dibella and a highly sexual person regardless of her religious affiliation, Miranja had made it her personal mission to practice her arts with every race she could. She had been with Imperials, a few Nords, a Breton, a Redguard, every race of Mer – including Orsimer, which had been the most primal sex she’d ever had – even a couple of Khajiit. She still wondered what it would be like with an Argonian – that was the only one she hadn’t crossed off the bucket list, but she hadn’t yet found one with whom she felt a connection besides her friend Madesi in Riften, and he wasn't romantically interested in humans. Some people, especially jealous women, would call her a slut, but she simply knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. If she was a slut, then she was an equal-opportunity slut, or so she might have referred to herself if she’d been familiar with the term. She generally tried to stick with single men, and she didn’t actively pursue married men, but if a married man pursued her and she was also attracted to him, she might enjoy him once or twice before cutting him off. She wasn’t out to destroy families, after all, and she could imagine how boring monogamy could get. Variety was, after all, the spice of life.

A line from your fic that makes you want to punch a character

From Chapter 17 of "Dalliances with Dunmer" (probably a character EVERYONE loves to hate)

It was snowing again when they went outside, but the weather hadn’t kept Rolff Stone-Fist away.

“This place reeks of gray-skin filth!” he bellowed as he swayed drunkenly down the stairs. Even from several feet away, Miranja could smell the alcohol on him. Her stomach clenched with anger and helplessness; she despised him for doing this every night, but she couldn’t do a damned thing about it because the guards would protect him, right or wrong. “Let’s go the other way,” she said to Talvas, and they took the long way back to the inn. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And that’s not even the worst of the things he says.”

A line from your fic that makes you go 'aww'

From "Hrefna's Crush" (I know I've shared this before, at least with my picture of Hrefna's painting if not in one of these tag games)

That was another thing Hrefna loved about Sondas: he called her pretty nicknames. Sometimes little flower, sometimes honeybee or butterfly, sometimes princess, sometimes sunshine. It made her feel special. Bursting with excitement, she fetched her art book and showed Sondas her painting. The other men had moved off toward the house to sit on the edge of the porch and talk and drink and relax, and the women were busy cleaning up after dinner, so it was just her and Sondas sitting on the bench now. Even so, she pressed close to him, using her picture as an excuse.

Sondas looked at it for a long moment, nodding and smiling a small, almost sad smile. By the hair and the clothing, it was pretty obvious that she had painted herself and Sondas. Finally, he said, “You show promise as an artist. Keep at it and maybe you’ll be famous one day.”

“Do you know who it is?” she asked him, quietly and more subdued. She waited nervously for his answer as he considered how to reply, and by the time he spoke she realized she was holding her breath, and she sucked in a big lungful of air.

“It’s obviously a lovely young Nord princess with her dream man,” Sondas said gently. “She’s a free-spirited, loving young woman who has the ability to look past people’s appearances and judge them by their hearts and deeds. She’s smart and intuitive and capable of making her own educated decisions about things. I’m sure she’d be a wonderful catch for that remarkably handsome Dunmer prince there, if she was a little older or he was a little younger. Something tells me it’s just a passing fancy and she’ll find a prince more her own age before too long.”

Hrefna’s tender young heart broke a little more, and she frowned at the ground with tears in her eyes. “Yeah, and the prince is probably going to marry some beautiful queen with dark hair and green eyes who’s even more amazing than the stupid little ugly princess.”

A line from your fic that's full of symbolism

From Chapter 13 of "Out of the Ashes"

Miranja usually had the most vivid dreams in the hour or two before waking, and this Middas morning was no exception. This time, her dream involved being in the Imperial Legion, but in the manner of dreams, it didn’t quite make sense. Instead of fighting the Stormcloaks, they were fighting dragons, and instead of Ulfric being the leader, Alduin had returned again to lead his army of dragons. For reasons Miranja wasn’t able to determine, Paarthurnax was apparently dead, which gave her a profound sense of loss, yet also added determination to defeating Alduin once again. Good had to triumph over evil. Didn’t it? This time, defeating Alduin involved cutting out his heart, but when she stabbed through the heart and held it aloft on the end of her sword, she felt a deep, searing pain in her own chest, and when she looked down, there was a gaping, bleeding hole as if she had cut out her own heart instead of Alduin’s.

A line from your fic that contains an Easter egg

Umm, I don't think I have anything like that in any of my stories... at least not that I can remember.

A line from your fic that's shocking

Chapter 4 of "Dalliances with Dunmer" - yes, the whole damned chapter. One person was so scandalized and disgusted, they left me a great flame to add some controversy and provide me some free advertising, lolololol.

A line from your fic you want to talk about more

There are probably a lot of them, but nothing specific comes to mind at this moment. There are some instances where Miranja is spiteful or defensive, and she has done some petty, childish things - I like putting those little flaws in, because it makes her more real. No one is pure and good and kind all the time, and we all have our bad sides and unkind moments. Teldryn has a knack for making her self-evaluate.

All right, I'm done! Everybody, wake up! Stop drooling on your desks! Time to move on to the next class!

[tussive]

Something stupid about me is I just kind of inherently respect people who have insane levels of dedications to things. I think probably because I've never been that dedicated to anything and I do envy it in a way.

But I'm reading this thread of Bluelight and I don't want to go into too much detail about the drug information/chemistry involved, because it's not really important, I do want to kind of explain because I think the level to which he's dedicating himself to achieve what he's achieving kind of helps make my point that I'm stupid, lmao. So in its pure HCl form, MDPV is a white powder. When it first came onto the RC, this is how it was available. At some point however someone came out with a tan MDPV, which produced significantly different effects. The white MDPV is prone to causing paranoia, hallucinations, is very tweaky and compulsive and has a terrible comedown. The tan MDPV is a smooth, euphoric ride that is apparently so hypersexual many people would refer to it as "perv powder." Nobody is actually sure what the difference is, however part of the process involves freebasing it. But that isn't the whole process, it is also necessary to leave the resulting oil in water for extended periods of time, during which people assume the MDPV degrades and some impurity results which is the actual source of the desired effects. This man is fucking dedicated to understanding how to produce the tan MDPV. He has done countless experiments on doing so and at one point details the various ways that he has been harmed even in doing these experiments.

"Now---- I haven't tasted this stuff. Over the past two years I have played with mdpv using ether, tuloene, xylene, baking soda, galacial acetate, vinegar, water, ethanol and dirt from my garden(the bacterial connection). I have precipitated, heated, frozen, incubated, dissolved, evaporated, combined and separated every possible combination of precipitate, solution and oil. In the process I have come up with substances that were less than enjoyable to ingest. I am my only test subject for these experiments. I temporarily blinded myself for three hours after drying and ingesting a brown goo that appeared after five days of incubating an odd gray precipitate after an ether/acetate experiment with pv. I once ended up with a dark brown substance that looked similar to the darker tan pv versions. It gave me an incapacitating headache that lasted 4 days. I had overheated the pv oil during precipitation and created something horrible. I got PV oil on my skin and didn't sleep for 72 hours, during which time hellish visual and auditory hallucinations had me locked in the bathroom where I hid in the bathtub for 30 hours. My first hit of the acetate salt that I created from the tan had me hallucinating again for a few days. I had not considered that the salt version of the tan freebase might have dosages measured in micrograms. I should have guessed from the huge residual slush left over from the Acetic Acid wash. But I didn't. I bumped 3 milligrams. 300 micrograms is a large dose.

What I'm saying is that my body is barely being held together, and what little cohesion is left is the result of vitamins and pure will power. So I just don't have the courage to go down the acetate road. The HCL road has used me up."

(He is essentially explaining that when converted into acetate salt of MDPV, the result is extremely promising for the desired effects, however he has had so many horrible side effects just from experimenting with the HCl he no longer has it in him to attempt new experiments with the acetate. That may be obvious from the quote but I feel like out of context it may not be entirely clear.)

Now, he's gone to such extreme efforts and put himself through so much suffering and for what? He only uses drugs to enhance sex. He's doing this just so he can fucking goon for hours and jack his stupid dick and it's all just kind of pathetic through that lens, raelly. In terms of motivations I have absolutely zero respect for him or his efforts.

But when I read that quote about the things he has put himself through to achieve his goals, I can't help but feel like he's kind of cool. Even though he very much is not.

[gorgonstaringcontest]

Took Dog to the self-service dog wash yesterday, and managed to - well, I think normal people would be embarrassed but I honestly think it was more confronting for the other human in this situation, rather than myself.

For context - Dog is a rescue, and when she was dumped, it was in winter. For this reason, she doesn't just dislike being wet, it actively makes her scared.

We're working on it - every bath has gotten a little bit easier. I'm basically taking the approach of diluting her previous bad experience with good ones. Before she gets a bath, we go for a long walk somewhere with lots of places to explore and sniff, we go where she wants and I let her just really have a good time and have her own agency. Afterwards, I let her pick her own treat from the shop the self-service dog wash is in, and she gets it as soon as we get home. She gets lots of little treats and reassurance and positive talking the whole way there, during and back - and this talking is how the situation IN the self-service dog wash happened.

By the time we get there, I've been talking to her for about an hour and a half. The part of me that realises people are hearing me talk to the dog is long desensitised - but what does it matter? I'm just asking if she sniffed something good, if she saw a bug, if it was a good stick, that the noise was just a kid on a swing in the playground nearby, and on and on.

So IN the self-service dog wash, I'm talking her through it. I'm telling her she's a good girl, that I'm proud of her, that she's being so brave, what body part I'm working on now and next, what the stage of wash I'm doing is and what it's for.

Now, Dog had her first oestrus cycle a little while ago. So there's been lots of joking about how she's boy-crazy, she loves boys, the boys are all crazy for her, etc. etc. etc.

So I'm at the "Conditioning Rinse". We've shampoo's and rinsed, this is stage three. Still have a couple left - flea and tick leave-in rinse, then two stages of blow-drying. And by this point, my mouth is on auto-pilot. I'm talking absolute garbage, to help reassure her that everything is okay. I'm working my way down, and I say something along the lines of -

"You're being so good, such a good girl! You're going to be so sleek, and so smooth. Let's just start at the top, rub it into your little head, and your neck. Just think, all the boys down the park are going to be like 'who is she? She's so smooth. Who is this sleek diva?' and you can be like 'yes boys, notice me! Come play!' and then steal their toys and run away. Now we'll do your back. You're such a good girl, I'm so proud of you baby. The boys are going go ballistic. Chew their way off their leads to come play. But it's up to you if you wanna play, don't forget. Don't be like your dad, I had terrible taste when I was your age. Now we gotta wash your boobies, and I think that's weird for both of us so let's just get through it-"

And it's at this point, I hear a stifled laugh. A middle-aged woman has come into the dog wash area without me realising. She has heard... Well, too much to even begin to pretend like I was saying something normal. So, fuck it. Dog feeling comfortable is more important than covering it up. This poor woman has heard up to ten minutes of me yammering on about boys, and more "good girl"'s than a trashy BDSM romance novel.

I finish up, and have to walk past this woman and her dog. She says to me "need a lot of reassurance, does she?"

Now - most people think Dog is a boy. I don't know why, but probably because she's a 'dangerous' breed (bullshit, imo. She's only dangerous if you're made of peanut butter) and because she doesn't have a pink collar. Everyone random so far has assumed Dog is male, or, have asked instead of assuming. I know for sure she's heard my ridiculous monologue, and the likelihood of the laugh being at something else is extremely low - because of the boobies comment.

I just said "Yep. She was dumped as a puppy in the rain. This was the first bath that she didn't panic during, even if she still hated it.". The woman obviously didn't know what to say, so just said "have a good day then" and we left.

So, yeah. For the first time, Dog wasn't the most uncomfortable one during bath time, even if it's by virtue of me accidentally treating a random stranger to 20 non-stop minutes of life advice, narration, and compliments from me to Dog.

Dog had forgiven me before we got home. I think the dried kangaroo strips might have had something to do with it.

[gravityr00m]

INTIMACY IS NEAR

Well. It's a strange time to be alive.

I have no big ideas about how to solve the multi-layered, multidisciplinary, multitudinous issues that humanity is facing.

What I do know is that when things are spinning chaotically, it is easy to forget where our life rafts are. Not impossible to remember, just easy to forget.

As a result, I'm trying to keep my self-care routine very simple, easy to remember.

It basically is this: when I need to go to the bathroom, I go to the bathroom.

I resist holding it in when writing the email / washing the dishes / making dinner. I don't wait until there's a more convenient moment (what does that even mean?!). If I'm with someone, I speak up that I need to go to the bathroom (AND IT'S A STATEMENT).

And when I'm in there enjoying the plumbing and privacy, I take my time.

Sounds simple, right? But it takes some effort. And in the chaos, attending to my needs lets the body settle.

It seems like almost all of us have had some experience where we've been told, "Your needs aren't important. Put yourself aside." Sometimes we react to this by getting louder and taking up more resources. Sometimes we react to this by shrinking and making do with what we've got.

In this moment, would it be possible to make yourself slightly more comfortable? What small action might it be? It could be taking a slow breath. It could be unclenching your cheeks (facial and otherwise). It could be texting your friend to say hi, instead of waiting for them to text you. How can you expand, without succumbing to overcompensation?

With a small action, we might think: who cares, why bother?

With a small action, we might think: it doesn't take much effort - so why not try something?

The concept of intimacy is often limited to a romantic context, but it's so much more: it's about getting close to what is, right here in front of us. It's coziness, familiarity, a deep knowing.

I'll leave you with a quote by one of my teachers, Michael Stone, which inspired the name of February's livestream session (more details below):

“Reawakening love and intimacy for one’s self and beyond requires practice. This is not because love is something far away from us but because we forget. We forget that intimacy is near. We forget how to relax with others. We forget we are whole. Realization is a kind of remembering rather than an achievement or virtuosic accomplishment. Practice awakens the dormant and often invisible interiors of mind, body, and heart in order to establish a more tender, responsive, creative, and active self.”

More than ever, we need to remember what’s important. Practice helps us realign to what’s meaningful for us, here. May you receive what supports you.

Going to the bathroom now,

Adrienne

Copyright © 2025 Adrienne Shum, All rights reserved.

[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

[ghostlycoyote0]

Great! I’ll focus on the context for Cell Block Tango

Chicago is a musical set in 1924, about a woman called Roxie Hart who wants to have a vaudeville show. It also has a very good movie adaptation

Roxie murdered the man she was having an affair with, the reason changes between stage and movie versions but it’s not relevant for this, it’s just important that she killed him. She got her husband to take the blame for her when he got home, covering the body and claiming it was a burglar. While giving the police his story, he recognised the victim’s name and realised Roxie had been cheating on him. She got caught and put in Cook County Jail

In the prison, she meets six other women who have also been convicted for the murders of their husbands and/or lovers. They have a song where they’re introduced to the audience - pretty much every song has a little opening announcement like they’re introducing an act - as the Six Merry Murderesses, and that’s Cell Block Tango, where they sing about why they did what they did

The repeating chant throughout the whole song is “Pop! Six! Squish! Uh-uh! Cicero! Lipschitz!” which is one word relating to each of their stories, in the order they tell them. I’ll get to the stories in a second, but the chorus is:

“He had it comin’! He had in comin’! He only had himself to blame! If you’d have been there, if you’d have seen it! I betcha you would have done the same!”

Only two of them have actual names as far as I know, so I’ll just call them all by the word relating to their respective stories for simplicity’s sake. Anyway, the first story is that Pop’s husband, Bernie, had a habit of chewing and popping gum, which she found really annoying. She came home one day, very irritated and wanting sympathy, and he was popping gum. To quote her: “I said ‘if you pop that gum one more time!’ …and he did. So I took the shotgun off the wall and I fired two warning shots. Into his head!”

The next story is that Six met a man called Ezekiel Young about two years ago and he told her he was single. They ended up moving in together, and then she found out he wasn’t single at all. He had six wives. So when she got him a drink like usual, she added arsenic

Squish was making dinner and minding her own business. Her husband, Wilbur, stormed in, furious. He accused her of having an affair with the milkman, and was apparently in a rage, screaming at her. Quote: “And then he ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times!” The word, squish, being the sound the knife made rather than being in the actual story. Otherwise she would probably be chanting “chicken” or “milkman”

The next one is in Hungarian, but I think it can be changed from production to production to whatever the actress can speak. Uh-uh (or Mrs Hunyak, one of the only two with a name that I know) doesn’t tango, she does ballet, and instead of red lighting or a red prop, it’s white. Some people have translated what she says, and she’s desperately explaining that she’s innocent; she was accused of murdering her husband with an axe while her lover held him down but she swears it isn’t true. At the end of her verse, one of the others asked her if she actually did it, to which she replies “Uh uh! Not guilty!”

The next one, Cicero, is a major character in the play. Her name is Velma Kelly, but I’ll keep calling her Cicero to be consistent. She had a double act with her sister, Veronica, and her husband, Charlie, would travel with them. One night, when they were at a hotel called Cicero, they were drinking and laughing and they ran out of ice. Cicero went to get more and when she came back, she saw Veronica and Charlie in, as she puts it, the spread eagle. Her cover story that she’s using for her upcoming trial is that she doesn’t remember at thing, which she sticks with here. Even if she also makes it very obvious that she did do it: “Well, I was in such a state of shock I completely blacked out, I can’t remember a thing. It wasn’t until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead”

And finally, Lipschitz! Which may get confusing to call her, because Lipschitz is the name of the man she killed. This one is much simpler to explain; he kept cheating on her. But I do really like the end of this verse in particular. At the start of the verse, she says that he was a painter, and it ends like this: “I guess you could say we broke up because of artistic differences. He saw himself as alive, and I saw him dead!” There’s no grand reason that I really like that one, I don’t have a whole paragraph dissecting the genius of the lyrics, I just think it’s a good line

So that’s Cell Block Tango! It’s a very good song! And that’s where the joke from the original ask came from; Lipschitz comes after Cicero

lipschitz

Huh.

[gillianthecat]

After pondering this some more, I've revised my theory and now think that (out of the shows I’ve seen and can recall right now) Old Fashion Cupcake has the best depiction of consent in BL, in the sense that it doesn’t show any boundary violations.  

I was initially going to say, this is because it isn’t even looking at the question of boundaries. But now I think about it, Old Fashion Cupcake is actually very closely examining boundaries and limits, and looking at how they can be challenged without being violated. This is what makes the show feel so sweet but not saccharine, gentle but still complex and erotic.

The whole premise of the show is that Togawa is pushing at Nozue to expand his comfort zone.  What makes it work so well is that Togawa is very carefully calibrated in how he does it.  He pushes just a little, evaluates Nozue’s reaction to see whether he’s gone too far, and then either pushes more or backs off if he sees that Nozue wants him too.  This works because Togawa is extremely socially astute, and very good at reading Nozue.

(From what other people are saying about Minato Shouji Coin Laundry, it sounds like this attentiveness and calibration are what Shin is failing to do with Minato)

There are inherent power dynamics in the fact that Nozue is Togawa’s boss, but the show and the characters are very careful about them. Togawa is clearly the one in pursuit! Nozue even switches to another department before they actually get together. And though I focus mostly on Togawa here, I think Nozue is also reading Togawa very carefully and calibrating everything he does.

There are two moments that come to mind that could have felt like violations; when Togawa tells Nozue he jerks off to the one he likes, clearly implying that he jerks off thinking about him, and when Togawa forcefully kisses Nozue.  But they didn't, because both were part of sequences where Togawa slowly escalated things in response to the green lights he read in Nozue's actions and responses.

Note: I've never seen anyone arguing that Togawa is violating Nozue's boundaries at those moments, I'm just working it through for myself why these two instances feel safe, when in other contexts they wouldn't.

In the dinner at Togawa's house (ep 3) Nozue is the one who brings up porn. He's doing a careful test of the boundaries too, and they both know that this is what they're doing. And when Nozue gets uncomfortable and tells Togawa to stop, he does. (At least presumably; the scene cuts at that point to Nozue washing dishes.)

In the scene leading up to the kiss (end of ep 4), they both have been taking turns escalating the intimacy (i.e. flirting). Nozue compliments his body and asks advice about exercising. Togawa offers to teach him and touches him under the guise of helping. When it goes too far for Nozue, Togawa backs off. They basically tell each tell the other 'you're the most important person in my life.' !! When Nozue decides he needs to leave, its clear to both us and to Togawa that it's not due to anything Togawa did, but rather because of the specter of a socially acceptable heterosexual love rival.

And I'm pretty sure Togawa knows that Nozue is attracted to him. As I've said, I think he's very good at reading people, and he's paying very close attention to Nozue. (This is obviously more subjective, the show doesn't tell us either way outright.) So while he doesn't think Nozue could want to be in a relationship with him, my interpretation is that on some level, conscious or not, he knows that at least part of Nozue wants the kiss. And Nozue's response shows that he does!, something both Togawa and the audience can see. He immediately kisses back. He bites down on Togawa's thumb in his mouth like he doesn't want to let it go. He never pushes Togawa away, Togawa is the one to let go. And afterward, having pushed Nozue more than he ever had before, and being unable (or too scared) to read whether or not it was welcome this time, Togawa backs off entirely and waits for Nozue to come to him.

I think what made the kiss feel so safe is by this point in the show I trusted that Togawa 1) would try hard not do anything that harmed Nozue and 2) even in his heightened emotional state was capable of reading whether or not Nozue felt safe. Now, Togawa didn't trust himself in this moment. He was so caught between his desire and his fears that he didn't trust his perceptions. But I still trusted him, and I think a lot of the audience felt the same.

In fact the only thing in the show that struck me as troubling about consent was when the H.R. director (Nozue's boss?) kept pushing them to attend the dating gatherings. I don't know enough about Japanese workplace culture to fully understand the context and implications, but I do think even there the show was thinking about boundaries. Several times, Nozue pushed back and said it wasn't appropriate.

There may have been other moments, but nothing I can recall. I'm curious if others had a different reaction since I know things that felt fine for me in Semantic Error were very uncomfortable for @heretherebedork.

Here are my general thoughts on boundaries and consent.

p.s. I chose that picture because of the way Nozue is biting down on Togawa's thumb. He's biting down and holding on! I can't get over it! !!! !!!!!!!

[bokettochild]

About Legend having insane leg strenght: what if the reason he never brags about that is because he's embarassed about it? He thinks that pulverizing a boulder with a kick is either something everyone can do or too similar to a bunny. One day he and Four get dumped into a monster camp without their items or weapons and Legend takes desperate measures to ensure they don't die: anihilating the entire camp with only his legs. He is unironically and literally capable of killing someone with his /1

This ask references this post btw, so, check it out if you need context!

Honestly, I loved this so much! THANK YOU!!! But I am half asleep, so the cool stuff I saw in my head is being stinky and not comng out. I'm sorry, hope you like my half-asleep drabbl of Legend being weak as shit while simultaneously having the strongest kick out of the whole Chain XD

Legend hates being at Ordon.

It’s not that he hates the people; he’s used to country folk, he was raised around them, heck, his grandparents have the same strong twang in their voices that everyone in Twi’s village does! He loves the fresh air and the sounds of animals and the sight of growing things everywhere he looks.

But he hates looking around and seeing Twilight’s entire village (even the freaking kids!) wander around lifting things that probably equal his entire body weight!

Seriously, Malo (that was the terrifying toddler’s name, right? That’s what Twilight said when he introduced them all, right?) could lift up a small goat with ease, and he was an actual toddler!

What was Uli feeding her children that they turned out this strong? Were all the village women using it? How on earth was every person in all of Ordon fully capable of throwing Legend over their shoulder?

It hadn’t happened yet, but Legend was on guard because it was only so much time before someone figured out it was possible, and it wasn’t as if he could fight them off.

He wasn’t jealous, definitely not. Not even when he saw Twilight carrying a mother goat across the village with an easy stride as he brought the nanny back to her pen. When he buried his face in his arms and sighed it wasn’t because he was remembering how much he had to tug and pull to move a basket of apples, no, it was just because the mere thought of carrying goats for the foreseeable future made him tired. Definitely.

But this strength was just an Ordon thing, right? It was totally just something that was common in Ordon, and Legend took comfort in that as he sat on the front porch of Uli and Rusl’s house and helped with the mending.

Even their blankets were heavy, what the heck?

But then Sky walked past.

And Sky was carrying a barrel, an entire barrel. One that swished and clunked with the sounds of grain filling it, and if the small trail of spilled seed that followed after the hero meant anything, then that thing was full.

Okay, so Skyloftians were strong too, no big deal.

Big deal.

Their entire visit to Ordon, helping to hide away animals and supplies before a local monster band stole them, was spent with Legend trying desperately to not be jealous as he watched everyone from Wind to Time lift and carry things that he couldn’t even knock over if he pushed against them.

It wasn’t even that most of thing things were heavy, it was just... he was weak.

Uli’s gaze when she’d figured out the truth had been surprised, eyes blown wide with shock as she watched as Legend, who’d opted to help indoors since he knew working outside would lead to him being more a burden than an aid, struggled to lift buckets of water to fill the wash basin. Dark brown eyes had followed him as he’s left the bucket outdoors and stomped inside, hissing and wheezing under his breath as he moved his attention to his bag and grabbed one of his power bracelets.

“Hun,” Uli’s soft country twang caught his attention as the woman drew close, concern filling her warm gaze. “Are ya’ feelin’ alright?”

And reputation or no, Legend’s Gran would have his hide on a hitching-post if he even so much as dropped his manners. There was something about country folk that was so inherently polite and welcoming, that even the salty vet couldn’t help but return with the same manners that his Gran had pounded into his head since childhood.

“Yes, ma’am.” Crimson trailed up his neck to blossom across his cheeks and shoot up his ears. He tried to ignore that Uli had a baby on one hip and a bushel of food on the other, breath contained and relaxes as she stood there, no hint of strain in her face or body language. His fingers trailed along the clasp of his power bracelet, shame building inside as he shuffled his feet.

You just can’t walk away when lady’s talking to you, especially if she’s being all polite like and just makin’ sure you’re okay.

“Are you injured?” The farm-wife pressed. “You were huffy something huge with that there bucket.”

And Legend would like nothing more than to sink into the earth as he glances over the full bucket of water that no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t lift. “I’m just not much of a farm-hand is all, ma’am. I’ll be right as rain in a tick, just needed to grab something I forgot.”

And while the look Uli gives him is a bright smile, he knows worry when he sees it peeking out of someone’s gaze. He tries to ignore that, instead turning back to the chores he’d been assigned and trying his hardest to ignore ethe fact that no one else was wearing power bracelets when they all came back for dinner that evening.

He’s not strong. So what? He can lift his sword well enough, and he can do most other things too when he wears the power bracelets.

Yes, he knows that Ravio warned him about not developing muscles if he relied on objects so much, but he’s never had time to work out or build any muscle mass, so when he needs it it’s a bit more important to just get his work done rather than hope he’ll develop it. He’s paying for that, and he knows it, but he can’t really help that he doesn’t have the time or space to really do anything about it.

Oh well, at least the others haven’t caught on.

Warriors hefts a huge rock over his shoulder and throws it, chuckling deep and loud as he smirks at the rancher. “Beat that!”

They’re clearing a road where an avalanche swept through and blocked off the main entrance to a local town. They’ve been at it for hours, and while Legend tries his hardest to be discreet by sticking to things he can actually lift, even if it does require his bracelets, the others have devolved into a contest to see who can throw stuff the furthest.

There’s nothing on the other side of the road except for the edge of a swamp, and even Legend has to admit that it’s ridiculously satisfying to hear each of the heavy stones go ‘plop’ as they land in the marsh.

Twilight smirks at the captain, all his sharp teeth on display as he hefts a rock that’s the size of Wild and easily bigger than half of the rest of the heroes. “Watch and learn, city boy.” Twilight grunts (well at least it took some effort) before throwing the boulder and watching with the rest of them as it soars through the air and lands with a dramatic ‘splosh’ in the middle of the swamp. Cheers erupt from the younger heroes, and a few even drop their own burdens to give a brief round of applause.

Warriors humphs shrewdly, gaze thin as he looks over at Twi, who only cocks a brow in challenge. “Anyone think they can beat that?”

Legend finds his gaze meeting Four’s swirling hazel, and they both quickly look away from the captain, both well aware that the biggest rocks they’ve lifted are maybe the sizes of their heads, and no where near the horrific loads that the taller heroes are tossing left and right.

“I’ll try!” Wild’s eyes are flashing as the kid clambers over the rock slide, eyes darting to and fro until they land on what has to be the biggest, most horrifically sized piece of rubble Legend has ever seen. The Champion beams, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles briefly before taking the stone in both hands and lifting it over his head and throwing it.

The swam erupts in goop and several of their group yelp and have to dark back as smelly water sprinkles the edge of the path. Wild beams down from his perch on top of the pile, hands on his hips as he looks down at them. “Who dares challenge my strength?”

“How about you, Vet?” Warriors nudges him lightly, chuckling with a cocked brow. The man is just teasing, and he doesn’t mean any harm, but Legend finds himself irritated anyways. He doesn’t know what it is about Warriors, but the man gets under his skin entirely too easily.

“No thanks.” He grunts, hefting his own stone (so small in comparison) a bit higher and adjusting his grip as he walks over to the swamp.

Wild scrabbles around above, knocking stones aside and sending them rolling down towards the vet. Legend rolls his eyes, dodging quickly around a few and kicking some of the larger ones in the direction of the swamp.

He smiles to himself at the satisfying ‘plonk’ as each one hits the surface.

Four’s head aches and the next time they see Warriors they’re going to kick him in the shins.

The captain is good at planning, usually, but if his planning means that Four is waking up to stare around a vast room where people in red and black PJ suits are eating bananas because said plan went wrong, then they think they’re a bit justified in wanting to kick the captain.

They’d reach to rub their head, to adjust the headband that’s riding too low and letting their hair all hang in their eyes, but their hands are bound behind them, and they’re left huffing their breath and scrunching their nose in an effort to relive their irritation. Their mind is too wild to shake their head, but they let their eyes wander.

Legend’s violet gaze meets theirs, sharp fury bubbling below the surface as Legend sits across from them, hands bound behind him, a rope leading from his wrists to a hook in the wall that is definitely higher than either of the two of them can reach.

As unkind as it is, they breathe a sigh of relief to know they aren’t alone (even if being four people in one body technically means that they’re never alone as is). It’s...nice, having Legend around. They don’t know what it is, but the taller boy feels safe and that’s something that they, especially Red, fond comfort in.

But the fact that two of them are here means that Wars is getting both his shins kicked, fair is fair.

Legend squeaks in that harsh way he does when he’s angry, a poor and rather adorable attempt at a growl, but apparently, he’s unable to make any sort of guttural noise, so the squeak is the best he can do. “I am going to strangle Wars when we get back. Yiga? Seriously?”

They raise a brow. “Weren’t we fighting moblins?”

“And a Talus. Unless these guys have transformative rings, then someone messed up.” The vet grates out, but before he can try and unravel their situation any more, a masked face is shoved into the vets own, one of the pajama clad banana eater’s apparently trying to leer over the vet, breath strong and rank even behind his mask.

“So! The friends of the hero awake! You will call me Astorah! Leader of the Yiga and supreme priestess to Lord Ganon!”

“I’ll call you annoying and maybe alive if you let us go.” legend drawls, unimpressed. “Seriously lady, get your face of mine or I’ll knock it in.”

They smirk. Legend is as polite and well-mannered as can be around the country villages, but the minute he’s away from thick mountain drawls and country twang, the Vet becomes a sour and salty speaker who’s as likely to threaten you as o smile at you. It would almost be funny if they weren’t being held captive.

Astorah makes an indignant sound, hand shooting out to smack Legend across the face. The vet can’t do anything to stop it, and the blow sends his head swinging to the side, a faint grunt escaping as the self-declared priestess stands to her full height (she’s taller than either of them at any rate) and promptly orders her subordinates to see to it that the prisoners be brought to ‘the mountain’.

“The hero will be looking for his friends,” The pajama clad leader declares excitedly, hands rubbing together like a villain in a bad stage play. “So, let's help him out, shall we?”

The vet and smithy exchange a glance, each somewhat surprised at how... pathetic their opponent seems to be.

“Their screams should do the trick; all heroes listen to cries of help after all.” There’s a mad waver in her voice and the pitching is all wrong.

She’s delusional. Vio whispers, and the rest of them are inclined to agree.

Across from them, legend scowls as another red and black clad weirdo comes to grasp his binds, unhooking them from above as yet another does the same to Four.

Ideally, they would try and escape now, but legend only follows along slowly as Astorah leads them through the endless halls and up step after step, murmuring, laughing and shrieking loudly as she goes, hands fluttering and gestures erratic as Legend’s scowl grows more and more each minute.

It all seems rather pathetic, all thing considered, until another, larger, more intimidating individual stops them, voice harsh as it grates out something in a language neither hero can understand. Astorah protests and shrieks at the figure, but they disregard her and instead turn to the heroes.

“Put them back, screams echo within a cave far better than on a mountain top.”

Four’s stomach sinks. Being outside means being closer to escape, means finding the others easier and kicking Wars for landing the in a battle where two of their own had been captured by the enemy.

Legend seems to be of the same idea, his eyes flashing as he pulls at his bonds, tugging away from the guard holding onto him.

The oddly garbed enemy slaps him again, but Legend doesn’t seem to be affected, only pushing harder and biting towards the next hand that swings his way. Astorah pulls away with a light sob, shrieking when Legend’s teeth keep hold of her hand while the enemies around them erupt into action.

Fours unsure of what happens next, their head is still spinning, and quite honestly, they’re sure Hyrule will declare him concussed when they get back, but he does see blows being thrown Legend's way, blades being drawn as shouts echo around them.

There’s a dark of movement, and one of the enemies falls. Four stares in shock for half of a moment before turning their gaze to Legend, who, for all intents and purposes, looks half feral.

Blood stains the Vet’s bucked teeth and his hair swirls as he spins and ducks beneath blows. His hands are still bound tightly behind him, a rope trailing on the ground as Legend evades contact, yet somehow still manages to down another enemy.

Four would try and help, but their mind is spinning, their brain not yet up to date with what their eyes are seeing, that and they’re still bound themself, their arms are fastened behind them and they’re not even sure how Legend is managing to get blows in.

And the he sees.

The vet’s boot swings up to make contact with one of the jaws of the enemy.

Yiga. Wild had told them about them, the Yiga clan, people out for the hero’s blood. The word only comes to mind now, but they’d had to tune out of the battle for a brief moment to remember it. They’re brought back to it as the sound of an agonized scream breaks through the air, accompanied by the harsh snapping sound that Four knows too well from having broken their own bones.

Legend fights with his hands behind his back, kicking out like an angered horse and injuring any who step near. It’s impressive honestly, watching how blood spurts and bones crumple from the force of the vet’s blows, and all that without having use of his hands.

The Yiga back away, eventually leaving the room entirely as Legend squeaks out an angry Legend sound after them, before turning his attention to Four. Four says nothing, and it appear Legend thinks that that’s okay, because he darts towards the door they had been headed too, leading Four with nervous glances being thrown back over his shoulder every few minutes.

The mountain top they emerge onto is higher than Four expected, and they want nothing more than to snuggle down in the cozy parka Legend once leant him, but they have none of their items, and they’re lucky to even be out in one piece.

It takes a lot of work to climb down a mountain with their hands tied, but their fingers are too cold to make any good of the knots, and they manage in the end to climb down. They’re in the last legs when Four notices what looks like a small group of travelers below, and they can almost hear the singing of the Four Sword from them.

They’d dropped their blade in their battle, the very reason they were caught in the first blade. They’re not happy someone else touched it, but they are glad they didn’t leave it behind.

“Four,” Legend’s voice breaks them from their thoughts, and as they turn to face him, they find that Legend’s face is flushed, ears twitching nervously as he avoids their gaze. “Could you...not tell the others about all that?”

“About what?” They clamber down another stone, Legend still within sight as he trails down beside them.

“The...kicking.” Legend flushes. “I know you guys- most of them anyway- could have it handled better. I just, Wars is bad enough as is, I don’t need him bring up my lack of strength next time he decides he needs ammo to mess with me.” There’s a scowl on the vets features as he hops down and across and small hold in the mountain side. “I get it, I’m weak in comparison, they could probably have beheaded those guys with their bare hands, but mine fingers are shit o a good day and-”

Four doesn’t know if they actually figure something out or randomly spew words, but Legend’s eyes turn to them in surprise when the smithy stares down at him. “You do know most Hylia’s can’t do anything by kicking each other, right? I’m planning on kicking Wars when we get back, and the most it’ll do is bruise him.” Their voice is flat, but they let Viol take over, he always had the best endurance out of them when it came to rocky places anyways. “You kicked a man’s ribs in, Legend.”

And it’s not funny, it really isn’t, but they giggle, watching as Legend flushes before their eyes, and when the others trail up towards them, gazes curious and concerned, Four is laughing hysterically.

It could be the head wound, it could be Legend’s face, but the thought that Legend was able to kick a man's ribs in and hadn’t done so to any of them yet was both surprising and highly relieving for whatever reason, and it’s hilarious listening to Legend try and explain himself as the vet protests and struggles against the fact that apparently Hylian’s don’t usually have enough leg strength to kill people with.

Yes, people died back there. Yes, Four just watched them die. Maybe it’s Shadow’s influence, but Four can’t find that they're overly bothered. They are tired and injured and cold, and if they can laugh about something as ridiculous as Legend’s strange strength imbalance, then Hylia danggit they’re going to!

They never do kick Wars’ shins in, they giggle to hard at the thought that Legend doing so could actually break them, so they topple over before they can lift their feet.

[legguk]

Hi!! So,

it's my ( literal ) first time writing fanfiction, so I'm pretty new at this stuff, but Lady Dimitrescu is all I was able to think about for weeks and I >needed< to do something about it.

( If you want some context, I wrote this thinking “what if Alcina survived?” - Alcina's pov )

———

The fall,

The end of everything you once loved

Ethan Winters.

You woke up... somehow, you woke up. The frigid air hitting your fresh wounds felt like a jolt send by reality, as if one says "you're still alive" -

- and oh how you were starting to hate that feeling.

Laying on the demolished floor of your castle, muscles twitching in pain, mouth open gasping for air... that's how you are, how you will remember yourself from now on. A defeated dragon, a crushed woman, a dead mother.

You should get up, you should let go of your carcass and crawl your way back into the warmth of your home, you should—

—you should be dead, actually. Resting on death's cold embrace along with your daughters.

Daughters.

God, your daughters.

The memories flood your mind with a painful, unbearable reminder; they're gone, dead, crystalized - gone. They're gone. Your lovely daughters, your pride and joy, the main reason you'd open up your eyes in the morning...

...Bela,

Cassandra,

Daniela....

Their names are long cold, not yet forgotten - no, never forgotten - but somewhere else, as they don't belong here anymore; not on your arms, tucking them to bed. Not on your hands, caressing their faces. Not on your lips, kissing their foreheads. Not on your tongue, as you say them.

A raspy scream leaves your throat, it sounds disturbing.

You sob, hot tears trailing down your cheeks and neck, small cries for help find their way into the wind, disappearing with less importance then when they materialized.

You cannot recall for how long you stayed at that very same position, perhaps some hours, perhaps a day, but you are certain that at some point you were overcame by tiredness and collapsed - probably the best to do for now.

xxx

And so, rises the moon and the stars watch upon your limp body, the night howling a merciful wind and singing a melodic song. Grunting, you push yourself up with your elbows, sitting up and facing the sky through the hole you've made on the roof... and the levels above...

A huge carcass sits besides you, it's wings bended on itself and it's big mouth open to whoever would like to have a peek; you probably changed back into your normal body while unconscious... Now that you can see it clearly, you notice the damage that man-thing did to you... by heavens, how were you still alive and...

Oh. The castle. You look forward, taking in the horizon - the stars look exclusively shiny tonight - you breath in, the dusty air causes you to chough a few times. Stretching your neck a bit to see your whole house, you tell yourself it looks.. fine, actually, ignoring the broken windows. The broken windows.

It's cold. You shiver harshly, panting as the air meets your bare back and rumbles through your lungs, making you hug yourself, - you're naked, you just realized - the winter in Romania is truly kind to no one.

Your legs tremble with just the thought of trying to stand on your feet. You don't rush to do it either, let the wintry breeze take in your wounds, make it sting, burn it, freeze it; freeze your body along.

“To die. To die is to live. To live without them, that's torture. To live without their presence, absent of their scents, to not hear them, nor see their faces again, that's worse than death; far, far worse. How could I ever walk into that damned house without the heavenly sounds of their laughs, the tapping of their feet as they walk free, the steadiness of their heartbeats, reminding me that my own still beats.

Beats for them. For them only.

And they're gone.

So who shall my heart beat for? Myself? No, that wouldn't do. I will rip it out from my chest if I must, sacrifice it to any god who may hear me, all so I could spend five more minutes with them. Then I'd die in peace and find them at my arms again at whatever comes after this poor life.

But I'm here.”

You still hold yourself as you stare at a castle's - broken - window, new warm tears hanging the same trail the old and now dry ones did, a silent cry.

Your intrusive thoughts were abruptly cut by a loud noise from the inside of the castle, making you jump up, gathering all your last strengths to stand and walk a few shaky steps closer to home. The more you walked, the louder the noises got; a little rustle became a bang, and your tiptoing became a sprint, you hold yourself as tight as you can, ignoring the bleeding, the cold air spiking your lungs, how insanely fast you heartbeat was. You need to get there, protect the last remnant of them you still have.

The gates felt heavy now, even for you, who would open them with one hand. Where is your strength now? The fearless dragon who'd do anything to protect her house? Perhaps she died on that fall, and now all there's left is a shadow of what you were one day.

With much pain, you open the big doors, leading to the comfort of your house; you don't get in, you throw yourself in. The warm atmosphere engulfed you like a summer kiss on a winter storm, all you needed to ground yourself to reality for now. Grabbing some sheets laying over an old counter, you wrap yourself in it – oh, that's gonna get soaked in blood, but that's not of your concern now – moving incredibly fast for someone as hurt as yourself, you follow the continuous sounds that could not mean something good. The main doors are open, the cellar is unlocked as well, that idiotic man-thing couldn't even close the doors once he finished slaughtering your home? Imbecile.

You stand at the library's door now, suddenly frozen; you know what happened in there... do you really want to get in? Are you truly ready to face it again? Maybe you should take a step back and walk away, it would be the most logical decision to take now.

But what is logic when the heart screams? What is the brain for once your emotions take the best of you? You can't walk away. Put some honor on your name. Save the last bit of your daughter that fate is still conceiving you. Your chest rises and falls completely out of coordination, your fists close around the fabric involving your body; get ready, you're going in; gather the last bit of courage you have inside yourself and blast these doors.

And so you do.

You bring those pieces of wood to the ground, the only barrier between you and the reality you couldn't accept; a guttural growl forms in your chest as you see a lycan approach your child's crystalized body; you're blind with ire, sorrow, protectorship - you name it - and it makes you shout at the top of your lungs as you dilacerate the filthy beasts you'd bat your eye at. A bloody trail of corpses marks your way through the castle grounds, your claws dripping with fresh sanguine fluid - which you can't tell if it's from the creatures or from yourself - the crimson path follows you all the way to the other wing of mansion like a spirit who must haunt you for eternity.

You scream like a feral animal, blood soaking the once white cloth around your form; the scream becomes a shriek, which descends to a yelp, ending as a furious cry. You can feel the anger leaving you, like the waters of a waterfall; explosive, big portions of water falling into a numb, deaden lake. Hopefully those waters will carry you with them, you shall fall and sink at a anesthetizing lagoon.

You kneel, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned; a loud sigh fills the deafening silence in the air, your mind is blank – better, your mind is red, scarlet red mixed with black, ire and grief. Slowly, your head lower itself so you're facing the floor.

The big Lady Dimitrescu,

kneeling on a pool of blood, defeated.

•

“Lady Dimitrescu!”

Who..? The voice was so far yet so close, you try your best to focus on the direction of the calls but your nerves just won't cooperate.

“Lady!”

Who would be calling for you? Is your mind playing tricks on you now? And since when you were laying on the floor? Too many questions for too little answers. You try to stand up, but a sharp pain on your side made you cry out and fall on your back, face knotted in pain – perhaps your adrenaline rush was keeping you from feeling what was really happening with your body, and now you feel like you're betraying yourself for that.

A small figure approaches you in a fast pace, causing you to unleash your claws one more time and snarl at the not-so-possible threat; you were hurt. Vulnerable. Letting someone close was the last thing you wanted now. The humanoid thing backs away a few steps with your aggressive reaction, hands on their chest, visibly afraid – even though your vision is quite blurry, you identify their expression: scared, desperate, sorrowful – they call out once more, almost shouting.

“Please, Lady Dimitrescu, let me help!”

Ah... Help... The now clearer feminine voice washes over you - a wave of compassion - as if hope has found its way to your house again. Well, it better go away again, or you'll drag it out yourself.

“Out.” was all that left your lips, your intense gaze locking with hers, a silent yet not so discrete warning; although you had only said one word, it was well understood by the woman, who stepped away, eyes still meeting yours, a dreadful cast hang on her face.

Still, she didn't left.

Is that girl testing her luck? It can only be. Once again you warn her: “Leave. I will not repeat myself.”

Her posture stiffens, after a moment of silence she looks at the door, truly wondering about leaving or not; her body turns around, her knuckles going white from how hard she was grabbing the fabric on her chest – she's conflicted. But why? Who is she, after all? – A long, defeated sigh leaves her, as if she knows there is no choice left.

“Allow me to help.” A failed effort on trying to sound confident; her voice is full of tears and her tone is oscillating – it makes you wonder if she has been crying – The human walks towards you, trying not to make any eye contact; you can't stand on your feet, you left hand is pressed on your injured side, the other is open and directing your now extended nails towards her.

Oh how funny it is, no?

The predator being cornered by the prey. The dragon being trapped by the rabbit. How ridiculous it is.

Her extremely shaky hands hang in front of her, trying to say she won't hurt you – oh if she only knew it's going to be the other way round. – One step closer.. Her lips and chin tremble; Another. Your claws grow bigger, eyes peering through her soul; another step, your eyebrows frown, her eyes are teary. The last step - your blood is boiling hot, your nerves on edge; you are still the predator. - a slicing sound and a half-scream saturate the air for a millisecond, just for silence to overfill it once more. Red splashes over the room again, on your face, on your chest, but mostly on the floor, where the girl was thrown at.

An agonizing scream leaves her throat - what a miracle, she remains alive - both of her hands cover her face, blood spilling all over her; what a sight, you would most definitely enjoy this very much on another situation. She cries out in despair, making you face the ceiling and close your eyes, a tired look on your face – you just want all this to end, you don't have any more patience for this. You want to crawl back into your bed and starve, you want to destroy this place, make it abandoned ruins of what one day was a home; you want to kill that damned sickening man-thing, kill this foolish girl for perturbing your grieving, and then yourself.

The woman captures your attention once again, she is kneeling, her body facing yours, her right hand presses her ripped face, the other makes its slow way up to you, although she is trembling, she manages to keep her hand steady enough to hand you a little green flask with a yellow-y label; You look closer, 'treatment disinfectant' it says... Oh you can only be joking. You feel like slaughtering the girl right this instant, but takes in a deep breath and holds the flask, her hand immediately falling along with her body. Is she dead? No, her slow yet consistent breathing exclaims that she is still alive – you honestly find it a bit offensive – You should, but you cannot bring yourself to finish the human; you should end her suffering, but now she caught your attention; and besides, she wants to help, doesn't she? then the price she'll pay is staying alive.

———

hahaaa I'm so nervous about posting this,,, ,

and yes! It is a alcina x maiden fic! I do plan it to be slow burn, and if some you liked it and read it till here, please like and/or reblog and I'll post chapter 2!

( posted on Ao3! Name: “The woman in your castle” )

( chapter 2 posted!! )

[mrsbrookegillespie]

+Homework+ Luke x Fem!Reader

(Not My Gif)

Description:When Y/N’s progress report comes out it seems as though their mom isn’t happy with the letters that follow each subject. So when they have to cancel on her friends band rehearsal to do their assignments it leads to an interesting encounter with the brunette guitarist of Julie and the Phantoms.

Warning: Stress, school, bad grades, mild angst, mostly fluff. 

+Homework+

Luke is not someone to judge another for having bad grades, considering what his report cards looked like, and the fact he dropped out of high school at seventeen. But, Y/N has two more years left in school, despite her age, and frankly… She’s struggling. “What’s this?” her mother asks, showing her an email.

“Those are… My grades?” Y/N shrugs, avoiding the small letters that labeled her as dumb, and lazy.

“Y/N! You need to start getting serious about this. You’re going to flunk out!” Y/N internally winces at her mother shouting at her. “I’m very disappointed about this…”

“Well,” Y/N starts. “I’ll do it!” She bites her lip, sliding away from her desk. “Tomorrow,” she adds, looking at the time. “I promised Julie I’d watch band practice today.” Her mom gives her a blank stare.

“Y/N! We’ve been very laid back with you, you’ve never been grounded or anything, but right now I want you to stay at home, and get your missing work done.” 

“But--”

“No!” 

Her mom closes the door on the way out, leaving Y/N feeling the stress of school. She grabs her phone, clicking Julie’s contact. “Hey! Are you almost here?” Julie asks.

“I can’t make it…” Y/N breathes out.

“What?!” Julie exclaims. “But, you promised to be here today, we’re performing tomorrow, you know?” The disappointment radiates through the phone.

“I know! And I will be there for that, because that’s really important, but I just can’t make it today.” Y/N is too embarrassed to say the reason why. Julie has amazing grades, and is insanely talented, and she might be a little jealous of that, mostly because she gets to spend extra time with Luke who Y/N has heart eyes for. But, his eyes are for someone else. Julie.

“No, she’s not coming,” she answers the muffled voice in the background. “I don’t know!” she groans. “The boys wanted me to ask you if you’re okay, which are you?” 

“Yes! I’m fine, just go rehearse, even though you guys don’t really need it, I know you’ll rock tomorrow--” Y/N gets cut off by her door swinging open.

“Y/N! Homework! Now!” her mom orders.

“I’m just telling Julie I can’t make it,” Y/N argues. “I gotta go.” 

“Oh, okay, well, we all miss you over here,” she affirms.

“Yeah, I miss you all too, but we did see each other today, so… I miss the boys.” 

Julie laughs. “I’ll tell them that, especially you know who.” Y/N can sense Julie’s smirk when she speaks. 

Y/N chokes on a bit of her saliva. “Julie! I-I have to go.” She hangs up. “Why me?” she asks whatever higher power could possibly be listening to the teenage girl. 

She plops down on her desk chair.

“What to start with?” Her eyes scan her To-Do List she’s already made, it’s not as much as she thought, but it’s definitely time consuming and very boring. Some of her teachers have already reached out to her, but she chooses to ignore their offers of help. She’s scared she’ll say something they’ll find stupid, or won’t understand. 

And so she has to skip her favorite part of the day, to do Algebra, and History and Biology, and…

“So, why couldn’t she come today?” Luke asks, tuning his guitar on the couch.

“Eh, I didn’t ask her,” Julie admits. 

“Why not?” Luke gives her a pointed look, his movements faltering.

“She would’ve told me if it was that important,” she claims. She looks off, before seeing him go back to his previous state. “Luke, you've been tuning that guitar for half an hour, I think it’s good.” 

He rolls his eyes. 

“So, Y/N really can’t come today?” Reggie asks, saddened over the news. “But, she never misses a rehearsal unless it’s family, or school related.” 

Luke finally stops, setting down his guitar. “Wait,” he starts. “Didn’t progress reports come out today?” 

Everyone looks at him weirdly. “How do you know that?” Alex questions, spinning his drumstick.

“Oh--uh.” He scratches the back of his head. “When I visited Julie at school the other day, I heard something about it.” 

Julie turns his head towards him. “Are you talking about when Y/N said something about it to Flynn? A couple feet away from us? Yeah I heard her too, because I was facing her.” She crosses her arms. “I think someone has a crush,” she teases, smiling widely.

“What?!” A subtle blush paints over his cheeks. “I don’t like Y/N like that, she’s--she’s just a good friend.”

“Oh come on!” Alex joins. “It’s so obvious, don’t think I don’t notice when you stare at her.” He sends a wink to Luke.

“Or when you talk about her,” Reggie adds. “Which is all the time.” 

“Just tell her,” Julie advises. 

“Tell her?” Luke repeats, giving her a look of disbelief. “I don’t think you’ve guys noticed, but I’m dead, and she’s very much alive.” 

“So?! Everyone knows you two are completely in love with each other, so give it a shot,” Julie urges, also knowing her friend's infatuation with the guitarist.

Luke chuckles. “She doesn’t like me, she rarely talks to me, to be honest I think she hates me.” 

“You rarely talk to her,” Julie points out. “And ‘to be honest’ I think she thinks you hate her.” Luke’s posture caves hearing Julie’s words. “Are we going to get started now?” 

Everyone nods. 

Throughout practice Luke found his mind wandering back to the previous conversations the band had. A warm feeling would build in his stomach for a movement when he would think about the fact that Y/N likes him, or at least his friends think so. “Luke!” Alex shouts, snapping Luke out of his thoughts. “Practice is over,” he informs.

"It is?!” His eyes widened when an idea popped into his mind. “Well, won’t you look at that, it is over, and I completely forgot I made plans, bye!” Luke poofs out, landing in a girly room, but has a certain vibe to it.

“Luke!” Y/N shrieks, putting a hand over her heart. “What are you doing here?” she whisper-yells.

“T-the--” he snaps his fingers. “The guys wanted someone to check in on you, and Alex is hanging out with Willie, and Reggie is Reggie so… I volunteered.” He sways back and forth against his ankles. “Sooo… How are you doing?” He strolls up to her smoothly, placing an arm on the back of her chair.

“Luke… You are a terrible liar,” she asserts. “But, if you really want to know. I’m not doing too well.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“School,” she sighs. “We got our progress reports, and I’m not doing too well.” She tries to hide the paper from Luke.

“Y/N, don’t be embarrassed, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” He plucks the paper from under her arm. His reassuring smile slowly faded. “There’s… Room for improvement?” He shrugs.

“Get out,” Y/N mutters. 

Luke’s heart plummeted. “What?” 

“I said get out,” she repeats, harshly. “I get it, I’m dumb, and I’m lazy, and I don’t do my work. I get it. So, just leave.” Tears threatened to fall from her eyes. “I’m serious Luke.” Her voice cracks a little.

Guilt washed over him when he saw the effect his words take on her. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He reaches out to hug her, but he instead goes straight through her.

Y/N doesn’t notice his attempt of this action, instead boring her eyes at the paper in front of her. “Luke, I said just go.” She rubs her forehead.

He didn’t move though, he instead started looking over the paper she hadn't touched. “Twenty-three,” he answers.

“What?” she chokes out.

“The answer, it’s twenty-three.” He looks at her, a little self-conscious. “Look, just because I didn’t have the best grades, or didn’t do work, didn’t mean I was dumb, so stop telling yourself that. We’re not so different you know.” 

She scrunches her face. “How’d you get that?” she asks. “The answer to the question.”

His eyes light up when she accepts his explanation, not asking him to leave again. “So… I just did…” 

He talks through the problem, asking Y/N if she understands when her eyes widen. He noticed she does that when she’s getting confused, or is not fully processing the words. As they go through each subject, him helping her, or giving his opinion on things. She started to find herself smiling, and having fun? “Wow,” he whispers, reading a poem. “You just wrote this?” 

She nods. “Yeah, I know, it’s not that great.” 

“No! It’s really good for something you wrote in five minutes,” he compliments, rereading the poem in his head. “Who knew you were such a romantic?” he teases.

Y/N feels her cheeks warm up. “That’s actually the first time I’ve heard that.”

“So, who’d you write it about?” he asks. He partially dreaded asking the questions. He didn’t want to picture her ever describing someone that wasn’t him in such a beautiful context. “C’mon, you can tell me, what am I going to do? Tell my ghost friends.” 

Y/N giggles. “I--uh… Someone?” It comes out more as a question.

“Name?” 

“Why you want to know so bad, huh?” she blurts, with a smirk. “Why? You jealous?” She knew he wasn’t, but the thought made her whole body catch on fire.

Luke, surprised by her sudden cockiness, sends her a smirk right back. “Well, what if I am?” 

She scoffs. “Yeah, right,” she murmurs.

He tilts his head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She gives him a ‘really’ look. “Luke, c’mon…” She waits for him to say something like ‘you’re right, I’m joking’, or anything along those lines, but he just stares back with the same intensity she has.

“What do you want me to say?”

The question lingers in Y/N’s mind. I want you to say you like me. That’s what she wanted to tell him, that’s what she wanted to hear. “Nothing,” she mumbles. “Absolutely nothing.” 

He cracks a smile. “Just tell me!” After that he keeps repeating it over and over again.

“I want you to say you like me!” she shouts. 

His eyes widened, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable, he seemed in awe of the situation. “Why are you shouting?” Y/N’s mom asks, rushing in.

“Because I’ve gotten ten assignments turned in!” Y/N cheers trying to ignore Luke giving her a big smile, seriously, it’s scary how wide it is. 

“I like you too,” he whispers, her heart dropping. It’s like he couldn’t contain his little secret for any longer, but now it leaves Y/N impatient as her mom stares down at her on the bed. 

“That’s good! she assures. “Though it would’ve been better if you turned them in on time, but at least they’re in.” Y/N nods at her mom's backhanded compliment. “Anyways, dinners ready.” 

“Ah, yes.” Y/N shuts her laptop. “I forgot humans have to eat.” 

“Can I stay?” Luke asks.

“In my room,” she answers.

“You’re going to eat in your room?” her mom asks.

“Can you?” Luke perks up, hearing it. “Just say you want to finish your work, because you’re already in the groove, or something!” His eyes are pleading Y/N to stay with him, leaving her almost speechless.

“Y-yeah,” she stutters. “There’s a few more things I want to do before I call it a night, and I’m kind of in… ‘The Groove’,” she discreetly ridicules the boy next to her that’s invisible to her mom's eyes.

“Okay, just come down when you’re ready.” 

Y/N sighs of relief when she hears the door shut quietly. “So, you like me?” She was slightly breathless from the beautiful boy so close to her.

“Yeah,” he responds. His eyes didn’t meet hers though.

“You don’t seem sure,” she judges. 

His gaze locks with her. “I’m just nervous,” he reveals. “You make me really nervous. I thought you hated me just an hour ago, and now…”

She gapes at him. “I thought you hated me!” 

“That’s what Julie said,” he adds, pointing towards her.

Y/N jolts her body away from him. “You spoke about me with Julie?” As if she summoned her, Julie’s contact lights up her phone. “Hello,” she answers.

“Is Luke over there?” she asks. “Sorry! Hi, it’s just the boys were worried.” Y/N sneaks a glimpse towards Luke who can’t seem to take his eyes off of her, it’s like he’s trying to memorize every single part of her body. 

“He’s not, but I had a question for you.” Luke looks at Y/N confused as to why she lied. “Did you guys talk about anything earlier? He was acting weird, and you know with you being good friends with him, and us being the best of friends, I wanted to know.” 

“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “He was out of it the entire rehearsal after we told him you weren’t going to be there, and he was all worried, and concerned, it was adorable. Dude is so in love with you it’s insane. I mean even Reggie and Alex were talking about how he talks about you, and how he stares at you, and how he’s so invested in you. I’d say he’s obsessed.” 

Y/N lets out a victorious hum. “Good to know, well, I’ll let you know if I see him--oh wait, he’s right next to me, thanks for the info.” Y/N hangs up.

“She told you about rehearsal didn’t she?” He plays with the rings on his fingers, a nervous habit he picked up.

“Yep.” Y/N pops the ‘p’. “She said you’re obsessed with me.”

“Not true!” he argues. “Sort of…” He pouts. “Not in a creepy way though!” He tries to grab her hand, but it goes straight through. “This will be interesting.” 

“Yeah,” Y/N agrees. “But, we’ll get through it…” 

Luke then learned one thing about himself that night. He was touched-starved.

[ohheyitsokay]

I don’t have a specific something to think about but just like

✨ Paz ✨

That’s it. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk 😌

Also I hope you’re having a good week with your relatives. And if it isn’t, then at least that it’ll be over quickly 🥺

Hellooo May! obviously I've been thinking about Paz because... you're right, ✨ Paz ✨

so first I got hit full in the heart with a fic about teaching post mando-displacement how to live in the galaxy as more than a Mandalorian, and showing him how to navigate... things, but

that sparked a whole other string of thoughts, of the reader living in the covert so those are under the cut :)

also thank you! honestly, me too. I hope you're doing well!

warnings: sexual content, afab reader

>>

I cant get over the idea that there are Mandalorian customs and traditions and superstitions and lore that are completely unwritten. Not 'the Way', but engrained little things that every culture develops.

Little Paz, child-sized helmet still gleaming, his eyes just as bright beneath it. Tugging on the beskar and gloves of the elders, respectful but curious. Watching over the shoulders of the craftsman and caretakers, absorbing all of it with awe, taking it greedily, adorably, making it his own. Asking questions like it's his job, learning the tribe, the mannerisms and history, soaking it all in like a sponge.

Taking Din, quiet and nervous, under his wing, pretending he knows it all. A student, and then teacher, a big brother, a budding Mandalorian.

And Paz, your giant, sweet, well-meaning love, teaching you as best as he can.

Tugging you close by the fire, face of his helmet mashing your ear as he eagerly whispers context to the stories, almost wiggling with that same child-like excitement.

Have you heard this story? Did you know?

Staying up late, wishing this covert location could see the stars so he could share their legends while pointing to their equivalent heavenly bodies. Holding your hand, aching in his chest because his two favorite things in the world - you and his people, are colliding. It makes him feel full of warmth and strength and raw energy like he could protect those two things against a galaxy of armies.

He whispers that he loves you in Mandalorian into the darkness.

Paz, sharing the little traditional things, embossing them onto your heart, making you bit by bit more a part of his home, part of his people.

"Cyar'ika, you have to use this seasoning for dinner," He seems nervous that you havent, already, a little annoyed that he forgot to tell you.

"Okay, but... why?"

"It - well, Leanna, the woman I told you about, she," he's not actually sure, but he saw it, remembered it on this dish, every single time.

You smile, and he presses his chest to your back, reaching around and taking a pinch in his big fingers.

"See? Like this," he rumbles proudly in your ear.

And you do.

Paz, sometimes forgetting you're not one of them, expecting you to know something, or thinking something is normal, and his earnest, confused shuffling as he realizes.

You kiss at his chest, his neck, telling him silently but loudly that you need him. Your love, tilting his head, desperately pushing you away, hurt that you would try to seduce him at a time like this.

"Love, why are you being cruel?" His tone is gentle, but genuinely a touch upset. "Must you tempt me during the Clean day?"

"What?" You're dumbfounded, arousal forgotten as you stare at him. There's something in his words the way he says it, something in the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he glances ove this shoulder like someone is watching.

And he sees the confusion on your face, and realizes you dont know. How could you?

Scolding himself, he tells you on wash days before they go on a big mission, he's supposed to fast, to hold himself above distractions, clothes cleaning and mind clear so he can be prepared. And old ritual, used for warriors to be intentional about their last few days, and make boundaries if they were were in grey situations. Not particularly necessary, but... he likes to do things right.

He holds you close, promises when the sun sets you can have him all to yourself. He'll make it up to you, of course he will.

Paz, falling more in love with you every moment that he sees you remember, trying to learn, because you know how important it is too him.

He came home later than he meant, but earlier than he told you. Poor execution for a surprize, but he can hardly wait to see you, knows you wont mind waking up for a few hours if it means having him in your bed again. But when he walks in he sees a candle lit, blue, he notices, a letter half burned with words for his safety. He didnt teach you that one, a sharp ache in his heart realizing you mustve asked someone else.

You wished for his safety, did all the little things the other partners promised would help. You cared about him, enough to learn, and enough to do it. He knew you loved him, heard you say it, saw it even but... this was for when he wasnt hear. This was a private love, something you didnt know if he would ever see.

He wondered, as he woke you with wanton kisses and hands taking every inch of your body for his own, if it was too soon to ask you to marry him.

Paz, creating traditions for just the two of you.

"Did you know that you always bring me gifts in threes?"

Your Mandalorian hummed, pausing his mouth against your core, two fingers buried inside of you. Propping yourself into your elbows, you enjoyed the pause, the sharpness of overstimulation smoothing over.

"Everything in threes. Flowers, kisses, ration packs," you explained, and he chuckled, removing his hands and sliding them up your body, moving his mouth against yours.

He had never thought about it but it felt.. right somehow, like an unintentional cornerstone to your relationship.

"I guess we need another round, then," he said, eyes glinting.

As you moan in disbelieving affirmation, he tucks the knowledge away. A new custom, for him and you.

<<

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge @pbeatriz

[nanasparadise]

Can you do (aged up of course), Yandere Narancia x reader. [p.s can it include any of these prompts? “ Stop denying our love! Stop denying our future together!! ”, “ Please don’t cry. Show me the smile I love so much! ”, “ You can’t escape my love.”,” You will grow to love me back, I just know it!“] Thx so much <3

“You can’t escape my love”

“You will grow back to love me, I just know it.”

Hiya anon! I hope you enjoy it! <3 

Summary: Your boyfriend doesn’t understand the concept of boundaries and keeps harassing you, until he stands in front of your apartment’s door...

TW: cyber harassment, implied stalking, gaslighting, mentions of a panic attack, toxic relationship, noncon touching, curse words, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Narancia has been aged up, no minor content on my blog!

Word count: 2155

“No escape” Yan! Narancia x gender-neutral reader 

 Bling. Another one of… how many messages again? You have stopped counting a while ago. An exasperated sigh escapes your lips, wondering why you haven’t turned off the volume yet. Why is he so unrelenting? Annoyed, you take your phone in your hand, staring at the twenty-five texts Narancia has left for you. At first, they have started off innocently, asking you about your well-being and your day. But as time has passed, the messages have begun becoming more invasive and have ended up being straight-up creepy. 

“Why aren’t you answering me, did I do something wrong?” 

“Stop being so stubborn, I know you want to be with me, too!” 

“I’m always near you, you’re aware of that, right? You can’t escape my love.”

 An icy shudder travels down your spine while reading the last two sentences. Fear clenches around your heart, making your chest feel heavy, your breaths short and laboured. 

“’’Try out this dating app!’ they said, ‘It will be fun!’ I see where this fun has lead me to”, you think gloomily. Why on earth did you ever sign up to that damned app and had to match with Narancia? You curse yourself, curse your naivety for having expected to encounter there a nice and healthy relationship.

The only thing that has waited for you is an obsessive stalker you can’t get rid of. Of course you didn’t realise Narancia’s disturbing nature at the beginning. No, you thought of him as sweet and energetic, although a bit tiring. Your first dates were pleasant: you went to a fair, sharing candyfloss and laughter between you, to a restaurant, where the Italian nearly choked on his pasta out of excitement, to a spring picnic at the local park, bathing in the gentle sunlight. It all seemed so beautiful to you back then, so innocent. But quickly, things have changed. 

Narancia has become increasingly clingy to you until it started feeling as if he was glued onto your hip. Oh, you want to go grocery shopping? He’ll come with you and help you carry your bags! You’re planning on visiting your family on the weekend? He’ll join you, he has been dying to meet them anyway! 

Setting boundaries with him was extremely challenging. Every time you hinted that you’d rather like to spend some time alone, he nearly threw a fit, taking your words out of context and twisting them around. 

“So you want to toss me away? You don’t think I’m important to you?”, he shouted at you, tears of anger forming in his eyes. Back then, you didn’t notice his gaslighting methods, felt guilty for prioritising yourself. But now, you don’t want to hold yourself back anymore. There isn’t any reason for you to justify yourself, especially not to someone who clearly has no right to intervene in your life like this. Your gaze travels back to your phone. All these messages, these implications, are proof enough of his unhealthy attachment to you. Hell, he even admitted following you! No matter how much you enjoyed your time together, you can’t let Narancia continue with his creepy behaviour.

Quickly, you type a text, telling the Italian that if he goes on invading your privacy, you’ll block him. For a few minutes, sweet silence dominates your living room. 

“Maybe he finally got it”, you muse hopefully. 

Bling. There goes your hope. 

“Are you messing with me? Why would you write that?! Please, stop with these jokes, we can talk about this!” Another sigh comes out of your mouth. 

“No Narancia, we actually can’t. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell the whole time, but it seems you don’t understand. I’m sorry, but I’m gonna block you for now, otherwise I’ll go insane.” 

With these final words, you block his number. Relief washes over you as you realise that the Italian can’t harass you anymore. 

“It‘s kind of sad how things have turned out”, you mumble to yourself. Though you do feel some regret – after all, the two of you had shared many beautiful moments together – you abruptly stop your pondering. “No use to cry over spoiled milk, Y/N. If he keeps treating you like this, it’s best to get away from him.”

Little did you know that Narancia isn’t letting you go that easily. The following days, he kept reaching out to you towards multiple phone numbers. Every time you blocked it, a new one popped up. At this point, you’ve simply stopped using your phone altogether, only relying on the device if it’s inevitable. In those cases, you’re helplessly exposed to the unnerving messages of the young man. The latest one keeps haunting your mind, initiating your anxiety. 

“I’ve been really patient with you, Y/N, but this little game is making me lose my temper. I’ll be seeing you tonight and then we settle things straight. You will grow back to love me, we’ll make up again, I just know it.” 

Nervously, you eye the nearest clock in your flat. 8 p.m. What does Narancia consider ‘tonight’? Will he even come? Are you able to face him right now? 

“Oh god, I need to go”, you whisper desperately, nausea manifesting itself in your stomach. You could crash at your friend’s place, you’re sure they’d understand your situation. Quickly, you gather all your important belongings, ready to flee, as a loud knocking on your front door followed by an all too familiar voice interrupts your escape. 

“Hey Y/N, could you open the door for me, please?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You mutter an incoherent string of curses. Petrified, you just keep staring at the door, not daring move a single muscle in your body. 

“If you don’t open the door yourself, I’ll just break it in, you know?”, Narancia shouts on the other side. The casualness of his tone scares you even more. 

“How can he just be so blasé by his behaviour? Doesn’t he notice how wrong his actions are?” Actually fearing the Italian might damage your property, you accept your defeat and slowly walk up to the front door. Hesitantly, with shaking hands, you unlock it and pull the handle down. Nervousness creeps up on you, making your palms grow sweaty and your heart palpitating erratically. Soon – too soon for your liking – you meet a pair of familiar purple eyes. To your surprise, Narancia smiles upon seeing your face. 

“Hi babe,” he greets you, carefree, “I’m so glad you opened the door for me! You have no clue how much I’ve missed you!” Without even waiting for you to invite him in – which you definitely wouldn’t have done – the young man marches into your flat, invading your privacy even further. Suddenly, two arms wrap around your middle and pull you close to the young man’s chest. Your breathing falters at the abrupt touch. “It’s alright, it’s only me, Y/N”, Narancia tries to comfort you. If only he knew that his presence currently gives you anything but comfort…

A few moments later, you find yourself sitting on your couch next to him. Narancia flashes you a seemingly reassuring grin all while you keep fiddling with the sleeves your shirt. You blankly stare at the floor in front of you. Even though Narancia’s behaviour is conveying sympathy, you couldn’t get rid of the intuitive feeling that this is all but a façade to lull you into a false sense of security. Who knows what he could do to you? Despite his overall sweet and fun nature, the young man doesn’t shy away from using violence if you test his – admittedly little – patience. His numerous messages flash up in your mind again. You’re painfully aware now how he made it clear that you’ve clearly missed your opportunities of being in his good graces. This realisation pushes you nearly over the edge, being on the brink of a panic attack. Would Narancia really hurt you? 

“Look Y/N,” the sound of his voice interrupts your train of thought. A little startled, you immediately straighten your back and glance at his form next to you. The young man’s hand finds its way to yours, stopping your fumbling by securely grasping it. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but what’s wrong? Why did you just ignore me like that?”, Narancia asks you. You don’t miss the hint of annoyance in his voice, indicating his true feelings. Though anxiety still has a hold on you, you try your best to fight against it and tell him the truth. After all, it’s not like you could escape this situation anyway. So you take a deep breath in and out again, before you spill your following words. 

“Well, I know you’re more of a clingy person Narancia, but what you’re doing is unhealthy. You can’t expect me to give you my full attention all the time. And you definitely can’t follow me around! It’s just creepy and wrong. You know that’s considered stalking, right?”

The Italian stares back at you incredulously. You wonder what’s going on in his head right now. 

“You gave me no other choice, Y/N! How am I supposed to see if you’re doing alright if you deny me like this? You really think me worrying about you makes me some deranged criminal?”, Narancia barks angrily back at you. The grip on your hand tightens. Listening to your previous gut feeling, you immediately retrieve your hand from his all while scooting away from him to gain more space between you. The dark-haired man’s jaw visibly clenches at your action, disapproval glistening in his eyes. Of course he would use his gaslighting tactics on you, he always does when things don’t go his way. Cautiously, you think for a while of what to say, not wanting to trigger Narancia’s wrath any further. 

“It’s not the fact you worry about me, it’s the way you choose to show your concern. Narancia, it’s not okay what you’re doing, you’re actually making me feel very uncomfortable, even right now. Plus, you’re blaming me for your behaviour, which is, again, not acceptable”, You carefully reply, hoping to talk some sense into him.

He makes you uncomfortable? Narancia can’t comprehend your words at all. He’d been worrying himself sick the last few days, trying to reach out to you as best as possible while you cruelly kept on ignoring his countless messages. But he is supposed to be the bad guy now? The Italian scoffs intensely at that thought. He can feel the anger gnawing at his guts, ready to be released. 

“You’re being ridiculous, Y/N,” Narancia reprimands you, “can’t I show you anymore that I care? That I love you? Even after you’ve blocked and ignored me? What do you expect me to do now, to just let you go?” 

“Actually, I do,” you peep quietly, “I can’t continue with this madness. If you don’t want to understand and listen to me, then it’s best for you to go. Now.” Your voice grows stronger with every word you utter, finally regaining your confidence. Meanwhile, Narancia’s heart sinks to his stomach at your statement. Do you really want to leave him? 

“No, no no no Y/N, you don’t mean this, right? You wanna stay with me, don’t you?” 

“No, I really don’t think I do, not after you’ve shown me your true colours.” 

With a force you don’t expect, Narancia pulls you suddenly against his chest again. His arms cage you in, leaving no room for you to move at all. 

“This is just a misunderstanding,” the young man keeps repeating like a mantra while tightening his grasp as if you could dissipate into thin air if he didn’t cling onto you, “It’s normal for couples to fight from time to time, it’s fine. We’re fine, right? You wouldn’t abandon me for real, would you?” 

“Narancia, I –“ you try to intervene, but your attempts remain futile as he cuts you off quickly. 

“No, you’re not going to leave me! I’m not letting you. Look, this is but a silly fight, you’re not going to toss away our relationship for that, are you? Just remember all the beautiful moments we shared together, how happy I can make you, if you just let me!” Narancia nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck. “I love you, Y/N.” He eagerly plants kisses onto your skin, making you shudder and whimper helplessly. Your eyes grow bigger, your breath quickens as you desperately look for a way to escape this situation, to escape him. 

“I love you more than anything in this world. I’d gladly give up everything if it meant to spend every second with you by my side. No one can love you like this but me. Remember that next time you’re thinking I’m going to let you off the hook”, Narancia whispers in your ear, the underlying threat being crystal clear to you. No, you aren’t going to escape from him any time soon…