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buzzcutlip · 5 months ago

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Cracks and Gaps - The Worst Day (part I) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Mature (Explicit in the following parts) 7434 words ao3

You meet Carmen in Copenhagen through a mutual friend and bond over shared experiences. After following his rising career from afar, you reconnect in Chicago when he renovates his late brother's restaurant. As an editor, you can't miss an opportunity to find out more about the comeback of this chef prodigy.

A/N: I've started writing this story a looong time ago last year. There will be two more parts. I would like to thank @carmyboobear for being the most incredible beta and helping me out on the rocky journey. They're a very special person to me, and also a fantastic and inspiring writer themselves. Please, check their Carmy stories if you haven't!

THE WORST DAY

The first time you meet Carmen, you are both a little over twenty and in Copenhagen. He is staging at Noma, and you are interning at a design studio where everyone is very “green.” From one of your conversations with Carmen, you learn that Pop-Tarts and Cheetos are illegal here. In Europe. Most of the sodas that stained your tongue crazy colors when you were a kid are banned too. He lectures you on Scandinavian agriculture and food production.

Carmen is skinny and short—still a bit taller than you, though—with sharp, high cheekbones and bulging eyes. You don't know enough about each other to be “friends,” but he is a good companion. Your high school friend Becky knows Carmen’s older sister; that’s how you found each other in Denmark’s capital.

On two rare occasions, you get drunk together, and that happens only when he is stressed from work. Like, stressed STRESSED. You'd think he only drinks special natural wine from Lofoten or something, but his choice of poison is canned Budweiser. Maybe he misses home as much as you do. Maybe that’s what leads you to almost kiss him the second time. Carmen lives on a boat, and he takes you there, where you drink vodka mixed with herbs and licorice that Carmen concocts, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. The drink tastes good. Weird. You don't hide your grimace. Neither of you comments on the alcohol ratio. It's more vodka than anything else, that's for sure.

Carmen is not your type, physically or character-wise—you are an introvert yourself, so you need someone to bring you out of your shell. Obviously, doing an internship on a different continent is a huge step, one that is only on you. He also smokes a lot and probably doesn't wash his hair. You've heard about his crazy mother and bonkers family from Becky, so you understand why Carmen is Carmen. Why he’s run off to Europe. It's just—his face—his eyes, when he's telling you about his dream job at Noma or Alchemist—they glow, and he becomes so animated, the quiet excitement seeping to the surface, and there's fondness blooming in your chest. He also knows a thing or two about sports, as you do, the subject bringing you back to Chicago, and the longing for “home” and “familiar” is terribly strong in the moment, enhanced by the alcohol. And Carmen, the boy sitting opposite you, with burns on his hands and ripped jeans, is both of those things put into one.

Nothing happens between you two, but the urge to press your own lips against his lingers after you leave in a taxi, not brave enough to ride a bike under the influence.

You try to stay in touch after Copenhagen, messaging Carmen on his empty Facebook profile, sending a text once in a while, mainly at Christmas, and when you have some terrible junk food, just to make fun of him. When he FaceTimes you, he’s in Paris, and you’re in Dublin. The next time, he’s in California.

He rarely ever answers messages on the phone. Usually, it's an emoji, sometimes a word or two. Soon, there are no answers, and you can't be bothered. You carry on with your life in Chicago, and it doesn’t take long before you start seeing Carmen Berzatto in the paper, on the internet. The young prodigy chef, everyone says. Reluctantly, you read the articles, thinking about the Copenhagen Carmen, smiling at his photos. He's grown up, filled out. His hair is curlier, his shoulders wider, his biceps stronger. He looks good. Good and sad, you think to yourself, and decide not to text him to congratulate him on his star career. Carmen is not one to care about what you think of it.

It's only when you hear from Becky that Mikey Berzatto has died, that you think of Carmen properly, after years full of work in the magazine office, one shitty almost-boyfriend, and summers spent in Europe, writing about sustainable travel and solo adventures. Becky says that he's inherited a restaurant from Michael. You decide against sending him condolences—too personal.

But about ten months later, there's whispering that a fancy restaurant, The Bear, is replacing The Beef of Chicagoland, and it's actually your boss who tells you that you should go check the place out.

You are not into that whole haute cuisine thing, to be honest. You never understood those tiny little portions and strange ingredients and their combinations. You prefer good pasta with Bolognese sauce or roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Sometimes you wonder if Carmen's strange relationship with his family is what's keeping him away from his Italian roots and forcing him to work in pristine, starched whites in sterile kitchens, cooking intestines and antlers, making it art.

---

Becky gives you Natalie Berzatto’s phone number to get in touch with her to try to schedule an interview for the magazine feature. Your boss, Rob, hopes that Carmen could even make it to the cover soon when The Bear takes off. You’re not sure how you feel about bypassing Carmen completely and going straight to his sister.

So one Thursday, in early May, you decide to walk there, unannounced. You corner the building, passing a big glass window, and before you make it to the main entrance, you nearly collide with a very wonky wooden stepladder. With Carmen Berzatto on top of it, fiddling with a screwdriver or a similar tool, and a signboard.

The second you make contact with the ancient stepladder, Carmen shouts, "Fuck!"

“Sorry,” you yelp, and one glance at the man high up confirms that you are indeed dealing with the Chef himself.

“Could you watch out?” he says angrily as he makes his way down, measuring every step carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, waiting anxiously for Carmen to—hopefully—recognize you. To anyone walking by, you must look like an idiot, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting motionless and stiff for a guy to climb down a ladder.

You don’t know what you had been expecting but definitely not Carmen staring at you with his huge, bloodshot eyes for seconds that feel like minutes. You nearly turn around and walk away, no joke.

He looks—

“You look—” you start. Terrible. But also, like, gorgeous. Terribly tired but hot. Is it awful of you to think that?

“Hi,” Carmen says, one hand going into the big mess of his hair, the other one into his pants pocket. He's avoiding your eyes, which makes you even more nervous, makes you think it was not such a great idea to come here.

“Hi!” you say, probably overly enthusiastically. “You're back in Chicago,” is the first thing you can think of.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, congrats on the new place,” you say, gesturing to the building behind him, newspaper covering the windows. “I'm really sorry, I thought it was already open,” you explain, tugging on the hem of your lilac sweatshirt nervously. Can he tell you’re lying? “Becky mentioned something about it.”

“No, we’re opening next week,” Carmen says, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“I'm really curious,” you smile carefully, testing the waters, wondering how he's going to react. You haven't seen each other in more than five years, and Carmen's never been exactly friendly. Not like mean, but definitely not easily approachable. “I work for this magazine, and we would love to do a feature on this,” you say, leaving out that it's you who would be writing it. Who wants to write it. Not only about the place but about Carmen, the enigma, the quiet boy, the excellent chef.

He only nods, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he taps the cigarette against the palm of his other hand. “When we're ready for this kind of thing.”

“Of course,” you agree quickly.

“Might be a while.”

“So what is the big plan?”

Carmen looks at you, measuring you. Like he thinks you have some ulterior motive. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, and you fight not to scrunch your nose in disgust. The older you get, the more you hate the smell. Especially when someone is blowing out the smoke aimlessly—almost—in your face.

“My partner—Sydney, she’s hung up on the stars. So I guess a fine dining kinda place,” Carmen says, flicking the cigarette butt in the general direction of the gutter. The second sentence comes out more like a question than a statement, but you are still processing the first one.

“You run a business with your girlfriend?” you swear you don’t mean it to sound so accusing.

Carmen takes a step back, physically—bumping into the stepladder behind him—and mentally, too. “No! She—Sydney’s my business partner.” The defensive tone tells you exactly how your words sounded though. You wince. “We’ve been working on the new concept together with Nat, and the whole crew, actually. It’s—it’s a family business, I guess—uhm. We had only like three months to finish, and—”

You can see he’s really flustered. He’s starting to stutter, hand nervously scratching his neck. You hate the sight, hate that you’ve made him feel like this.

“I’m sorry!” you interrupt him. “It came out all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say urgently, hoping to see him relax back to his non-caring, nonchalant, tired-looking self. How could you mess up so quickly? Is that your special ability or a curse?

“‘s fine,” Carmen says, and he does relax a bit, shoulders dropping an inch. He doesn’t look friendly though. Or in the mood for a chat. “I just—she’s a business partner,” he repeats obstinately, face red.

The moment grows awkward. In your coat pocket, you touch a pack of chewing gum and start fiddling with it. “I—my office is nearby so I thought I could come around and see the progress,” you say into the void, trying not to cringe too much. “Maybe I would take a few colleagues for dinner.”

“The reservations aren't open yet,” Carmen says in a flat voice. You can’t call him out because it’s probably true anyway. Plus, you just lied again—the offices are not close; you had taken the L—and you feel bad about it.

There’s not much left to say, you realize. He’s not giving you any space to turn this “accidental” meeting into a proper conversation. You shuffle your feet nervously, feeling stupid.

“Alright. It was nice seeing you!” you say, as it’s about time to end this. “Hope everything’s gonna work out great!” you add in a cheerful tone, already setting to walk back to the station.

“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.” Carmen says back, lighting a second cigarette.

What a nightmare, you think as you walk through the busy streets.

—

In the following weeks, you almost forget about The Bear. Rob complains about the nonexistent article on the new, already hyped-up restaurant and wasted opportunities, but what can you do? The not-at-all-accidental meeting with Carmen had been a disaster you actively try to erase from your mind. Working on your regular column and material for the website keeps you busy. Then Becky calls out of nowhere, and you two arrange lunch at The Marq. You end up swapping hilarious stories from the last two months you hadn’t seen each other, and you secretly pray she doesn’t ask about Natalie Berzatto or her brother. You're out of luck, because she does—of course she does—and you have to lay the cards on the table.

“You did contact Nat first though?” is the first thing Becky asks.

“I didn’t,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to exclude Carmen right at the very beginning,” you admit.

“Oh god,” Becky rolls her eyes at you, taking a small bite of her salmon cake sandwich.

“I knooow,” you quickly stop her, feeling like ordering something stronger than the simple soda you’ve been drinking.

“I think you should still call Natalie,” Becky says, pointing at you with a determined frown. “I went to see her and her new baby just last week. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Apparently they could really use some help getting the word out about The Bear. A good excuse to talk Carmen into an interview maybe? An exclusive one?” She wiggles her eyebrows, knowing how cool it would be for you to come up with this.

“Maybe,” you muse, playing it cool. Inside, you are already hyped up about the possibility of scoring the first interview with the former best chef in the world. Is he still good at all? Why did he disappear? Why is he back?

—

The anxiety of the following days forces you to actually text Natalie. You’ve been checking online websites and Instagram accounts apprehensively, worried that a medium might publish something about The Bear before you get a chance. Rob isn’t a dick, but you wouldn’t want to look incompetent in his eyes. So far, you’ve been able to steer away from conversations about the new Carmen Berzatto restaurant at work. Your work ethic makes it difficult for you to let The Bear go without a fight.

That’s how you find yourself in front of Natalie’s door. When she opens it, she doesn’t hide her fervor.

“Oh, finally! Hi! Please come in.” She ushers you inside. You’ve never seen her in person, only on Becky’s Instagram, maybe, and even though the exhaustion is apparent on the woman’s face, you can spot the similarities with Carmen in her features right away.

From the dark hallway, she leads you to the sitting room. When you look around, it’s hard to find a clutter-free space. Every surface is covered with baby clothes, baby diapers, baby wipes—clean and dirty—bottles—full and empty.

“Sorry for the mess,” Natalie appears next to you, snatching away a baby muslin from the sofa. “Have a seat, please,” she nods. “The baby’s asleep. Hopefully for the next—” and she checks her watch, “another twenty minutes.”

As you sit down, Natalie collapses into an armchair, not minding what appears to be a pile of freshly washed newborn onesies and other clothes underneath her.

“Thank you so much for stopping by,” she says sincerely, and you notice the many stains on her purple t-shirt.

You smile. “No problem.”

“Becky said that you know stuff about Instagram and social media and marketing and all that?” Natalie’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I would say so,” you nod.

“I’m not sure what Becky mentioned already,” Natalie says as she starts pulling the baby clothes from under her and folding them absentmindedly. That definitely says something about the state she’s in, without Becky describing the situation to you—not only with The Bear but also Nat herself. “Carmy’s putting so much into the restaurant—we all are—so much hope,” she babbles, “none of us have slept properly in weeks—months! And now the baby...” Natalie’s gaze becomes unfocused for a moment before she blinks rapidly. “The timing’s not so great,” she forces out a weak laugh, and you smile again, already feeling bad for her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I understand. It’s hard,” you empathize, feeling genuinely bad—not for The Bear—but for Natalie.

“I’m not a marketing guru, but I can research things,” she carries on, more confident now. “But I can’t be there all the time, y’know? It’s just not possible. If—if someone could help with keeping the place afloat and spreading the word—” she stops talking and folding, looking directly at you. “That would be just so awesome,” she finishes quietly, her bottom lip wobbling.

You know that Nat’s not trying to emotionally blackmail you, even though the situation kinda feels like it, and you do feel for her.

“I can help, yes.”

“I’ll talk to Carm and Sydney, and we’ll figure out how much we can offer you!” The relief and excitement are apparent in the way Nat jumps up from the armchair.

“That’s alright, really,” you say calmly, putting a hand on her arm now that she’s closer. “We can discuss this later,” and you give her another encouraging smile.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying comes from somewhere in the house. Poor Natalie freezes, her hand going to touch her chest. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you. Thank you,” and she takes a hold of your hand, squeezing it. “I’ll tell Sydney to get in touch with you—or you can actually just go to the restaurant; they know about you.”

That makes you slightly uncertain as you remember your first attempt at an unannounced visit to The Bear.

“Alright,” you nod with a polite smile. After all, you’re getting something out of this too.

—

Sydney texts you exactly 22 minutes after you leave worn-out Natalie and her baby behind and invites you to come to The Bear the next day. To make yourself appear more untouchable, you reply that the soonest you’re available is next Monday. Make them wait.

It gets you on edge, though, and more than once you think of Carmen in his tiny Copenhagen kitchen, how things used to be. How easy it is to grow apart. Not that you’d been friends exactly. Hard to be anything like that with a person as closed off as Carmen Berzatto.

On the agreed Monday, you dare to finish early at work and take the train to The Bear. Your stomach is in knots, even though you’ve been pretty brave about the whole thing. It’s just—you’re not sure how Carmen’s gonna react when he sees you, and you’re already thinking about the worst possible scenarios. Just stop! you tell yourself resolutely, forcing yourself to concentrate on the simple but well-thought-out marketing plan you prepared to present. Without being asked. If Carmen sees that you actually KNOW things, he might change his opinion about you. Not that you KNOW his opinion, but—maybe he would actually acknowledge you finally.

It’s just after the family meal when you arrive. A tall man who introduces himself as Richie lets you in instantly, and he’s clearly been informed about your arrivall. As soon as Sydney is notified of your presence, she rushes to you from the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron. You notice right away that she’s friendly and calm, and it relaxes your nerves. There’s no doubt she loves the restaurant and her job, and you see that she worries as much as Natalie does, or even more.

“We’re opening in two hours, so it’s a bit wild in the back, but maybe you wanna see the kitchen?” Sydney offers as she’s showing you around the newly restored restaurant, opening the heavy door. “A quick peek,” she adds as a loud cracking noise comes out of the exact door.

You’ve been to a couple of kitchens, and you must say that this one’s definitely on the chaotic side of the scale. People in white aprons run here and there, no one’s still, not even for a second. There’s a good amount of shouting and a huge amount of swearing. In the middle of everything, there’s Chef Carmen Berzatto. He looks like a character from Cartoon Network. His wild hair is sticking out in all directions, dark tattoos covering his arms and hands, face sweaty, eyes ready to pop out of his head. He’s shorter than most people you see circling the kitchen, but the loudest one. He shouts orders, and you notice the vein on the side of his neck—it sure is ready to burst. You wonder how far he is from having a heart attack.

“Or maybe next time,” Sydney mutters, gently pushing you out of the way and shutting the door again. She leads you to one of the brown wooden tables where you settle again.

“Is he always like that?” you ask Sydney, actually glad that you’re not in the room where the storm’s currently happening.

“Only when he’s stressed,” Sydney explains shortly, an apologetic smile on her lips.

When it comes to money, it’s obvious The Bear doesn’t have much to spare, that much is clear. Sydney is extremely apologetic and sweet about it.

“There’s a marketing budget—previously non-existent—that we’ve set aside and can offer. It’s just not much, I’m afraid,” she tells you, jittery.

You want to reassure her, to tell her that you're doing it for Carmen, for an old "friend." But from what you've gathered, Sydney doesn't even know that Carmen knows you.

So you just smile and reassure her anyway. "I'll put it on my resume. I can use more cases with social media for hospitality," you lie.

Nodding, Sydney clarifies, "Yes, just Instagram. Please. Carmy doesn't want to put anything in the press. Yet."

When a curious Richie joins you at the table, you present the Instagram plan to both of them. Even though Richie can't help making a few rather stupid remarks that only he finds funny, they both listen carefully. You see a lot of skepticism on Richie's face, probably because he doesn't understand some of the big words, you guess, but Sydney seems to be really into everything from pictures of the food and the weekly specials, to quick reels showing potential customers a little bit of behind-the-scenes action.

"Oh, I'm sure Cousin will be thrilled to have people sticking their noses into his business," Richie says, and you're not sure how serious he is. But Sydney shushes him, and you carry on, showing her the mock-up of the possible Instagram feed to set the mood for the profile.

For the next three weeks, you go to The Bear twice a week to gather some content—photos and videos. You talk to the crew and film those who are okay with it. Your presence is met with mixed emotions, but Sydney's gratitude and kindness make up for every suspicious glare and exasperated sigh when you find yourself in someone's way. Besides the restaurant, you take your neighbor's dog for a long walk every Saturday morning, call your mom and dad to check in, scroll Instagram instead of finally starting an actual book, and often wonder why Carmen is so hostile towards you.

Generally, you try not to hang out in the kitchen directly, especially not when Chef Carmen is present. Being uncomfortable in a new environment makes you positively anxious, causing you to go through a whole pack of your favorite cinnamon Simply Gums a day.

You also remember to always tie your hair up—not that the staff there wear hairnets or anything, but you don't want Carmen to find another reason to frown at you. He's been basically only frowning or ignoring you. Hard to tell which one is worse.

You always clean your hands super thoroughly, like during COVID, singing the "Happy Birthday" song to time it before daring to even stick your finger in the restaurant. Sydney offers you an apron to protect your work clothes, which you refuse. You sense from some people there that you're not entirely welcome.

But the more you avoid Carmen, the more likely you are to bump into him. You know Murphy's Law. So one morning, he just appears from around the corner, carrying a tray of mushrooms.

For a second, you're actually horrified that he's going to introduce himself. Before that can happen, you blurt out, "Uh—do you remember me? Copenhagen?"

Carmen stops and looks at you, wiping his wet hands on the towel attached to the string of his white apron. "Yeah," he confirms, "yeah, I do." He says your name, all soft and correct, along with your surname, and with his eyes fixed on you, you're frozen to the spot, affected whether you like it or not. Then he leaves to taste Tina's roasted peppers.

Obviously, your mind can't let the episode slip away. As you type copy for the upcoming Instagram posts, you pause every so often to cringe at how embarrassing you behaved. Of course, he remembers you, for fuck's sake! You're working in his restaurant—kinda.

"Hey! Copenhagen! You wanna see this?" Carmen yells a bit later from the other side of the kitchen, and you falter, deciding whether you're really going to answer to him calling you that.

You bite your tongue and trail hesitantly to the station where Carmen is with Tina and Ebraheim, gathered around a saucepan.

"Tina, chef, this is excellent. Well done," Carmen says to her as you approach, then turns to you.

"This is what we wanna share with the world. Perfect red pepper sauce. Simple but delicious."

"Okay," you respond, taking in the expectant way all three of them are looking at you. Like you're some kind of magician. Or a fraud.

"Just," Carmen adds before he sets off, "no recipes leave this kitchen," and he waits for you to confirm.

"Right."

Slowly, you start to question why you're helping The Bear. Is it because two years ago you thought of Carmen and what you might have felt for him? What could have been? More than the chef himself, you find yourself growing fond of the place and the employees—some of them! Seeing the Instagram followers number increase fills you with pride and satisfaction. Fuck Carmen.

---

Mornings are usually the only time when Carmen isn’t around, and you try to time your visits so your paths don’t cross.

Wanting to snap photos of the new tableware and make a quick, fun video reel, you head into the kitchen. There's no one around—Sweeps is probably hiding somewhere, and Sydney might be in the office. Not wanting to bother anyone, you set your always-heavy handbag on a chair and start looking for everything you need. There's no reason for you to feel like you're sneaking around, but you can't help feeling nervous. That’s when your clumsiness strikes, and you manage to knock over a glass of water. Rolling your eyes, you get on your hands and knees to wipe the spilled water with a rug that you hope is meant for cleaning, as you’re very aware of every item having its particular function here.

You straighten up and stretch to get one more plate from the shelf. Then you lose your footing on the still-wet tiles. Your foot slips, and the top plate falls to the countertop with a loud cracking noise. You react quickly, trying to break the fall, but there's no use. The plate shatters to pieces.

Of course, it’s Carmen himself who emerges from the door leading to the office, and you wince—both physically and mentally—preparing yourself for a very unpleasant collision.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches you, eyebrows pinched. He’s not wearing his chef whites, just a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans.

“Sorry, I—” you start apologizing as Carmen stands next to you, assessing the damage.

“What—what’re you doing here?” he asks in a very flat voice, staring at the pieces of ceramic.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to tidy this and also pay for the plate, obviously,” you ramble, reaching down for the shards.

“Don’t,” Carmy barks, stopping you by grabbing your shaking hands in his. His hands are big, the tattoos making them look harsh and crude, even though the touch is gentle. “Don’t cut yourself,” he adds quietly, holding you until you relax your arms and then a second longer.

He must sense your nervousness. “It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Carmen assures you, catching your eye. “Hey,” he lays a soft hand on your arm, “step away, I’ll clean this.”

Nodding, you step back and wait patiently, disconcerted, watching as Carmen carefully handles and discards the shards, then checks the floor for any tiny fragments. He turns back to you.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.” And you’re more thrown off balance by having Carmen pay attention to you, all of a sudden, than by damaging the kitchen’s equipment.

He studies you for a moment, his face unreadable, and you’re the one to look away first. Which you hate, by the way.

“You wanna see some stuff I’ve been working on?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking a deep breath to relax further. “I’m sorry. The loud noise—” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Just scared the shit out of me, I guess,” you finish with an apologetic smile.

“You’re alright,” Carmen confirms and disappears for a bit. In the meantime, you have a small meltdown, shaking your head at yourself for being so, so very terribly lame. Luckily, before he returns with a tray of different dishes, you pull yourself together.

Carmen sets the tray down, revealing an array of colorful and sophisticated meals that instantly catch your curiosity.

“Any allergies?” he asks.

“Passion fruit—easily avoidable. Sometimes kiwi,” you list. “And grumpy chefs,” you add cheekily, feeling bold.

Carmen pauses. “I’m not grumpy. I’m focused.”

“You weren’t like this in Copenhagen,” you say softly, leaning a bit closer to him, your body language signaling that once you had been comfortable around each other.

“I’m more focused now,” Carmen retorts, stubborn and maybe a bit offended. “Back then I—uhm—I felt comfortable around you. It was easy.”

“And now?” you almost whisper.

But Carmen ignores the question, pushing the first bowl closer to you. “Here, taste this… or take a picture and then taste it.”

And you understand that the re-bonding is over.

---

Soon, you drop the habit of visiting the restaurant only in the mornings. One reason is that spending time with Carmen, talking to him or watching him cook and explain things, makes you late for work twice in a row. That usually never happens as you take pride in being on time at the office. You don’t work at The Bear for money, but you hardly think about it that way. When you decide to pop in during the morning, Carmen shares his deadly strong black coffee that he mills himself with you. It’s bitter but heavenly. Secretly, you like drinking it while chewing your favorite cinnamon gum, which somehow makes the taste even better—smoother and richer.

The second reason—you discover that Carmen is much calmer in the evenings after service. Less jittery, more relaxed. His blood flows slower, you think. His heart pumps with more ease. Sydney and he share thoughts and plans for the restaurant with you while you all sit at an empty table. It’s nice, you think, while watching Carmen’s hands play with a napkin. His hands are especially nice.

It’s Saturday and raining as you find yourself sitting in Gordon Ramsay's Burger. Nothing could’ve surprised you more than Carmen asking you to go out eat together. Had he felt bad for ignoring you at the beginning? You’re watching the rivers of raindrops on the big glass window, waiting for Carmen. As usual, you’re ten minutes early, and after you order a Life’s a Beach, the first thing on your mind is you're just early, he didn't stand you up, and then: this is not a date, babe! Which instantly startles you into sitting up straight and looking around, as if someone could see your embarrassing thoughts. Why are you even thinking about this?? Then Carmen arrives, wet patches on his shoulders and jeans that cling to his thighs. He chooses the Chicago hot dog and three different burgers with a bunch of sides. While he only nibbles on them and writes down notes on his phone, you feel bad for wasting the food and eat more than you should. Carmen studies the buns very carefully and asks you a lot of questions about the food, some of which you find amusing and actually—endearing. When you go to bed that night, your belly’s uncomfortably full. You dream that you’re pregnant and about to go into labor, and you’re pretty sure that Carmen’s the father. And, honestly, do you need a book of dreams to explain the meaning? Fuck.

---

All goes to hell next week when Carmen sees you eating a sandwich from the corner shop down the street. Instead of having your regular lunch with Becky, you’ve chosen to run to The Bear so you could see Marcus unveil his new dessert. But before that, you popped into the nearby deli to order a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. No one at The Bear had ever explicitly invited you to the family meal, and you would never dare to have free food there. But the way Carmen looks at you while you sit on the step by the back exit, eating the rather dry sandwich, is indescribable. The stern look on his face is back, with a closed-off facade. His eyes are cold. Before you take it all in, you wave at him awkwardly, chewing. Carmen retreats back inside wordlessly, leaving you confused and a little hurt.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere surrounding you doesn’t improve when you return to work, the stupid sandwich sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone. You have a big argument in the meeting room while planning the next month's issue. Then one of your co-workers makes a nasty remark about your single life. The afternoon drags on painfully slowly, which forces you to message your cousin—an astrologist extraordinaire—to check what the heck is going on with the universe.

Tuesday morning is rough. The second you wake up, you know you’ve overslept because you never get up without the alarm ringing angrily. A single glance at your phone proves it to be true. Right after, you notice three missed calls from Sydney and two from Nat. There are no text messages, though.

At first, you intend to call Rob to beg for a home office day, something you rarely ever use. But as soon as you check your calendar, you’re reminded of the big conference happening from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. You rush to work, finishing your makeup on the train, then enter the office building to quickly run through notes with your colleagues. The first time you have a chance to make a quick phone call is when you finally go to the bathroom. It’s Natalie who you manage to reach first, as the lunch rush at The Bear is just unfolding. Over the cries of Natalie’s baby, you hear half-sentences about a recipe, Carmen, and a leak. It’s hard to put it all together. At 4 p.m., Nat finally sends you a text. It says: “Recipe’s published in Taste of Home. Carm’s mad. Says someone leaked it.”

It contains a link to the Taste of Home website, with Carmen’s perfect Berkswell Pudding recipe in the Top Recipes of the Week, marked “Chef’s tip.” You check it again to make sure, and surely—it’s one of the dishes Carmen introduced to you just last week. You didn’t dare to photograph it, much less taste it. You remember concentrating on the way his lips moved when he explained the preparation process, not much on the cooking itself.

What’s clear to you is that the "Someone" from Nat’s message is actually you.

A gloomy dread settles in your stomach as the meeting goes on and on. You barely pay attention, which makes everything even worse. You’re scared of what’s happened in the restaurant, and you’re worried that you’re going to miss something important in the meeting.

When you run for a second quick bathroom break, instead of peeing, you think of your next step. You could try to call everyone in the restaurant, try to find out what the hell is going on. But you don’t want to be seen as hysterical. You check Instagram and possible messages to find traces of a catastrophe. There’s nothing. Again, you open the website with the recipe. The photos are pretty sloppy, definitely not something Carmen would prepare. As you check the ingredients, you notice there are some major differences from Carmen’s dish. All in all, the only thing that stops you from texting Carmen is your pride. And true fear.

Absolutely dreading facing Carmen, you make it to The Bear during dinner time. Which, obviously, is the worst possible timing. You’re only praying that he’s not in the kitchen but hiding in his office, deep in paperwork.

It’s Sydney who you meet first as you sneak into the restaurant through the back door. She grabs your arm.

“Don’t go to talk to him now! He’s in a really, really bad mood. Natalie and I were trying to call you.” There’s genuine worry on Sydney’s face, her eyes big and honest.

“I don’t understand what happened,” you frown. You can feel a headache approaching from the intense day in the office. “I think he should tell me himself if there’s a problem.”

“I’ve been trying to work it out with him, to explain—”

“Explain what?” you question, more sternly than you usually are around Syd.

She falters. “It’s just this stupid thing—and we love having you—don’t let Carmy upset you,” Sydney half-explains. It doesn’t make much sense, and you shake your head, heading to the office. You’re more mad than afraid now.

You don’t wait for an invite after you knock shortly. Closing the door behind you, you find Carmen leaning against the desk, a bottle of water in his hand.

Everything inside of you drops the second he lays his eyes on you. There’s no doubt he’s angry.

“Didn’t Natalie tell you you don’t have to come here again?” Carmen asks curtly. “I’m surprised you think it’s okay to be here.”

Not expecting Carmen to be this harsh from the beginning, you swallow instead of answering.

“I hope that you’re happy now,” he says meanly, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out, sincerely meaning it.

Carmen straightens up, watching you like a feline. “The recipe. It’s out. One fucking thing I asked not to get out, and now the whole of America can see and fucking even cook it at home.”

You’re frozen to the spot. From the very beginning, you knew that Carmen is not a person to mess with, hoping that you would never experience his anger directed at you. Now it’s happening.

You want to say something about no one being able to cook the way he does, but it’s pointless. Instead, you’re fighting off the flush on your face from embarrassment. You feel like a child being scolded, but you don’t want to look like one.

The muted but still loud kitchen noises bleed through the closed door. A shout, clattering. Not loud enough to stop Carmen from piercing you through and through with his ice-cold eyes.

“I promise I didn’t do anything like that,” you say, desperately wanting the chef to believe you. “I swear!”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand propped on his waist. You wait, breathless, for his next move, scared to death. The shirt you have on is wet with your sweat. The really badly smelling kind—the one your body produces when you’re stressed or scared. And you’ve been stressed since the very morning. You flinch when you move your arm and the odor hits your nose, hoping that Carmen can’t smell you. You would be mortified. The strap of your tote bag is digging into your shoulder painfully, but you don’t dare to move to put it down to relieve your arm.

“This all doesn’t—it doesn’t make any sense,” Carmen starts pacing, looking down at the floor and not at you anymore. You’re not sure if it’s better this way. “You come here, wanna do a fucking interview with me, or some shit, then you show up again—this time wanting to work here. For free! So, please, tell me—how does it sound, huh?”

Petrified, you realize how exactly it all sounds. When Carmen says it like this, it makes you look like a fraud. Like a terrible, terrible person. A liar. Your mind goes weeks back, back to the moment you actually thought of maybe digging some scoop in here, maybe convincing Carmen to do the interview after all. But it’s far from how he’s making the situation sound.

“Carmen,” you start without knowing what you want to say. Carmen’s stopped walking around the tiny office like a caged animal, and he’s again looking at you. There’s so much tension in his face, back hunched. “It sounds bad, but may I explain—”

“You may not,” he cuts you off briskly. His neck—normally a place you find sexy—is all red, and the thick vein there is getting more and more prominent by the second. “No one fucks with my business, you understand?” Oh—and he’s shouting now.

The natural defense, you didn’t know existed, is to make yourself smaller. Somehow, anyhow. You hang your head, avoiding looking at his face. You just can’t meet his eyes, even though Carmen’s bowing and tilting his head to force you to.

“It’s like I have to start asking the staff to sign an NDA,” he carries on.

Carmen’s getting slowly closer and closer to you, pushing you against the wall by the door. He’s not touching you but only because you’re not allowing it. You’re sick with humiliation. Lost for words, probably for the first time in your life.

“—and Nat fucking leaves me here—us, all of us—and that’s just not fair. I would expect so, so much more from my sister. Not that my brother was much better,” he chuckles humorlessly, but you see it’s more like an effort to catch his breath. “Lousy fuckers… Do you think you do your job well here, chef?”

He’s scaring you now. The hair by his temples and above his forehead is damp, and his gesticulation is wild and weird.

“Do we disgust you here, is that right, hm?” Carmen probably finally sees your frightened expression because he adds, “Why would you buy food somewhere else and then come here to eat it?!” You understand that he’s referring to the day he saw you eating the sandwich by the rear exit. Unsure whether he expects you to reply, you decide to stay quiet. Your knees are starting to shake, from exhaustion after the long day and perhaps, from Carmen’s current behavior.

“It made ME sick,” he says, his face just inches from yours when one of his hands slams into the thin wall right next to your head. The noise echoes in the room, and you’re desperately hoping it’s not loud enough for the others to hear from outside. You would die on the spot if they knew what’s going on here.

“Who do you think you are?” Carmen shouts some more, loud, by your ear. It vibrates through you and never stops. You’re shivering all over, you notice. It’s not okay, not okay!

At last, you raise your head, chin jutting out. “No one’s going to talk to me like this. No one,” you spit out in the chef’s face, taking him by surprise. “Don’t you ever shout at me again,” and you jab him right in the middle of his chest, instead of punching him there like he deserves.

When you’re leaving his office and rushing to the back exit, you hear Carmen yelling.

Everything feels tense and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is set so hard your teeth could crush from the pressure. The fresh air hits your face, and you focus on breathing deeply through your nose. The sounds remind you of a steam engine. You walk for about a minute, mind blank with the shock. Only when you turn a corner do you allow yourself to stop, which causes the first tears to fall. You’re so mad at yourself. Why the fuck are you crying?! There’s so much frustration in the crazy mixture of emotions you’re feeling. You’re completely overwhelmed with it, not knowing what to focus on at first.

Out of habit, you look for your phone in your handbag to check the screen. The fucking heavy bag that’s been killing your shoulder. Frustrated, you let it slide off your arm and down to the sidewalk. You don’t even care if it breaks, as it lands with a noisy, dull sound. It had been years since you got properly yelled at, and you’re angry that it affects you this much. You promise yourself to take a few seconds here, in the middle of an empty street, then call a cab. At home, you can cry.

PART II

#here it is! i can't quite believe that it's happening #the bear #fic #my fic #carmen berzatto x the reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto fanfic #carmen berzatto fic #the bear fanfiction #carmen berzatto x you

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libraryofgage · 1 year ago

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PJO Steddie Part Three

Part One | Part Two

I hope y'all are ready for some backstory in this bitch hfdjsk

Anyway, we learn some more godly parents, but one remains a mystery for now.

Also, if you like my writing, maybe consider commissioning me! I have, like, student loans hitting harder than I'd like, so I've opened commissions on ko-fi. You can read more about prices and such in this post.

Anyway, hope you have fun reading! And, as always, if you see any typos no you didn't ;)

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Getting to Athens, Tennessee, had required a mix of bus rides, a single divine taxi ride, and a pair of knock-off winged shoes that Eddie should probably put out of their misery before they get him killed. Getting back to camp, thankfully, only requires the van Steve and the kids use to get around.

Said van, at first glance, looks like a hunk of junk. It seems to have stepped right out of the 80s, its paint is faded and scratched with dents in more than a few spots, and the wheels look about two tiny potholes from popping. As they get closer, Steve pulls a key ring from his pocket, and Eddie notices that it's a physical key and not one of the wireless fobs.

When they get inside, though, the whole van is transformed. The seats are made of the softest leather Eddie has ever felt, there are seven in the back for all the kids to be comfortable without arguing about space, and the sheer number of cup holders is enough to bring Eddie near tears. "This is fucking metal," Eddie says, practically melting into the passenger seat as the kids buckle up in the back and Steve starts the van.

"I got it after we outgrew my BMW," Steve says, shrugging as he checks on the kids and Eddie before pulling out of the parking lot.

"Steve says it's a surprise gift from our father," El pipes up from the back.

"Yeah," Dustin says, his voice excited as he leans forward and pokes his head between Steve and Eddie, "Cuz he doesn't know he bought it!"

Steve snorts and pushes down the bill of Dustin's cap as he heads towards the highway.

"So, is Zeus your dad, too?" Eddie asks, twisting around to look at El.

"No. Steve and I share a human father," El explains.

Even without looking, Steve can feel Eddie's confusion. "I try not to think about how I came into being," he says. "Just know our father seems to be a bit of a slut for Greek mythological figures."

"Wait," Eddie says, waving his hand, "does that mean Zeus was, like, a woman? Is Zeus your mother?"

"No clue. Like I said, I prefer not to think about it," Steve says again, shooting Eddie a look.

And Eddie drops it despite his growing questions. When a gorgeous boy tells you to stop asking about the impossibility of his birth, you shut up and listen.

A while later, as Steve is about to drive over the Tennessee state line and the kids doze off in the back, Eddie glances at Steve and shifts in his seat. His leg starts to bounce, his fingers drumming against his knee, as he tries to figure out which question to ask first. Eventually, he ends up blurting out, "So how did you manage to not die?"

Steve blinks and snorts, stifling the rest of his laughter so he doesn't wake the kids. He glances at Eddie, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Well, how much of the story do you want to hear?" he asks.

"All of it." Eddie wants to know everything about Steve. How has he kept all these kids alive and for how long? When did they start traveling the country like this? When did he learn about his heritage? What does he like? What does he hate? Does he believe in fated love and love at first sight?

Okay, that last one can probably wait a little longer. Like, two more days, at least.

Steve hums softly, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel as though he's trying to decide where to start. "I didn't know about Zeus until I was eleven," he finally says. "I only learned then because my dad couldn't figure out any other explanation for how lightning struck on clear days whenever I was angry at other kids."

"Didn't you have to deal with monsters?" Eddie asks.

"Yes. And no." Steve frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know how in all those stories Zeus will change his form to get with all those women? Like, he'll become whatever he needs to get what he wants."

"I'm familiar, yeah."

"It's a little like that, but I don't change my form. I guess I change my vibe? I can make monsters think I'm the son of a lesser deity. It got even easier when El came along because monsters don't target her."

"Why not?" Eddie asks, perking up some. If El has somehow figured out how to make herself invisible to monsters, maybe other campers can learn, too.

Steve grimaces, and Eddie immediately pushes back the urge to push for more information when he says, "It's...complicated. Let's not get into it right now."

"Okay," Eddie says, flashing Steve what he hopes is a reassuring smile when Steve glances at him. "When did you meet El, then?"

"Five years ago now, when I was fifteen. El's mother showed up, dropped her off with me, threatened me with death if she ever got hurt, and then left. El was, like, just eleven at the time, and our dad was no help. He just shrugged it off and gave me a bigger allowance to care for her."

"Was he not around?"

"No. He...travels. We haven't spoken to him in four years. He hasn't tried speaking to us, either. Despite me literally being Zeus's kid, he can't exactly show me off or anything. And El...well, he can't take her to any functions, either."

Eddie nods, pushing down the urge to ask why. But Steve said he doesn't want to talk about it, so Eddie instead asks, "And what about the rest?"

Steve hums, merging into another lane. "Well, El and I stayed in place for about a year. Then we saw some weird snake monster dragging Will around like a road snack. We saved him, but I almost died. It was my first fight, you know? But I lived, obviously, and El and I agreed to take Will back to his hometown. School was one break anyway, so we just did a road trip in my BMW. We ran into Dustin and Mike along the way. Dustin had made these, like, mechanical wings, and Mike was goading him on to give them a try. We got to the cliff right as Dustin jumped off."

"Wait," Eddie says, holding his hand up to pause Steve's story. "Are you telling me the kid just...decided to recreate Icarus?" he asks.

"Yeah, pretty much. He thought he could actually succeed since he's so much smarter," Steve explains, getting an amused grin as he thinks of it. "Anyway, didn't work, obviously. Dustin fell but managed to catch himself on the cliffside, Mike was yelling his head off but not actually doing anything, and El just took off running toward them. Which meant I had to run toward them, too. So, Will is trying to calm Mike down, El is practically dangling herself over the cliff, and Dustin is lamenting the loss of his wings."

"How'd you rescue him?"

"I just climbed down myself," Steve says, shrugging like it's no big deal. "I had him get on my back and climbed up, chewed both kids out for doing something so dangerous, and then asked if they needed a ride home, which is how I found out they'd run away and were just wandering."

"Half-bloods running away is pretty common," Eddie says, sinking down in his seat as he watches the trees rush by in the darkness. "A lot of us don't feel understood by our human families, or we don't want to endanger them when monsters track us down."

Steve nods, gripping the steering wheel a little harder. "Yeah, that's what Dustin and Mike said, too. I couldn't just leave them alone, so I invited them to come with us. Mike and Will get along really well, and Dustin is a little shit, and it's good for El to have friends her own age, so it all worked out."

"That still leaves out three whole kiddos," Eddie says.

"Well, Lucas and Erica we met in Will's hometown. Their dad and Will's mom had found each other and, like, bonded over having demigod kids. When we brought Will back, we met Lucas and Erica at this, like, barbeque thing to celebrate him being safe. And their parents ended up suggesting that we continue the road trip so the kids could be around others like them before school started again."

"Usually," Eddie says, fiddling with one of his rings, "parents go two ways. They either get really obsessed with keeping their kids safe to the point they're never let out of the house, or they completely ignore and reject the godly influence. But it sounds like their parents weren't doing either of those."

"Having each other helped. There was someone they could turn to when they felt doubt or just wanted to complain. When you're isolated, though, you just do whatever you think will keep you going, even if it might hurt the people you care about."

"You put that...really well."

"I've had a lotta time to think about it," Steve admits, frowning slightly before sighing and continuing with the story. "Anyway, we met Max and her brother a few towns over. It's...not a great story, actually. Her brother was a dick, like, massively horrible. He had a lot of problems and took way too much after his godly father in terms of anger. We ended up fighting because of how he treated Max and it didn't end great, but Max joined us and that's when I realized we needed a new car because the kids were piled on top of each other in the back. We got this conversion van in the next town with my dad's credit card, and we've been traveling ever since."

It's a lot to take in, and Eddie can tell there's a lot that Steve is leaving unsaid, but he doesn't call him out for it. "Okay, so, the whole not dying thing?" he asks.

Steve snorts. "Well, when you're chaperoning a gaggle of demigods, you get good at fighting off monsters. We've also had some...help along the way from a few goddesses, though."

Eddie perks up, looking at Steve like he's an alien. "You got help from goddesses? Which ones?"

"Sometimes, I'll pray to Hestia and she'll direct us to a motel with vacancies that'll be safe for the night. Or, uh, Demeter. I'll pray to her and fruit will grow on some trees or something. Hecate treated us to lunch once, said she found us amusing, and thanked me for the entertainment. Nike, Lucas, Max, and I have all played basketball together. I mean, she smoked us, no question, but she's part of the reason this van can run a few more miles without any gas. Hera helped once, sorta."

"Hera helped you? Hera? The goddess notoriously known for hating children of Zeus? That Hera?"

"Yeah, kinda surprised me, too. But, I mean, she's also the goddess of motherhood or something, right? And all she really ever wants is Zeus to be faithful. I don't think it's too much to ask, and I can't imagine the bullshit she goes through because of him. Anyway, we were getting attacked by this hydra, and I was really struggling to protect the kids. I mean, those heads were practically tearing me apart. And then she just, like, walks up and flicks her hand and the thing is gone. She told me to do better and then, like, disappeared. Not the weirdest thing that's happened, but it's up there."

And Eddie is starting to understand how they're not dead. It's just Steve. Like the prophecy was just Steve. Somehow, he's managed to get himself into the good graces of several goddesses and get their help. It's not entirely unheard of to get a god's favor, but having so many just be genuinely interested in you is unthinkable.

Eddie gets it, though. Steve fascinates him. He's like a magnet that Eddie doesn't want to fight. "So, uh, the kids," Eddie says, trying to keep his mind from lingering on Steve and just how incredible he is, "Who are their parents?"

"Lucas and Erica are kids of Aphrodite."

"Oh, does she like you, too?" Eddie asks.

Steve frowns, looking like he's just been reminded of something sour and gross. "No, we're not on good terms," he says, his voice a little frosty, and Eddie's mouth is suddenly dry.

"Good to know," he manages, his voice a little strained.

"Anyway, Dustin is a child of Athena. Max's mom is Nemesis. Will's dad is Morpheus, and Mike's dad is Plutus. Which has worked out well for us, actually. He keeps finding money on the street whenever we really need it."

"What about El?"

"El's mother...is complicated. We don't really talk about her," Steve says, his words soft and pleading, and Eddie immediately zips his mouth shut, winking conspiratorially at Steve when he glances over.

Then he unzips his mouth and says, "You know, you're pretty metal, Stevie."

Steve laughs, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth and glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the kids are still sleeping. When he sees that they are, he relaxes a little. "I've never been called metal before," he says, glancing at Eddie.

"Well, that's a shame. I'll be sure to tell you whenever you're being particularly metal, big boy."

"Big boy?" Steve asks, amusement clear in his voice, and Eddie suddenly worries that Steve doesn't actually like the nickname but it trying to play it off.

Unfortunately, the problem is that Eddie has never been one to filter himself. So when Steve calls him out for the nickname and he panics, Eddie's knee-jerk reaction is to say, "Oh, would you prefer something else? How about pretty boy? Sweetheart? Gorgeous? Handsome?"

Even though it's dark out, Eddie can still see the blush that spreads across Steve's cheeks, the way his fingers tighten on the wheel until his knuckles turn white. He's getting flustered, and Eddie feels himself getting flustered, too, at the idea that it's because of him. He suddenly wants to see what else he can say or do to make that blush spread, and he wants to know just how far it spreads beneath the collar of Steve's shirt.

"Just, uh, whatever you prefer, I guess," Steve mumbles, keeping his eyes resolutely focused on the road and missing Eddie's surprised expression. He does, however, sneak a glance just in time to see the surprise morph into an unbridled grin.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Eddie says, leaning back in his seat and looking forward to spending the rest of this road trip discovering what makes his Stevie tick.

----

Tag List! There is still room, I think lol

@mugloversonly, @mentallyundone, @hairdryerducks-blog, @carriethesaint, @lunabyrd, @weekend-dreamer7, @farfaras, @littlelady03, @my-tears-are-becoming-a-sea20, @mogami13, @a-little-unsteddie, @itsall-taken, @queenie-ofthe-void, @tinyplanet95, @littlebluejane, @hangoversandhandgrenades, @rabbitwhoeatsstars, @bisexualdisastersworld, @steddieinthesun,

@paintgonewrong, @sadcanadianwinter, @deehellcat, @blanketlicker, @angrydonutdestiny, @booksareportal, @fallingchemicaldiscos

#steddie #steddie fic #semi divine steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #percy jackson au #the party #my writing

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roosterforme · 2 years ago

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Airplane Mode Part 2 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: When Bradley manages to secure a seat on your flight once again, he has to fight against the clock to make sure you understand he's sincere.

Warnings: Fluff, adult banter, swearing

Length: 2900 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This is part 2 of 2! Here is Part 1! Check my masterlist for more Top Gun fun!

Bradley was just about to dock in Japan. He was so anxious to turn his phone on after nine days at sea. Not because of all of the junk mail and app update alerts, but because there was a small chance he had a text message from you waiting for him.

"Come on," he whispered, hoisting his backpack and small duffle higher onto his shoulders. But as his phone booted up, it was becoming obvious that there was nothing from you.

Bradley sighed. He had been hopeful where he shouldn't have been, and now he just felt disappointment.

He took a taxi to his hotel, got settled in his room with a huge platter of sushi, and then looked up tickets for a flight back to San Diego. His mission had been successful, but he was happy to have it completed.

His finger hovered over two flight options for the following day. He could leave in the morning and get back to his own bed faster. Or, he could get the flight that left Tokyo tomorrow evening and hope like hell that you were working. He knew the Navy would reimburse his economy ticket, but he wasn't taking any chances. He paid for the first class upgrade with his credit card; it would be worth every penny of the additional six hundred dollars just for the chance to look at you again. He selected the same spot next to the window, right across from the fold down seat.

Then he turned on the TV, found a Japanese soap opera, and pretended it was the same one you liked. And then he slept like a log, his body still not used to this time zone and the horrible beds he had been sleeping in. When he woke up, he got to the airport way earlier than was strictly necessary, so he drank some Japanese beers and bought himself a bunch of snacks to pass the time.

He was so antsy. And for what? Just to be disappointed? You had tucked his phone number in your pocket. Unless you had accidentally washed the napkin with your clothing, you had intentionally decided not to contact him. So even if he saw you again, it was going to be a strictly 'Bradley can look, but he may not touch' scenario. Because the last thing he wanted to do was make you uncomfortable by becoming one of the creepy guys who probably ruined whole itineraries for you.

When it was time to scan his ticket and make his way aboard the waiting aircraft, he tried his best to relax. He was greeted by a male flight attendant, but he could see ugly loafers just below the curtain, and his heart skipped around. He quickly stowed his bags and took his seat, keeping his eyes on the curtain the entire time.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, the way you pushed the curtain aside. You were smiling and talking to the other flight attendant as your eyes drifted across the interior of the aircraft until your gaze settled on Bradley. He was frozen to the spot, watching your eyes flutter closed, your eyelashes brushing your cheeks. You bit your lip and grinned at him.

"Welcome aboard, sir. Can I get you anything before we take off?" you asked him, repeating the exact words you had spoken to him last time.

You just laughed as you took a step closer to him. "Do you really want me to answer that?" he whispered as he looked up at you. "I haven't stopped thinking about you in the last ten days."

Your lips parted in surprise. "Oh?"

Bradley nodded and really took a good look at you. You had styled your hair differently today, but everything else was just the same. His memory hadn't done justice to the soft curve of your cheeks or the shape of your lips. In person, you were a work of art.

You stepped further out of the aisle as more passengers shuffled along, coming to stand so close to Bradley, that he had to look way up to see your face. "I may have looked up the passenger manifest for this flight last night," you told him with a teasing tone to your voice. "And I may have picked up this flight instead of flying back tomorrow. I was hoping you were Bradshaw comma Bradley."

"That's me. Bradshaw comma Bradley. And I claimed the best seat in the house." His heart was skipping along to an unknown song, a new one that he would love to play on his piano for you. "But you didn't text me."

"Ah, no. I did not," you replied, taking a small step away from him. You looked embarrassed now. "I wasn't sure you really expected me to. Thought maybe you charm a different flight attendant on all of your trips."

Bradley's eyes went wide. He had come on too strong last time. Made it seem like he did this shit on a regular basis. His heart was still pounding, but the song was far less pleasant now.

"You think any other flight attendant is half as lovely as you are?"

You just shrugged and smirked at him. "I don't know. You tell me." You turned to greet some more passengers, leaving Bradley staring at your backside.

"Don't be a creep," he muttered to himself as his eyes drifted down your legs and settled on your loafers again. And to his dismay, someone took the aisle seat next to him; the flight was completely sold out. How was he supposed to flirt with you this time, while seated next to a stern looking man who was reading the Wall Street Journal. And this time you had to divide your attention between the two men while you did your safety briefing about the exit row.

Bradley had to wait until everyone was settled and you were getting into your fold down seat for take off, before you even looked at him again. As soon as Wall Street Journal dude put some earbuds in, Bradley sighed in relief. "I can guarantee they are not."

You gave him a puzzled look.

"The other flight attendants. None of them are even half as lovely. I've never once flirted with any of them. None except you. I haven't given my phone number to a woman in months. You even got me thinking about your loafers. And I was kind of crushed when I turned my phone on at the docks and only had emails from my great-aunt Sandy to read."

It looked like you were trying not to laugh, and Bradley could physically feel himself striking out with you. But then you softly said, "You were so smooth. Got a little scared."

As the plane lifted off, Bradley smiled. "But you checked the flight manifests."

"I did," you agreed, tucking your face to the side in embarrassment.

"Do you still have my number?"

Your eyes popped up to meet his. "Saved in my phone. As Bradshaw comma Bradley."

His smile grew in size. "I watched a Japanese soap opera last night. Not sure if it was the one you like, and I was very confused about how the characters knew each other, but I'm a little bit obsessed with it already."

You took a deep breath as the plane reached cruising altitude. "So you don't just flirt with everybody?"

"Of course not," he answered immediately.

"And if I texted you to see if you wanted to hang out next week when I have time off?"

His eyes went a little wide. "I would drop everything."

"Okay," you said with a smile as you stood to help someone who called for you, and your knees brushed against his leg.

Bradley's eyes followed you before settling on Wall Street Journal dude who was already looking at him.

"Nice one, son," he told Bradley with a nod of his head.

A laugh escaped Bradley. "Literally unbelievable, right?"

"Quite," he replied before turning his gaze back to his newspaper.

Bradley settled himself against his seat, listening for your voice as he occasionally heard you over the sounds of the plane and passengers. He knew of a decent sushi place near his house with a takeout menu. He'd figure out how to get Japanese shows on his TV at home. He could already picture how you would look on his couch. He wondered if you wore your loafers with jeans.

You didn't take Bradley's drink order, rather you delivered him an unprompted cosmopolitan with his dinner. And when you brought him a second one as it was getting later and darker, your fingers met his.

"I'm sorry I didn't text you. I wanted to."

He grinned as you collected his dinner tray along with Wall Street Journal dude's tray; he had dozed off with his meal half eaten.

"You can make it up to me by texting me when we land so I can have your number."

You nodded and rolled your eyes. "I'll make it up to you. Now stop flirting and let me work. The guys in 3C and 3D are a handful."

Bradley's brow scrunched up. "Is there a guy giving you a hard time?" He was already about to stand up, but you planted your palm on his chest and eased him back against his seat.

"No. Nothing like that," you promised. "God, you're sweet."

Bradley just gaped up at you, so close he could feel your breath on his cheek as you let your fingers trail up to the collar of his Top Gun sweatshirt. When you grazed the scar on his neck with your fingertip, he was practically panting.

"You'll tell me if they get out of hand?" he asked, voice deep and raspy.

"You gonna rush in and protect me?" you asked as you released him to continue gathering up the trays.

"I told you I would flex for you, Baby."

You actually giggled as you collected the rest of the dishes and shot Bradley a wide eyed look. "You sure did." Then you were gone, behind that curtain and out of his sight.

It was getting late, but Bradley wasn't tired in the least. He was currently dedicated to watching you shuttle dinner trays and glasses back to the galley as each first class passenger seemed to be dozing off. Every time you passed his row, you smiled at him.

When you didn't emerge for quite some time, Bradley stood and stepped gingerly over his sleeping seatmate and made his way toward the lavatory. He paused at the curtain, which had been left open several inches. You were standing in the small galley, stacking the catering trays and depositing them into the slotted metal cart. He watched you work for a few beats, your movements methodical, your expression a little dreamy. He was hoping he was the cause of that.

Bradley pulled the curtain aside a few more inches, and you turned to face him, an expression of professional caution fell into place that immediately melted away again. "Bradshaw comma Bradley. Welcome to my office."

He laughed and ducked his large form inside the galley with you, letting the curtain fall mostly closed behind him. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just on my way to the restroom."

Bradley was silenced as you set down the last tray and then reached for the front of his sweatshirt, bunched the fabric up in your fist, and used it to pull him closer to you. When your lips brushed against his in the sweetest kiss, it sent him reeling. As you started to pull away, he dipped his head closer to yours, and you kissed him a little harder.

"Lavatory is that way," you whispered, your nose brushing his mustache as you pointed to Bradley's left.

"Oh. Right." He wanted to keep kissing you, but when you released your hold on his sweatshirt, Bradley backed out of the curtained off area and let himself into the tiny bathroom. He looked in the mirror to see that his cheeks were flushed and he was grinning.

He washed his hands and did his best to fix his hair and straighten out his clothing, and when Bradley walked past the galley again, you were waiting for him.

He drank you in from head to toe, loving the way your hip was leaning against the counter as you traced your lower lip softly with your fingertips. With wide eyes and parted lips, you reached for him at the same time he tucked himself inside the small space and pulled the curtain closed.

Your lips mashed against his, and Bradley groaned as you threaded your fingers through his hair. It took him a second to get his hands on you, but when he did, you melted into him. He ran his hands softly from your hips to your waist, wrapping them around you and pulling you closer.

Bradley had goosebumps as you raked your fingers down the back of his neck, and you were nibbling on his lower lip, teasing him with your tongue.

You pulled away from his lips with a soft gasp, but you continued to stroke your fingers along his neck and through his hair. "I've never done anything like this before."

But you didn't even give him a chance to respond before you were kissing him again, softer this time, your nose bumping his as you nipped at his lips.

"Shit," Bradley gasped, squeezing your waist as your lips drifted over his cheek and across his jaw. "I'm about to go bankrupt following you from San Diego to Japan every week."

You laughed and started to back out of his grasp. "I'm sorry I didn't text you. It's the first thing I'm going to do when we land."

Bradley licked his lips, already missing the feel of you as he released your waist.

"You should go sit down before I get in trouble," you whispered, running your fingertips across your lips again. "You're definitely trouble, Bradshaw comma Bradley."

But Bradley stroked your cheek with his thumb until you dropped your hand from your lips, and he kissed you one more time.

"Nah, I'll be good for you."

He laughed as you shoved him out of the galley, and he made his way back to his seat. Patiently he sat and waited, and soon you were silently folding down your seat and tucking your knees between his long legs, like they belonged there.

Bradley leaned forward and held out his palm. When you let first your fingers and then your entire hand press against his, he whispered, "I'm taking you out for lunch when we land."

"Are you?" you asked, laughing softly.

"Yeah. I'm dying for a first date."

You were silent for a beat before you said, "I'm free."

Bradley held your hand until the sun started to brighten the cabin. You bustled around, taking care of everyone until it was time to land. And when the plane was firmly on the ground, Bradley watched you pull your phone out of your pocket.

"I'm turning off airplane mode, and then I'm going to text you," you promised.

Bradley scrambled to turn his phone on as well, and when a text arrived with your last name and first name separated by a comma, he saved you to his contacts and smiled as you stood to help passengers with their bags.

Once again, Bradley waited until everyone else deboarded ahead of him, preferring to stay and watch you next to the rest of the crew. He wanted to kiss you, but he forced himself to leave after you told him, "Thanks for flying with us."

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

You took your time cleaning up and organizing the first class galley and disinfecting the space. As soon as Bradley had deboarded he texted you back, asking if you would like to get sushi for lunch with him. Of course you would. You'd been thinking about him since you first laid eyes on him ten days ago.

And the kisses! What had come over you! It was so unprofessional! But you couldn't seem to help yourself. He was so big and handsome. He smelled good, and he kept looking at you like you were perfect. A girl can only handle so much chemistry before something boils over.

You would kiss him again as soon as you saw him. That was already settled.

After grabbing your bag and your badge, you deboarded, telling the captain you'd see him again in a few days, and you glided up the jetway with a smile on your lips. When you exited out into the terminal and saw Bradley waiting for you next to a kiosk that sold sunglasses, your smile erupted into a giggle.

"Are you waiting for me?" you asked when you were close to him.

"Of course," he replied with a bright smile, and you dropped the handle of your bag and wrapped your arms around his neck. He held you close as you kissed him, and when the kiosk owner yelled at the two of you for bumping his display, Bradley took you by the hand.

"Let's go get some sushi and get to know each other better."

You walked with him out into the San Diego heat, hand in hand.

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

Thanks for reading! Hope you loved it! Thanks again to @bradshawsbitch for the insider scoop and for being lovely!

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#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster fanfic #rooster x female reader #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction

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fandoms--fluff · 2 months ago

Note

Hey could I request HCs for being Kates younger sibling who she is protective of?

Protective Sister Kate Bishop Headcannons

Flufftober, October 22nd

Younger sister reader x Kate Bishop

Warnings: none

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She would definitely teach you how to use a bow and arrow

When you guys were younger, you used to play hide and seek all around the massive penthouse.

^usually would end up with getting scolded by your guys' Mom

You would've been there right next to Kate when the battle of nEW York happened. And ever since then she's hated to leave you out if her site.

Which was especially hard when she went off to college.

^but she would make sure you guys texted or called or video chatted every day while she's away.

You'd get annoyed with her protectiveness of wanting to always know where you are - hence you calling her 'Mom numbero dos' whenever she really annoys you.

She'd try to keep you out of the Ronan, Maya, and tracksuit business for as long as she could, but you found out spectacularly fast from her suspiciousness.

Which that would end up with you pestering her until she introduces you to Clint.

And that interaction by itself would be a whole scene in your guys' aunt's condo.

You'd tell Clint embarrassing stories about Kate's obsession with him since you guys were kids.

^Which she would throw anything in front of her at you to make you shut up and she would blush like crazy.

When you eventually meet Yelena, you'd take a big liking to her and Kate would be super skeptical about your guys' friendship. Considering the whole her being a trained assassin thing and you being only sixteen.

She would be teaching you how to drive in the city but after ten minutes make you pull over from you honking at a taxi, calling the driver 'jackass' as loud as you could. 'Okay, no more of this for you today' She would say and make you switch sides with her.

Clint and Yelena would also become super protective of you (making you roll your eyes) - it's even worse once the two of them sort of make up after the big fight at Rockefeller skating rink.

Whenever you and Kate have down time, you guys have movie nights, snuggled up on the couch with blankets and stuffing your faces with junk food.

Kate would try her hardest to not let you fight in any of the fights that happen in the city. Especially if they are clearly dangerous.

You would play with her bow and arrows around the house and may or may not have broken more than a few vases. And tried to clean them up before anyone notices.

She would sometimes go to extreme lengths and lock you in a closet when you wouldn't back down from trying to come along to fight the bad guys.

#kate bishop #kate bishop x reader #kate bishop headcannons #kate bishop x sister reader #kate bishop x little sister reader #kate bishop x younger sister reader #kate bishop x female reader #kate bishop x fem reader #clint barton #yelena belove #yelena belove x reader #cute #imagines #marvel #marvel headcannons #fluff #writing #fanfic #flufftober

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enderwolf91 · 3 months ago

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Bastion players are either the cruelest, cold hearted fucks who don't give a shit and plow through the team-

or they are literally the cutest ray of sunshine to ever grace this planet

A bastion named BMO (assumingly from adventure time) was spamming his jingle bells voice line as we ran around new junk city, picking me up from spawn jumping and singing his little tunes as he taxied me back to the fight cuz there was a Sombra legit hunting me down every fight

#enderrambles #bastion overwatch #overwatch #overwatch 2 #can there be more people like this? please?#nornalizing being fun and silly in quickplay #leave the sweating and tryharding in comp please

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junktaxi · 3 months ago

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birdo-is-here · 2 days ago

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ooouuuuu more writing has struckkk 💥💥💥 Uriel pov timmeee !!!!!! ?!?!?!?!?

word count: 840~

warning for implied abuse!

Generally, as soon as the matters of a meeting were done, and the Seraphs and guests were all dismissed, the Archangels preferred to stay back — at least the few minutes, typically for casual chatter.

It was only a recent addition to the routine, but Uriel had to say they quite enjoyed it. They suspected many of the others enjoyed it as well, even Azrael — though they were typically the first to leave the balcony.

Behind Michael’s seat, a large piece of empty space sat, where Metatron had just been looming behind them all, watching silently. Judging, perhaps.

Michael seemed significantly calmer, now that the statue had left. The entire meeting, Uriel couldn’t help but notice how on edge he’d seemed; constantly fidgeting, completely restless in his seat. No one below the balcony would have noticed, at least, the Supreme Archangel was very good at keeping his voice level when he needed to.

Uriel wasn’t sure if anyone else on the balcony had noticed Michael’s false demeanour. They figured Raphael had; the Doctor seemed to cast glances at him periodically, as if checking on him.

Uriel couldn’t help but notice the bandages wrapped around Michael’s torso, under his robes.

“What is a mailman?” Phanuel suddenly asked, drawing the Guardians attention to the Messenger. They exhaled an amused breath. How ironic.

“It’s a man who delivers mail.” Azrael supplied.

“What’s a mail?”

“Another word for man.”

Hm. “No, not in this case. Mail is a form of communication that humans use to keep in touch from long distances. Through gifts, letters and other random junk.” Uriel corrected, before Phanuel could make a comment about men delivering men, “A man who delivers a man would be a taxi. Or something along those lines.”

Azrael gave a curious trill, while Phanuel gave an intrigued hum of a similar variety.

“What is junk?”

“Trash.” The Death once more supplied, a little more correctly this time.

“Ohh..”

Michael exhaled a breath near them. He usually wasn’t one to be a huge contributor to these chats; Generally Phanuel and Azrael lead that charge, but he was typically more… chatty than this, still. His gaze was turned downwards, a distant look in his eye.

Raphael seemed to be knitting something now, her attention fully elsewhere.

“What are you knitting?” Uriel asked the Doctor, who looked up as her focus was pulled back to the room.

“Oh, some of your Guardians requested a more… human-esc outfit. Supposedly to help with blending in, since they didn’t want to rob any stores,” Raphael responded, her hands stalling. The fabric was a dull pink; it seemed to be the beginnings of a sweater. Uriel gave a curious trill of acknowledgment.

“Tell them to rob the biggies all they want,” Azrael grunted, waving a dismissive hand, “all those corporate fucks care about is money, they can do with losing a bit of it.”

Raphael looked between Uriel and Azrael, “well, tell that to their own leader, not me.” And she continued her knitting, as the Death snuffed. Phanuel leaned over to Azrael, as if quietly asking them something, though he seemed to get shut down rather quickly.

“It’s not getting too in the way of your schedule, is it? I can ask them to find another way, if it’s easier,” Their eyes narrowed in mild concern.

The Doctor waved a dismissed hand. “No, it’s quite alright. I’m a little less stacked up these days, fortunately. I’m happy to give myself a hobby for the time being.”

The Guardian hummed, relaxing some amount. “Very well, then. Please, do tell me if you don’t have time, though.”

“Of course.”

Michael seemed to be getting restless again, Uriel noticed, claws scratching roughly at the arm of his chair, though his eyes stayed as distant as ever. Eyes narrowing in concern, the Guardian leaned over to the Soldier.

“Are you alright, love?” They lowered their voice, though they knew at least one person in the room would hear it anyway. Michael was suddenly brought back to the present time, his gaze swiftly turning to the other.

“Yes— Yes, I'm fine. Sorry.” He sounded a little sheepish, his voice softer than usual. Uriel produced a worried hum, but they didn’t try to prompt any further.

Eventually though, Uriel soon noticed that Michael had left his seat. They looked to the floor, figuring that was the next place he’d be, and sure enough, the Soldier was opening the doors to leave.

Why, he looked rather tired. He was slouched over a little, his eyes still rather distant and unfocused as he stepped out of the room. The doors closed quietly behind him.

This seemed to be a common pattern in that angel. Specifically, immediately or not long after a punishment has just occurred. Generally, the worst ones would leave him this unresponsive.

But the punishments in general had been getting more common recently. They didn’t know what exactly he was trying to prove, but clearly these consequences were wearing on him. They couldn’t say they weren’t worried.

#birdo babbles #birdo babbles for an extended period of time #angel goober shenanigans

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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How Amazon transformed the EU into a planned economy

Amazon is a perfect parable of enshittification, the process by which platforms first offer subsidies to end users until they’re locked in, then make life good for business customers at users’ expense, until they’re locked in, then claw back all the value they can for themselves, leaving just enough behind to keep the lock-in going.

In a new report for SOMO, Margarida Silva describes how the end-stage enshittification of Amazon is playing out in the EU, with Amazon repeating its US playbook of gouging the small businesses who have no choice but to use the platform in order to reach its locked-in customers, making European customers and European sellers poorer:

https://www.somo.nl/amazons-european-chokehold/

The mechanism for this isn’t a mystery. Amazon boasts about it! They call it their flywheel: first, customers are lured into the platform with low prices, especially through Prime, which requires pre-payment for a year’s shipping, which virtually guarantees that customers will start their shopping on Amazon. Because customers now start their buying on Amazon, sellers have to be there. The increased range of goods for sale on Amazon lures in more buyers, who lure in more sellers, with both sides holding each other hostage:

https://vimeo.com/739486256/00a0a7379a

This flywheel creates a vicious cycle, starving local retail so that customers can’t get what they need from brick-and-mortar shops, which funnels sellers into offering their goods for sale on Amazon. The less choice customers and sellers have about where they shop, the more Amazon can abuse both to pad its own bottom line.

There are 800,000 EU-based sellers on Amazon, and they have seen the junk-fees that Amazon charges them skyrocket, to the point where they have to raise prices or lose money on each sale. Amazon uses both tacit and explicit “Most Favored Nation” deals to hide these price-hikes. Under an MFN deal, sellers must not allow their goods to be sold at a lower price than Amazon’s — so when they raise prices to cover Amazon’s increasing fees, they raise them everywhere:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/

It’s not hard to understand why Amazon would raise its fees: the company has an effective e-commerce monopoly. Like Ozymandias, they have run out of worlds to conquer, and so their growth has to come from squeezing suppliers and/or raising prices, not from bringing in new customers. This is likewise true of mobile companies like Apple and Google, who have run out of people who are so excited about incremental mobile hardware gains that they’ll buy a new phone every year, which means that growth has to come from squeezing app vendors:

https://www.tbray.org/ongoing/When/202x/2023/06/09/Pixel-4-to-7

This is likewise true of the streaming companies, which is why Netflix is cracking down on “password sharing”:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/02/nonbinary-families/#red-envelopes

It’s true of the movie studios, which is why they want to zero out their wage bills by replacing writers with automatic plausible sentence generators that will write stupid movies that they think we’ll still pay to see because there won’t be anything else:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/06/people-are-not-disposable/#union-strong

It’s certainly true of Uber, which is why they’ve double the cost of a taxi ride and halved the wages they pay drivers:

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

Monopolies “grow” by making their customers and suppliers worse off. But they have to be careful about this: if it’s obvious that you’re using your market power to screw buyers, you can get in trouble with competition regulators. That’s because the only part of antitrust law that the neoliberal project left intact is “consumer welfare” — the idea that monopolies should only face enforcement when they raise prices and/or lower quality:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/10/play-fair/#bedoya

This focus on price-hikes has given monopolists a free hand to squeeze suppliers and workers, because a monopolist — from Walmart to Amazon — can claim that squeezing your workers and suppliers is necessary to enhancing consumer welfare. The less you pay to produce a product, the cheaper you can price it.

When a company has a lot of seller power, we call it a monopolist. When it has a lot of buying power, we call it a monopsonist. No one ever made a bestselling, family-destroying board game called “Monopsony” so most people haven’t heard of the concept. But monopsony is every bit as dangerous as monopoly, and monopsonists find it far easier to acquire market power than monopolists. Few suppliers can afford to have even 10% of their sales disappear overnight, so a buyer who accounts for 10% of your sales can demand deep discounts and other favorable terms.

Amazon is a monopolist, but it’s also a very powerful and ruthless monopsonist. For example, its audiobook division, Audible, has a 90+% market-share, and it used that market-power to steal at least $100m from audiobook creators, in a scandal dubbed Audiblegate:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/07/audible-exclusive/#audiblegate

For Europe’s 800k sellers who rely on Amazon to reach their customers, the monoposony conditions are blatant and shameless. Take listing fees: Amazon’s “flywheel” pitch claims that as the company grows, it achieves “economies of scale” that can lower its cost basis. But Amazon’s listing fees haven’t changed, even as the company experienced explosive growth in the EU (remember, sellers whose Amazon fees exceed their margins have to pass those fees onto buyers, and also raise their prices everywhere else to satisfy the Most Favored Nation requirement).

Amazon books the revenues from these fees — and other junk-fees it extracts from sellers — in Luxembourg, an EU member nation that provides a tax haven to multinational businesses that want to maintain the fiction that they operate their businesses out of the tiny kingdom. There is sharp competition in the EU to offer the most servile, corrupt environment for multinationals, and Luxembourg is a leader, along with Cyprus, Malta and, of course, Ireland:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

But at least listing fees haven’t gone up, unlike other fees, which have climbed sharply. Amazon falsely claimed that its additional revenues from fees were the result of growth by independent sellers, which Amazon pegged at 65%. Later, the company admitted that the true growth figure was 22%. Meanwhile, fees are up 85%.

The true growth figure might be lower still. Amazon refuses to show the math behind its growth figures, or even say which sellers and sales are included in the figure.

The SOMO report cites research by Juozas Kaziukėnas of the e-commerce research firm Marketplace Pulse, who finds that sellers are now giving 50% of their gross revenues to Amazon, an increase of 10% over the past five years across the whole EU. However, different EU (and ex-EU) countries have experienced much steeper increases in fees — in the UK, fees have nearly doubled (up 98%), and in France, fees more than doubled (up 115%).

Many of these increases come from the Fulfilment By Amazon (FBA) program, which is promoted as an optional service, but which is really obligatory — careful research shows that sellers who warehouse, pack and ship their own goods get banished to the depths of search results, even if they have ratings, costs and times that are competitive with FBA. This is especially true of the “buy box” that lands at the top of most searches. The company refuses to disclose how buy box positioning is determined, but 90% of products in the buy box pay for FBA.

Amazon has used excuseflation to hike its FBA prices, blaming higher energy prices for price hikes that predated the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and blaming covid for price hikes that predated the pandemic.

Italy’s competition authority did yeoman service in uncovering the sleaze of FBA, publishing an investigation that showed that Prime and buy box made the notionally “optional” FBA into a must-have for merchants, meaning that Amazon could jack up FBA prices without losing business.

Another notable source of gouging came in response to the UK and France adopting digital services taxes, which were meant to make up for the tax-base erosion enabled by Luxembourg’s flouting of EU tax law. Amazon passed these taxes straight through to its merchants, without seeing a comparable decrease in the number of sellers using its platforms — an unmistakable sign of market power. If you can raise prices without losing customers, then, by definition, your customers have nowhere else to go.

I’ve previously written about how Amazon’s $31b/year “advertising” market isn’t really advertising — rather, it’s a payola scheme that auctions off the top of a search-listing to the merchant with the most to spend:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

This is how you get a simple search like “cat beds” returning results whose first screen is 100% ads, and whose next five screens are 50% ads, many of them for dog products:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/interactive/2022/amazon-shopping-ads/

Auctioning off search results means that every time you search for something you want, you have to wade through screen after screen of listings for products whose vendors spent more on advertising, leaving less to spend on making quality goods.

This is as true in the EU as it is in the USA. The SOMO report shows that European merchants are required to spend ever-larger sums to show up in results for the exact products they sell, leaving them with a choice between making less money, raising prices, or skimping on quality.

But even the “winners” of Amazon’s gladiatorial combat among vendors can still lose. Amazon uses an automated product removal process that can delete some or all of a merchant’s products, without warning or explanation, and no one at Amazon will explain what a merchant did wrong. That remains true even if a vendor pays for Amazon’s “marketplace consultant” service — ask these paid Virgils why you’ve been cast into Amazon’s pit, and they’ll shrug their shoulders (and bill you for it).

And even if you can navigate the junk fees, the Kafka-as-a-service removals, the war of all sellers against all sellers for search primacy…you still lose. Merchants told SOMO that a product that survives Amazon’s gauntlet is likely to be cloned by Amazon and sold as an Amazon Basic or other house-brand product. Amazon doesn’t charge itself 50% junk fees, so it can always underprice the vendors it knocks off, and give its own products permanent top-of-search placement.

Amazon founder Jeff Bezos once testified under oath before Congress that this doesn’t happen — and then refused to return to Congress when multiple vendors showed evidence that he’d lied:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2021/10/18/amazon-congress-letter-third-party-data/

He definitely lied:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/amazon-india-rigging/

Amazon has faced investigations and enforcement in the EU over this, and settled a claim with a promise to “not use non-public seller data to compete with sellers,” but given the company’s record of broken promises on this score and the difficulty of catching them cheating, it’s pretty naive to think they’ll stick to this.

The report quotes Thomas Höppner, a lawyer who has represented small businesses that Amazon screwed over. Höppner says the problem is that the EU evaluates Amazon’s bad deeds on a “case-by-case” basis, missing the big picture: “By the time one identified problem was seemingly solved, Amazon had long made amendments elsewhere with the same effect. We require a more holistic approach that considers the entire Amazon ecosystem and the various interdependencies within.”

But the EU’s enforcement approach is about to change significantly. The EU just passed the Digital Markets Act (DMA), which imposes a bunch of obligations on Amazon:

allowing sellers to offer their products on other marketplaces at different prices (Article 5.3),

not obliging business users to pay for one of its services in order to use its platform (Article 5.8),

limiting the way Amazon uses non-public seller data to compete with them (Article 6.2)

preventing Amazon from giving top billing in search results to its own products or sellers that have acquired extra Amazon services (Article 6.5)

The report concludes with a suite of recommendations for improving EU enforcement. First, they argue for a return to traditional competition law, abandoning the “consumer welfare standard” that is so friendly to monopsonies and their abuses of suppliers and workers.

They call for a probe into Amazon’s Most Favored Nation deals (“fair pricing policy”), the practice of sponsoring search results, and spiraling fees. They want the EU to adequately fund DMA enforcement, with “measures to prevent regulatory capture.” And they want Amazon to publish clear explanations for how search results, buy box placement, and other practices hidden behind a veil of secrecy.

Amazon will doubtless claim that disclosing how those systems work will make it easier for spammers and scammers to game their way to the top of search results. We should be skeptical of this claim — content moderation is the last domain where anyone takes the bankrupt idea of security through obscurity seriously:

https://doctorow.medium.com/como-is-infosec-307f87004563

Finally, the report calls for breaking up Amazon, forcing it to choose between being a platform seller or a platform user, calling this the only way to “prevent the conflicts of interest between its role as a platform intermediary, seller, and service provider.”

The technical term for this measure is “structural separation” — a rule that bans platform companies from competing with their business customers. This is the principle at work in the US bipartisan AMERICA Act, which would force Google and Meta to spin off the parts of their ad-tech business that put them in a conflict of interest. Right now, Googbook represents both publishers and advertisers, while operating the marketplace where ad sales take place, and they take 51% out of every ad dollar:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-shatter-ad-tech

Structural separation hasn’t really been applied in the US for a generation, but it’s gained currency in recent years, for the obvious reason that the referee can’t also own one of the teams. I was in Germany last week speaking to regulators and politicians, and they espoused skepticism that the EU would embrace structural separation anytime soon.

But they were wrong! Today, the European Commission announced plans to force Google and Meta to sell off their conflict-of-interest ad-tech lines of business, mirroring the provisions of the US AMERICA Act:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2023/06/google-may-soon-be-ordered-to-break-up-its-lucrative-ad-business-eu-warns/

Structural separation really is the policy we should be demanding. It’s amazing that lawyers who would never argue a case in front of a judge who was married to the plaintiff will turn around and defend the idea that Amazon can fairly operate a marketplace where they compete with other sellers.

With Amazon dominating online sales, and with in-person retail cratering, Amazon’s decisions have the power to determine the outcome of whole swathes of Europe’s economy. This is the “planned economy” that the EU claims it detests and seeks to prevent — but it’s an economy planned by distant autocrats in a Seattle boardroom, for the purpose of extracting the surpluses needed to launch an endless procession of penis-rockets.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/14/flywheel-shyster-and-flywheel/#unfulfilled-by-amazon

[Image ID: A desert ruin. In the foreground is a huge Amazon box, with an EU flag in place of its shipping label. Atop the box are the feet and partial legs of an Oxymandias figure.]

Image: Rama (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gladiator_with_sword-Louis_Ernest_Meissonnier-MG_1216-IMG_1223-white.jpg

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

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illegally-blind-and-deaf · 1 year ago

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The incessant ticking of the grandfather clock was about to drive Tintin mad. It wasn't even: the pendulum hadn't been set straight, causing the clock to tick like a heart beat. Just like Tintin's, but his was faster, about to break through his ribs. Pinpricks of tingling pain fired through his ankle, reminding him that his crouched position behind the broken drum was growing increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waited. He almost went to change his position when the tap of Italian leather on the old floor echoed through the room. He froze.

"Where are you hiding?"

A shiver ran down Tintin's spine as the leather shoes stopped inches from his face. "It's like looking in a rabbit's burrow in here. A maze."

Sakharine's deceptively soothing voice bounced around the endless bric-a-brac and it felt to Tintin as though he was surrounded. He didn't move, holding his breath as he watched the shoes move on.

"Come on out, little rabbit. I promise I won't shoot."

It was moments like these that made Tintin regret leaving his revolver at home. Even his faithful dog Milou was nowhere to be seen, trapped outside with the ferocious guard dog in the garden. All he wanted was his model ship, but now he was being hunted by a madman. Surprisingly not the most unusual moment of his career, but certainly blood-chilling.

A low whistle sounded and Tintin nearly jumped as Sakharine became whistling a tune. Soon the whistle turned into a hum and then into an innocent tune with words.

"On the farm, ev'ry Friday

On the farm, it's rabbit pie day

So ev'ry Friday that ever comes along

I get up early and sing this little song"

The yellow beam of Sakharine's torch flashed past him, vanishing quickly as the man moved on. Tintin leaned back slowly, praying that the darkness would cloak his movements. Sakharine's red-clad back could be seen in between the dusty globe and an old statue, moving as he continued singing.

"Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run."

Now was his chance. Praying desperately, Tintin shot out from his hiding spot and bolted between the rows of junk, glancing back at Sakharine's menacing smile. In the pale moonlight, his broad grin and wide eyes reminded Tintin of a cat.

Bang, bang.

Tintin yelped, cowering as the bullets whizzed past his ear. They sliced into the window, allowing Tintin to dive through the splintered glass and onto the overgrown lawn outside.

Bang.

He picked himself up, half-running half-falling to the crumbling brick fence.

Bang.

Tintin would never admit it out loud, but he felt like Peter Rabbit escaping Mr McGregor in that moment as he crawled through a hole in the brickwork, ignoring the dirt clinging to his skin. He ran, his legs pounding and lungs screaming. He would have sprinted all the way to the city if he could have, but after several minutes his legs gave out and he found himself sprawled on the road. Air fought its way into his tight lungs in heaving breaths. Tintin ran his hand through his hair, noticing the violent trembling that racked his body.

Milou.

In his state of sheer panic, he had forgotten about his best friend and trusty companion. "Milou!"

A flurry of white fur came bounding down the road, yapping in an almost accusatory manner at his master. Tintin could have cried with relief at the sight of his dog. Despite Milou's tiny stature, he felt safer being in his company. "Come on. Let's call a taxi and get home."

Mrs Finch's delicious apple pie could be smelt as Tintin stepped into the apartment building. He sighed, relishing the scent when he noticed the song playing on his landlady's radio.

"Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run

Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer's gun

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run, run"

No. With blood pounding in his ears, he sprinted up the stairs to his flat, slamming the door behind him. The clock clicked as he turned the key and he sighed, his knees shaking slightly. A breeze blew through the open window and he rushed to lock it, staring at the figure in the telephone box down the street. Is that... He shook his head, pulling the curtains firmly shut. He was still in a high state of anxiety, seeing things that weren't really there. Why would Sakharine follow him back home to use the telephone box? Tintin almost laughed at the idea.

The telephone rang. Tintin grew cold. Slowly, as though magnets were pulling at his every step, he moved towards the shrill ringing, his chest tightening as he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"I've got you now, little rabbit."

#tintin #les adventures de tintin #the adventures of tintin #milou #writing #oneshot #sakharine #ivan ivanovitch sakharine

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tomatette · 1 year ago

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Prompt #11 - Vampire @huxloween

Stensland and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night (and how it turned out sort of okay in the end, after all)

„Feck you! Feck you, Mister!” Stensland turned around to give Paul one last, withering glare, only to face the closed door instead.

That utter prick!

Stensland fought back tears. Why? Why did he always end up with people like that? It seems like he was always attracted to the wrong sort of person. Either the ladies who just wanted to use him for his body, or the blokes who were so deep in the closet, they should rightfully smell of mothballs and laundry detergent.

GodDAMMIT!

Honestly, when he first discovered that he swung both ways, he’d been utterly delighted. After all, it meant he needn’t limit his search for his soulmate, the love of his life, to just one gender anymore. But it didn’t take long for his elation to turn sour. Because, really? He could understand why the ladies so often complained about how men were treating them now. The amount of entitled arsehole-ness he’d been subjected to ever since he had started dating blokes …

But then, dating was probably a bit of an exaggeration, sadly. Like Paul (that cunt!) they usually just took him somewhere for a quick shag, only to kick him out right after without even a bit of cuddling afterwards. It was demeaning. Utterly and thoroughly so.

Furiously, he blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to cry. But gits like Paul didn’t deserve to have even as much as a single tear shed over them.

“Feck you, Paul” he hissed one last time, before he took off in the direction of the nearest subway station.

It was the wee hours of the morning, and the streets were pretty quiet save for a taxi passing by every now and then, and the occasional drunk stumbling along the sidewalk.

He patted the back pocket of his mustard yellow corduroy trousers for his purse, when he saw the lights of the subway station’s entrance in a distance. But – fecking shit – it wasn’t there. Which probably meant that he’d left it back at Paul’s.

Oh, shite!

Whatever, it couldn’t be helped. All his money – which wasn’t much, but needed to last for the rest of the week – and his monthly ticket were inside, so he couldn’t just say ‘feck it’ and leave it there. As much as he loathed the idea of going back, he didn’t have a lot of other options. None, to be exact.

With a deep sigh, he turned around, resigning himself to the humiliation of having to grovel before the bloke who had kicked him out right after giving him the most spectacularly mediocre orgasm of his life.

He was about half-way there, when Stensland passed the entrance to a dark, narrow alley and heard something that made him stop in his tracks. A moan, yet not one that was emitted in the throes of passion, but one of pain and despair.

Hesitating, he peered into the alley, but it was so narrow, the lights from the streetlamps couldn’t illuminate more than the first metre into it.

Stensland wasn’t a complete bloody flute (though some would say the jury was still out on that one). He knew it wasn’t the smartest call to make, but he ventured into the alley anyway. Just a quick peek to make sure no one was dying or anything, so he could be back on his merry way without having to carry a guilty conscience around with him for the next couple days.

It took a moment for his eyes to get at least a little used to the darkness. He wrinkled his nose. The place was cluttered with junk in various stages of decay, and it reeked of piss and other unsavoury things he didn’t even want to try and distinguish.

“Hello?” His voice sounded overly loud in the quiet of the night, and he felt kind of stupid for even calling out in the first place. Clearly, he had been mistaken and there was nobody there.

He was about to turn around, when he heard it again. Closer this time.

“Hello?” he tried again, despite his better judgement. Honestly, he should have just called 911 and be done with it. But no, of course he had to go check himself first like a total nutjob.

Well, maybe he was a bloody flute after all.

Speaking of ‘bloody’ – was that a leg peeking out from behind the overflowing waste container?

Unthinking, he rushed forward, finding that, yes, it was a leg. And one that was attached to a body, no less. A distinctly male, and very impressive body, with a chest as wide as a barrel and biceps the chap could probably easily squash Stensland’s skull with. If he wasn’t currently busy writhing in agony that was.

“Hey”, Stensland squatted down next to him. “Are you okay?”

And what kind of question was that? It was pretty obvious the bloke was as far from okay as one could get. Stensland couldn’t find any obvious injuries, but that didn’t have to mean they didn’t exist. He wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to first aid. Actually, he had no clue what to do whatsoever. He kind of pitied the man that he, of all people, had been the one to find him. But then, he figured he was still better than no one at all.

The bloke’s only reply was another pained groan, which … okay, that was definitely a case for a professional, which he very assuredly was not. He took his phone out and flipped it open (yes, it was an old flip-phone, sue him), and deflated when the display was completely black. Dammit, he must have forgotten to charge it. Again. How unfortunate.

“Okay, Stensland, think … Think!”

He figured, it might be a good idea to take a closer look at the chap, to try to figure out what the feck was wrong with him. Maybe he was just completely rat-arsed or something. Highly unlikely, but a bloke could hope, right?

He bent forward and could finally see them man’s face – well, as much as possible in the rather dim lighting. The first thing Stensland noticed was how pale he was. As white as a sheet, making the smattering of moles on his skin stand out even more, like an inverted night sky.

His hair was dark and on the longer side, probably in an attempt to cover his rather big ears. Stensland caught himself thinking they were kind of charming, which probably was completely inappropriate, given the situation, but he couldn’t help it. And they matched his other features too, because everything about him was … big. His nose was wide and long, his dark eyes deep-set and his mouth slightly crooked with lips that were currently pressed into a tight line.

He didn’t really seem to see Stensland at first, staring right through him, pupils blown wide. But then he blinked, and it was like a fog was lifted from his eyes. He gasped and then tried to scramble away, his attempt hindered by the dirty wall behind him.

“Go!”

“What?” Stensland was utterly flabbergasted. Of all the reactions he had expected, this wasn’t one of them. “I … you need help.”

“Go! Away!” he bit out, between harsh pants and pained moans. “I don’t know how long I can hold back. You have to leave. Now.”

“But …”

“Now!” He bared his teeth, and Stensland froze when he noticed the overly long canines curving over the bloke’s fat bottom lip.

What. The. Feck?

Another groan – but this time it turned into a growl half-way. And there was feral glint to his eyes that had not been there before.

It was that, more than anything else, that freed Stensland from his blank stupor. He scrambled back, or tried to at least, but he wasn’t fast enough. Everything happened so quickly, he could barely comprehend it. One moment he was sitting with his ass on the cold pavement, the next, he was pulled against the man’s (creature’s? thing’s) broad chest, manhandled like he was nothing more than a human-sized doll.

“Wait,” he pleaded, but he wasn’t sure his voice was even heard.

His heart was hammering and his whole body was thrumming with adrenaline. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Monsters were not supposed to exist. They were nothing but products of overimaginative minds. They had not business mixing with the real world.

His attempt to fight the man off were doomed to fail from the start, but he tried anyway. He kicked and scratched and punched, but it was like attacking a slab of concrete. If the man was feeling it, he sure as hell didn’t let it on.

The next thing Stensland felt was a sharp pain lancing through his neck, followed by a cold sort of numbness, like from anaesthesia. There was a sucking, slurping sound, and his foggy mind idly wondered how long it would take for him to die of blood-loss.

He wouldn’t mind for it to take a while. Now, that the pain was gone, it was kind of nice, even. Like floating on air.

Well, that was it, then, he thought, only mildly disappointed that he never had to chance to meet his other half, when his vision started to get grey and fuzzy at the edges.

Stensland usually woke up slowly and in increments. Not this time, though. His eyes snapped open, and he knew exactly where he was, and why.

What he didn’t know was, how he was still alive.

Carefully, he prodded the two little puncture wounds on the side of his neck with his fingers. They stung and felt slightly sticky, but weren’t actively bleeding, at least.

“Are you okay?”

His head whipped into the direction the voice had come from. Then he scowled at the looming figure hiding in the shadows. “What do you think? You bit me, you fecking animal!”

“I’m sorry,” came the soft reply. “I didn’t mean to, but … I was just so hungry when you found me. I lost control.”

Stensland scoffed. “Obviously.” He squinted into the darkness. “Are you wearing a fecking cowl? What is this, the bloody Middle Ages? Are you a monk? The least you can do, after what you did to me, is show me your goddamned face, don’t you think?”

After a moment of hesitation, the other man pulled back the hood of his jet back robes. His face shone cool and smooth like alabaster, but his eyes were of a surprisingly warm brown. There was regret in them. And self-loathing. Both things Stensland was painfully familiar with.

He watched him chew on his bottom lip with remarkably unremarkable looking canines.

“Better,” he said. “And now – care to explain the meaning of all this? Maybe start with your name, if you don’t mind.”

“Ben,” he said, looking down at his feet sheepishly. “My name is Ben and … I know it sounds crazy, but I’m … um … I’m sort of … a vampire?”

“Don’t worry,” Stensland deadpanned. “I have the marks to prove it, so I’m not overly sceptical. I’m Stensland, by the way. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but I doubt you’d believe me, given the circumstances.”

Ben barked a startled laugh. “I … You’re taking this remarkably well. Aren’t you scared?”

“Should I be?”

“No.” Ben’s shoulders dropped. He very much reminded Stensland of a scolded puppy. “I didn’t meant to drink from you,” he said. “I had managed to avoid attacking anyone for two weeks now, and at first it wasn’t so hard, but …”

“I assume it got harder in time?”

He nodded. “In fact it got worse and worse, up to the point where my instincts took over. I … I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to do … this. I stopped, once I got back to my senses, but it was too late. You were … You would have died, so …” Shrugging, he avoided looking at Stensland. “I guess you could say that I turned you. Even though I didn’t really have a clue what I was doing. I’m still pretty new to this, if you couldn’t tell.” Bashfully, he looked up. “Was it the wrong call to make? I didn’t get the chance to ask you what you wanted. I …”

“Are you asking me if I would have wanted you to let me die?”

He nodded.

“Hell, no!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad you did this. I … would have said yes, you know … if you’d asked me.”

“You would have?” Ben looked at him with an almost hopeful expression on his unusual but handsome face.

“Yes. And now, where are we going to stay? Don’t tell me you live in this dirty alley. I have to admit, I’m not too keen on appropriating some damp crypt or something.” He looked at Ben, frowning. “Do we have to sleep in coffins? I don’t have one, you know? I would honestly prefer my own bed, if that’s even an option. We could crash at my place. It’s a bit of a dump, but you don’t mind, do you?”

When Ben smiled, it took Stensland’s breath away. Or something like that, because breathing wasn’t a thing he did anymore. But, fecking hell, he was gorgeous. And maybe, Stensland thought, he had just had such an unlucky hand at picking potential partners in the past, because he’d been looking for them among the wrong species altogether?

Well, he’d see where the tingly feeling in his stomach would take him. But for now …

“C’mon,” he said, extending his hand towards Ben. “Let’s get home. I really need a shower, and,” he sniffed and curled his nose, “you should have one too. And afterwards, you can tell me everything I need to know about being a vampire. Alright?”

Ben nodded, smiling brightly again. “Alright.”

#huxloween2023 #huxloween #armitage hux #stensland #crash pad #ben solo #stensland x ben solo #mine #this is pure idiocy #Kylux #kylux adjacent #allthestuffimade

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