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carmenized-onions · 8 months ago

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Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

logline; it's time to retrace your steps. both of you.

[!!!] series history, this is the thirteenth; nothing distresses me more than when i see people read this out of order PLEASE BABY PLEASE

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. constant headache was actually in season 3? my brain. my power.

Or, maybe you'd like a playlist made especially for this chapter? Consider this my Fishes special.

portion; 17k new record again, please god tell me it gets shorter from here on i'm so. tired..

possible allergies; you will know exactly what trigger warnings you need upon reading seeing the first line. Also! I watched Season 3, and injected some lines from it into this, including the finale. I don't consider it full spoilers, because it's an entirely new context, but you might wanna catch up before you read this one!

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader so excessively gendered, in this chapter. my bad.

it's my birthday so if you typically lurk legally you have to tell me your thoughts on this one! Also it's once again the new longest, so like. cmon.

“What are you, Amish?”

You blink, craning your head back to look up at this annoying giant. You’re too tired for this shit. This is your one day off this week and you’re spending it fixing faulty lights with your dad, at some shit diner. Why did you agree to start coming on jobs? Why’s this guy gotta bother you on your lunch break? What’s wrong with you not wanting to smoke? Pardon you for not wanting to kill yourself with tobacco—

“Ah, no, I’m just uhm—” You gesture your hand to your head. “I get migraines, kinda easy, so I can’t, uh— Can’t indulge.”

He nods, he opts to stand next to you, while you’re sitting on the curb. At least the smoke will blow over your head, this way. You try to eat your lunch in peace. He does not let you have this moment of peace.

“Jack, right?” He nudges your foot with his. “That’s what your pop’s calls you, at least?”

“Yeah. Everyone calls me Jack.” You nod. Guess this is a conversation now, whether you want it or not. “You’re Mikey? The owner?”

“The Original Chicago Beef, in the flesh.” He nods, and he says it like he’s proud but he doesn’t look it. He leers at your partially consumed tin foil wrapped sandwich. “You bring your own lunch?”

You shrug. “Uh, yeah, grilled cheese with pork—”

“Why would you—” The door to the kitchen swings open, as Mikey grimaces. You both turn your heads to see another guy come out— Oh it’s that one, the one that cannot stop talking about his divorce— Mikey consults him. “Yo, Rich, do I look like some jamoke, to you? Just wonderin’.”

Rich, tilts his head, and his legs follow after him, “No, cousin, whatssup?” He takes the cigarette from Mikey, when it’s offered up.

“Well, our little fixer friend here—” Mikey nudges you, again. “—seems to think me a fuckin’ ass.”

Now when did you say anything like that? “Wha—”

“Stop making lunches, I’ve been watching you come in here with your little lunch pail the past few jobs, you eat free ‘ere, aright? You’re workin’.” Doesn’t matter what you said. Mikey sees you. Mikey’s always seen you.

‘workin’’ is a bit generous. The most you do is hand your dad tools, hold a flashlight, and ask too many questions. You definitely could do more, but he knows you're too tired. He really just wants to spend time with you. You pretend to not know his ulterior motives.

“We’re gentlemen here, sweetheart.” Rich bends down, so you can see him past Mikey’s frame, at your level. He reaches a hand out for you to shake. “Richie. Jerimovich.”

You’re not gonna remember that. You take his hand and shake it. “Jack. It’s— I’m just Jack.”

You’ve only got one hand on your sandwich, to shake Richie’s hand. So, like a school bully, Michael takes your loosened grip as his opportunity to grab it from you. “Yoink—!”

You whine, “C’mon—” “Let me make you a real fuckin’ sandwich, sweetheart—” “I’d just like my sandwich, alright?” “Oh, it’ll be your sandwich, alright? You think I don’t make good sandwiches? Richie, she doesn’t think I make good sandwiches.”

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

You attempt to defend yourself from the peanut gallery of one guy. “Not what I said!”

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

Because it’s easy? Because it’s orderly? Because you’ve been in a full state of autopilot for the last threeish years and every day you’ve eaten the same breakfast and made the same lunch and then you go on your shift and then someone nearly dies and sobs in your arms and then you sit on the edge of the ambulance and you eat your grilled cheese and pork? Because if you break the routine it’s all gonna hit?

“I just like making my own lunch.”

“Well, stop. You’re breaking my heart.” Michael takes a bite of your sandwich. You click your teeth. Germs. You’re going to chastise him, but he doesn’t let you. “You like pork more than beef?”

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

You take too long to respond, meaning the lie won’t be believable, so you have to tell the truth. You have to tell The Original Chicago Beef that— “I… I like pork more.”

“How dare you—” Barks Richie, the guard dog, apparently. Mikey stops him, putting a hand up.

“No, no, I asked the lady a question. She’s wrong but I asked. Fair’s fair. We express our fury like gentlemen, Cousin.” He nods, to himself. Thinking. About what is beyond you. God, so much for a lunch break. You point to your sandwich in his hand.

“Can I have that back—” “No. I’m makin’ you a goddamn real sandwich.”

You all but growl, really. You start to stand up. God, this guy is pushy. “I just said, I prefer—”

Mikey’s already making his way back into the kitchen, with the last half of your lunch as hostage. “Oh, I’ll make you a fuckin’ pork sandwich, aright?”

Mikey’s guard dog stamps out the butt of the shared cigarette, walking backwards into the kitchen, following Mikey but watching you. “He’s gonna make you fuckin’ pork, aright?”

“Aright!” Is all you can yell back, at your wits with the two dumbest most stubborn middle-aged geezers you’ve ever met.

Richie holds the door open for you, so you don’t get locked out. Alright, maybe he is a gentleman. You hear Mikey’s voice ring, from inside the kitchen. “And if you’re not doin’ nothin’ for your dad, try to fix the fuckin’ coffee machine, would you?”

This fucking guy.

You have waved at him a couple times, here and there, while helping out your dad. But now, you’ve officially had Michael Bear Berzatto in your life for a solid ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it.

Carmen Anthony Bear Berzatto has officially not had you in his life for ten minutes. Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like you’ve been gone for years. But you’re probably still just outside, talking to Richie and Syd. How is it still Friday? What time is it? Almost six? They’ve still got four fucking hours of service to go? No, that’s a good thing. This is a good thing. Doesn’t give him time to think. Everyone needs to stop staring at him.

What a fucking monster. What did he even say? He can’t remember anymore. He remembered ten minutes ago, and now it’s gone. Completely walled off in his memory. What did he say? Why did you make that face? What did he say to Richie, again? Why did you step in front of him? What did you say, again? What did Richie say? What happened? He can’t remember. He knows he did something fucked up but Carmen cannot remember what happened twenty minutes ago. That’s bad, right?

“I need hands!” Carmen does not recognize the fact that he’s working until he hears his own voice.

Right. He’s on expo. He’s doing expo. That’s what was happening twenty minutes ago, he thinks. That’s what was happening, right? Doesn’t matter. This is what he’s doing now. Fak comes back in and takes the tray to run. He looks around for a moment, confused.

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

Fak pauses. You don’t leave, that doesn’t match up in his brain. It doesn’t really match up in Carmen’s either, but this is what’s happening now. “What’d’you mean she’s gone?”

“I mean she’s fucking gone, Fak.” Carmen barks back, practically. Such a fucking monster. Could Fak tell him what he said? Doesn’t matter. Carmen nods to the plate. “Table twenty-five, go.”

“...Where’d she go—” “Fucking go, Fak!”

There is a loud, thrumming buzz. The type that goes off after a game. Or maybe after a wrong answer. Expo clock. Since when did it have a sound setting? The kitchen flinches, including Carmen, including a meek-made Neil, and look to the clock behind them.

Time has stopped. 0ERR is all it displays now. The sign ‘EVERY SECOND COUNTS’ is real ironic, now. What the fuck happened? You would know. You’re still outside, Carmen could get you. Carmen could get you and say he’s sorry for whatever happened. The back of his head feels like it’s hemorrhaging. He needs to go to a doctor. Maybe a paramedic. Carmen could get you, ask you what he said, and also ask if he is actively dying, right now.

“Fak.”

“Carm?”

“Table twenty-five.” Carmen points at the plate again, with his sharpie. Then points behind him, to the broken clock. “Then fix that.”

“Why not call To—” “Do you want a fucking job here or not?” “I—I do—” “Then do your fucking job, Fak.”

Carmen doesn’t need you. The Bear doesn’t need you. They can function just fine. Everything’s fine, without you. Everything’s normal. Everything is the way that it should be. He is shaking so much— When did he eat? Has he eaten? What the fuck is wrong with him? What happened twenty minutes ago? Or was it twenty-five? No. That’s table twenty-five, he’s mixing up his numbers. What time is it? He doesn’t know. The whole kitchen doesn’t know what time it is, anymore. You are gone and so are the minutes.

Fak leaves, with the plate. Shrunken. Following orders. Carmen just turns everyone into himself, doesn’t he? What a fucking monster. He knows how bad it is to be him, and yet he still does it. Look at the orders, Carmen. Run fucking expo. So fucking slow, Carmen. Look at the orders.

The crumpled piece of paper you handed him twenty minutes— Thirty? Fuck. The fucking note you handed him some amount of time ago. It sits on his table, next to all the actual orders. He rereads it, instead of the five cavatellis he’s supposed to be yelling about, right now.

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

Advanced Payment, M. Berzatto. -$2,500

You forgot the booths. And taxes. And you should probably get paid a half day, for serving for the past half hour. You also forgot all the times he called you, texted you, came over, the bookshelf you brought him, the basil, the rosemary water, cleaning up his trash, every time you tried food for him, every time you told him everything was going to be okay, every time you made everyone breath in here like it was going to be okay— You forgot everything you do. Priceless. Easily, you are owed millions, from Carmen.

He flips over the note. He reads Sweeps’ quick scribings from David, the fucking asshole out front, the fucking asshole in his head.

Cherry + Lamb, good flavour. A lot of elements. Fresh, Unique. Overall good? Ig? Weird tone.

Said he’d like to speak to ‘Wine Girl’ (ick), mentioned Michelin connect? Number = Connect? (Ick)

You didn’t eat the cherry and lamb dish. That just connected, in his head. You didn’t get to eat it. Not only did you not get to eat it, the motherfucker outside did. Fuck. You were trying to be nice, but you’ve fucked him. Unique is practically a slur to his Exec. Carmen has fun when he makes things for you— He plays— That’s not what his Exec wants. He wants two elements, max. The fact that David actually liked the flavour is nothing short of a fucking miracle. Carmen could throw up. He’s definitely getting an ulcer, again. Where’s your Tums? Fuck, you took it with you, didn’t you?

It’s embarrassing how many rules he forgets to implement, when he cooks for you. Boundless, unrestricted— When he cooks for you. Doesn't cut a single concept. It’s mortifying that someone other than you ate it, let alone David fucking Fields.

Carmen’s eyes feather, almost closing, but not completely. He scratches his fingers through his hair, destroying the cast of gel it’s been stuck in. His curls are desperately trying and failing to reform. It doesn’t matter how much he runs his hands through it, he cannot get it to smell like you again. He cannot find you in himself, he cannot find you in his kitchen. That’s what annoyed him, earlier, wasn’t it? That you were everywhere? That you were carved in, everywhere? He thought he didn’t want that?

His knees bounce where he stands, he bumps into his jacket under the table. Right. You left it. Are you cold? Turtleneck was thin. You looked so good. You always look good. Better, in his clothes, but you always look good. Did he remember to tell you that? Probably not.

“Where—” Fuck, he really is going to throw up. “Where we at on Booth Twelve’s dessert tray, Chef?”

You said it was okay for Carmen to give your number out. You gave your dish out. You shelled yourself out, for Carmen. It feels like a cave is being hollowed out, in his throat. He is so angry and he doesn’t know who it’s for. He doesn’t know where to put it. Is that what happened twenty-three— twenty-four minutes ago? Did he give it to you? No, he gave it to Richie, right? That’s how it started. Marcus hands off the dessert paddle to expo, silently. No one wants to talk to Carmen. That’s probably fair. What did he say? Probably bad. It’s already huge they haven’t walked out on him, yet. Has anyone walked out, yet?

Marcus is here, Syd is still out back— Well, actually, she might’ve left with you, she should if she can. Are you still out there? Tina wipes her eyes, working at the oven you fixed thirty— No, forty— Fuck— Earlier. It’s probably the onions from the broth making her tear up. No, it definitely is. Fak is out front, Sweeps is out front, Richie is still out back.

What did he say to Richie? Something about kids? There are no servers to hand off dessert to stupid fucking booth twelve. Carmen cannot keep looking at the family he’s ruined, in whatever way he managed to ruin it. He grabs the dessert tray. He’ll deliver it himself. He can do it all himself. He’s good by himself.

You’ve been out of Carmen’s life for 0ERR minutes. Yeah. That’s exactly how long it feels like.

“Try it try it try it.” You mumble, hurriedly, excitedly, to Marcus. The bread guy. He’s the nicest of the bunch, so far. You hand him the mug. He takes a sip of the coffee you’ve been perfecting for the last six jobs here, give or take. You’ve been in The Beef’s life for two months or so.

“Holy shit.” He nods, digesting it— Actually digesting it, which means— “It’s edible.”

“I know!” You all but shout, too excited to hide it. You’ve finally figured out how to make this thing produce what it’s supposed to— Instead of what is essentially arsenic with coffee flavouring.

Your excitement makes a line cook behind you grimace. The one you’ve still got yet to win over. “My ears, kid.”

“Sorry.” You reply lightly. Your back is turned to her, so she can’t see you cringe to Marcus, crying for help, practically. He’s sympathetic. He kept saying you just need to prove yourself, but it’s been taking forever, what else can you prove?

He decides to fast track you. “Yo, T.” She nods. She respects Marcus. But you’re just some girl that’s been in her walkway for the past seven weeks. “Try it.” He hands her your edible coffee.

She rolls her eyes, already nonplussed, but she takes the coffee. She is genuinely impressed, for a split second, before it turns into a coy sarcasm. “Wow— You’ve made not poison, great job, baby.”

“I’m gonna get better.” You respond instantly. That’s something you noticed Tina likes. Quickness. “I’m gonna make you a good coffee.” Determination, too.

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

“No.” She pushes the coffee to your chest; you grab it before it spills. “I like it bold.”

God, she’s so scary. “Heard.” She’s so cool.

She watches you, for a second; wants to see if you crack. You don’t, thankfully. She folds. She finally kinda likes you— Or rather, is willing to admit it, in some small way. “You can come tonight.”

You can come to family, tonight. It takes everything in you not to cheer. You should mix them drinks. Or is that too try hard? No, it’s the perfect amount of try— Right? It was your old party trick in college, you should use it. Prove yourself.

“Cool.” Is all you can say, without seeming like a desperate nerd.

You've been slowly cutting away at every relationship in your life, par for your family— And even that hangs by a thread— And you thought you were fine with that. You thought you were good like that, but once you got used to The Weirdos of The Beef, you cannot help but desperately want friends, again.

Every moment you get outside of your twelve to twenty-four hour EMS shifts, you spend it here. You’re tired, but it might actually be worth it; to talk to people instead of rotting in your apartment for half a week every week.

What month is it? March? When's Squid's birthday again? Did you miss it? It's the one time a year you get to talk without the underlying pressure that you have to hang out now.

Happy Birthday, what have you been up to? Oh, same thing as last year? You're irrevocably a different person now but you're also still the same? Nothing much? Same here. We should see each other soon. We won't. I won't say I love you because I don't want to be weird. Even though we used to say it every day. I will never know you like I used to, and so I won't even try. Same time next year?

Working in The Beef reminds you of her. Reminds you of the other stubborn cook in your life. Was in your life? Don’t think about that. Sometimes you hear her dad's voice out front, buying himself a half-hot half-sweet braised beef sandwich. Sometimes you think about going out there and saying hi. Sometimes you think about asking about Syd. Sometimes you think about asking how the catering gig is going. Sometimes you think about asking if she needs you anymore.

You never do.

“Aye.” Mikey claps your shoulders, bringing you back to earth. You didn't even realize he was behind you. He digs his hands in, a sudden and always painful massage. His preferred way of saying stop fucking tweaking. He leans over your shoulder, looking at the coffee cup that doesn't look as pitiful as it usually does. “Good job, kid.”

“Thank you—” “Now figure out how to make it worth drinking.”

You scoff, rolling your shoulders to push him off you. “I'm fuckin’ trying!”

His hands stay in place, but his massage does become gentle, and actually decent. Per usual. You’re not sure how he always manages to get the knots. “T say you can come to family?”

You had to get all yeses that you are now in fact family to join for family. You look over your shoulder to face him. “Mhm.”

“Good.” He looks around. “Your dad here?”

You nod. “In the basement, something about your furnace? It's fucking beyond my skill set, so I'm up here until he needs me.” As much as your dad started doing this to hang out with you, heads got too hot with you fucking up which tools to hand him one too many times; repeatedly yelling same team in a more and more distressed tone did not seem to be helping either. Whatever. Gave you more time with the coffee machine. You’re going to make this thing your bitch, one day. One day this thing is going to sing for you.

“Oh, good.” And with that, he's already pulling you to his station. “You can help me with family brisket, then.”

“Nooooo—” “If you want family you gotta be family, Jack.”

You whine, but you don't mind this at all. Mikey sees you. Mikey knows you; probably better than he should. He knows you always need something to do.

“Pork?” “Pork.” “Fine.” It's your recipe, so you must oblige.

He's good. Mikey is good. Mikey pays attention. Mikey's made the cycle break in a way that doesn't hurt.

Carmen needs to apologize to Richie, for never taking his stress over running front of house seriously.

Carmen hates being out front already and he’s only just stepped out. Why is everyone looking at him out here, too? He should also apologize for whatever he said forty minutes ago. Thirty-five? Doesn’t matter. What’s important is handing this dessert tray to the fucking jagoff. The man who Carmen dreamed of becoming, the man who he’s now scared he’s become. David Fields. Former Executive Chef. Too many accolades to list.

“Dessert is served, hope you enjoy, Chef.” Carmen manages to bite his tongue for this guy, so why can’t he do it for the people he actually gives a fuck about? He’s a fucking coward. He swallows, setting the dessert paddle down in front of the stupid five fucking guests. Far too big a party, for a fucking walk in. And all they got for dessert was the fucking tasting paddle? Why are they skimping now? Assholes. All of them. Carmen knows all of these people. Well. Knows their faces. Remembers working with them, but never really talked to any of them. Why would he? He was focused. He was good.

“Thank you, Chef.” Says David. It feels like lightning, to hear those words. But not in a good way. It should feel like an accomplishment, to hear this guy say anything remotely positive, to Carmen, but it doesn’t. It feels the opposite, honestly. Feels like something’s wrong. Getting this guy’s approval is wrong.

This is the part where Carmen is supposed to leave. This is the part where the server goes back to the kitchen and continues their job. But he can’t. He’s stuck in place. He’s back in front of the fire, and he’s not putting it out. Carmen swallows hard and his spit feels like glass all the way down his throat. His Exec stares at him, nearly coy— Like he knows. Like he can see the invisible snake coiling around Carmen. Like he knows that Carmen desperately has something to say.

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

Fuck it. Fuck everything, fuck it. Not like the night can get worse. “Can we step out, for a second, Chef?”

“Lookit this.” Mikey pivots his phone to you, for you to see a photo he's just been sent.

It's of… “What the fuck is that?” You've got no clue. Some weird spiralling array of colours.

“I've no fucking clue. Food? Apparently?”

It's April, and Mikey has let you in. You will not realize how big a deal this is until it's too late. But right now, you're just happy to be hanging out with him before open. Without your dad, too.

Their most frequent regular’s favourite chair broke, one of the legs just fully gave out underneath him. It's an easy fix. Mikey could probably do it himself. Fak or whatever the fuck his name is could absolutely do it himself. Mikey called you, instead. Called you. Not your dad. You think this'll be your first and last solo job. Naive.

“Carmy?” You assume, he's the only person that's on that rich people shit. Michelin Star Chef, baby boy with big dreams.

“Yessir. He’s still killin’ it.” Is all Mikey says, tucking his phone away. You frown at him, screwing the chair leg in, sitting on the floor. He groans. “Don't gimme those eyes, Jack.”

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.”

You tilt your head, the look you give him translates to ‘Are you forreal?’

He just sighs, exasperated. “You don't get brothers, Jack.”

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

“Yeah but it's—” He gestures to the general air, attempting to explain nothing. “It's different. We communicate different.”

“Sure.” You can admit that. “I'm sure the dynamic is very different brother to brother, brother to sister. But like—” You jiggle the chair leg, alright maybe it's not that easy of a fix. “It sucks bein’ the baby, I know that much.”

“You're the baby?”

“Yeah, why?” You lift your head from the chair back to him. “I got middle child energy? I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“No, no— Oldest.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Thought you were one of me, Jack. My own blood.”

You scoff. But it’s not something you haven’t heard before. You’ve got the blood of people who’ve had to take care of people. “Well, being the only sister kinda made me the oldest sister.”

You pad your hand around the floor, searching, before looking up to Michael, again. “You see the fuckin—?”

He tosses you the chair leg cap, before you can finish asking for it. “You’d like Nat. Similar ideologies.”

“I would love to know how your younger sister fuckin’ survived you, that’s for sure.”

He laughs, at that. “She’s a trooper. Surrounded by some of the worst men Chicago has to offer.” He looks at the coffee that you painstakingly crafted for him, this morning. “This is actually kinda fuckin’ good, Jack.”

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

He rolls his head back, neck straining. “For what you had, it’s fuckin’ perfection, alright? Happy?”

“Fuckin’ delighted.” You throw the chair up onto its legs, and it stands. “You?”

He gets up from his seat to try out the chair. He takes the coffee with him. There’s a split second where you’re scared that actually this was too hard a job for you and Mikey is going to fall and the hot coffee is going to careen everywhere and fucking scald him and you told him he needed to get a first-aid kit in here but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet—

Mikey sits, and the chair works. He takes another sip of your chai coffee blend, like a vote of his confidence. He never had any doubt you could get the coffee machine to work, never had any doubt you could make a good coffee, never had any doubt you could get the chair to stand strong. Mikey has always always believed in your capabilities, even when you haven’t, and has always been happy to prove yourself to yourself. Mikey is really good at being an older brother, you think. And forget that he never texted back the real baby of his real family.

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

Two executive chefs stand in front of a restaurant, there’s probably a joke in here somewhere. Carmen doesn’t care to find it. He watches your car drive out onto the road, out of the corner of his eye. That’s it, then. You’re gone. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out from the chest pocket of his chef’s uniform.

“You should quit.” Says David, so high and fucking mighty. As if he doesn’t house a bottle of wine daily.

“I’m aware.” Carmen lights it anyways. You don’t smoke. Did his mouth taste bad, every time he’d kiss you? Probably. You probably just bore it for his sake. Maybe that’s why you so rarely went for his lips. He takes a puff, it doesn’t calm him down.

“Your hair is fucked.”

“And the food?”

“Busy. You can lose the basil and eggplant. You’ll re-learn.” David tilts his head, thinking, smarmy. “Someone got in your head.”

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

“Awe.” David smiles, something he so rarely did in the kitchen, but perfected in public. His tone is so perfectly pouty, like it’s disappointing he’s not the only one living rent free in Carmen’s brain anymore.

Carmen steadies his eyes forward, to the street. He cannot look his own personal nightmare in the eyes, but he can say what he’s always wanted to say. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

“How am I an asshole?” “Can you stay ‘til after close?” “You’re welcome.”

Carmen turns his head to face him now, eyes wide like plates. “I— I’m welcome? For—For-for what?”

“You were an okay chef, when you started with me.” David doesn’t fear eye contact. David’s probably never had a bad day in his fucking life. “And you left an excellent chef, so you’re welcome.”

Carmen’s never even heard the fucking word excellent come out of this man’s mouth. Let alone to describe him. It doesn’t feel good, for some reason. It still doesn’t feel good to receive praise from him, despite the fact that he’s everything.

“You…” Carmen needs a second, to catch his breath. He probably should quit smoking. “You gave me ulcers, and panic attacks, and— and nightmares— You— You know that? You understand that?”

“Yeah.” David’s entirely unfazed. All he’s heard is a list of benefits, in his head. “I gave you confidence and leadership and ability— It fucking worked.”

Is this what it working is supposed to feel like? Is this what it feels like to function? Is this what it means, to make it? If it is, then what the fuck does not making it feel like?

“I’m— I’m, I’m— I’m actually fuckin’ stunned, right now, I—” Carmen rubs his hands over his eyes. “My life stopped.”

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

“You wanted to be excellent. You got rid of all the bullshit, you concentrated, you focused— And you got excellent. And it worked. You’re here.”

You’re not bullshit. You’re not bullshit and he shouldn’t have done whatever he did to make you leave. Carmen is anything but excellent, without the people behind him, and he’s realizing that now. He’s an idiot, because you told him this, the second day of knowing him you told him this. He has a wonderful team— A family— A family he now considers you a part of. And he tanked all of it, everyone— Why? Because he had a bad fucking day? Because a dish got sent back? Because he fucked up tremendously? Boo-fucking-hoo, Carmen. It takes an idiot like David, who thinks he’s a genius, for Carmen to realize they look exactly the fucking same— And that is the actual thing that’s mortifying, tonight.

The real mortifying thing, isn’t that you were so fucking sweet and considerate of his stupid fucking brain and his stupid insane aspirations— It isn’t your dish. The mortifying thing is he prioritized the man in front of him, in any regard. It’s mortifying that Carmen made you feel like you had to prioritize the man in front of him.

“I just— I just made the—The only fuckin’ good thing in my life leave because— Because you got in my fucking head.”

David just raises his brows, like Carmen’s fucking stupid. Like there’s not a problem here. Because to him, there isn’t. And once again, the stupid fucking Exec repeats. “You’re welcome?”

“I’m—” The door opens, and for a moment, despite the fact that he watched your car disappear minutes ago, Carmen still thinks there’s a chance it’s gonna be you; begs a higher power that it’s going to be you. It’s not. It’s Richie.

“Hey asshole—” Richie stops, when he sees David. “Ah. You’re needed, Chef Carmen.”

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.”

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

Richie’s had a habit of calling you cousin, lately. You pull your head out of the back of the Ball-Breaker arcade machine. Its controls are allegedly on the fritz, but you’re pretty sure Chi-Chi just sucks at this game. “Whaddya need? Do I have to run front a-fucking-gain?”

That was a fun out of nowhere three hour shift with zero restaurant experience— Par for bar. It will not be the last.

“Nono— Just a cuppa coffee? More like six.”

You kiss your teeth, tutting him. “You know how the fuckin’ machine works—”

“Want your coffee?” He corrects, like stroking your ego will make you fold. It does. You stand up, stretching your legs.

“Fine. Just get me a list of everyone’s—” He slaps a folded note against your forehead. “Orders.”

“Fucker.” You take it off your head to read. “Whatta ‘bout Mikey’s?” He’s missing from the list.

Richie shrugs. “Surprise him, he’s out back— In one of his moods.”

You don’t know how uncommon it is for Mikey to be so out of it. You’re meeting Mikey during his slow but certain downward spiral, but you don’t know that. No. How could you? No, so you think it’s normal for Mikey to occasionally leave rooms and turn inward.

“Aye aye, Rich.”

He kisses your temple as you pass him, making an all too aggressive ‘muah’ noise, because that’s what fake Italians do, as a form of thanks, and lets you go work your magic on the coffee machine.

You’re pretty integrated into The Beef, at this point. How long has it been? You don’t really need this list of orders, but it’s good to visually ingrain in your brain. You’re thankful to Mikey for investing in a bunch of Torani’s syrups for your coffee dreams. You’re here enough for it to be worth it, anyways.

You’re probably gonna start being here a lot more, soon. Well, maybe.

You haven’t told anyone yet, about what your dad told you this morning. That he’s gotta retire, soon. Like soon, soon. Now, you’re faced with a decision— Keep going with this EMS thing until your body fails and you need to be wheeled out by your own coworkers, or take on ownership of a small family business directly after the fucking pandemic. Really good options, here.

You’re leaning towards the latter, at the moment. You’re leaning towards being called here, for half your jobs. It’d be hard to make ends meet on just whatever crack change Mikey is able to pay you— But you used to bartend in college— You could work dailies whenever you’re short. Probably. It probably won’t be that hard. Could it be harder than what you’re doing now? Could it be harder than watching someone flat line? Probably not.

Ebra, watered down black coffee. T, two sugars, one milk, cinnamon and chocolate syrup. Marcus, spiced coffee. Sweeps, water in a deli cup— A delicacy. Richie, two sugars, cinnamon syrup, ideally boiling hot.

But to be fair, people need someone like you. People need paramedics. Is it selfish for you to decide you can’t handle it anymore? Should you let your body break before you let yourself go on one? Fuck. Fuck. Where’s Mikey? You’re feeling the knots build up again.

Out back. Richie said he’s out back. You pick up your coffee, and Mikey’s— cinnamon and caramel, this time— And head out back.

And you see a sight that you’ve actually seen plenty of times.

You’ve just never seen it in the back alley of The Beef. You’ve just never seen it happen to a friend. You’ve just never seen it happen to Mikey. You don’t drop your coffee cups in some sort of dramatic shock, or anything like that. Because that would take time. It’d take too much time to be shocked. You just turn around, immediately, partially crashing into the door as you run back in, breaking the mugs and spilling scalding hot coffee over your hands and chest— You don’t feel it, you don’t give a fuck.

“Cousin!”

You’re a mom friend. That’s what Syd used to say. You carry Tums, painkillers, cough drops, pepto— All in your purse or pockets. You keep a lighter on hand. You keep safety pins— All ranging in size, just in case of a clothing mishap. You keep kid’s band-aids in your wallet. You’re a mom friend. Everyone used to find you also carrying a naloxone kit a bit dramatic, like you were overdoing it. You always hoped they were right; that it would never be used. Regardless, you'd always replace it when it expired.

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

“Right.” Carmen’s honestly kind of surprised, to be needed. But it’s probably just cover, to talk. People don’t typically need people like him, especially not Richie. He nods to David. “Chef.”

“Chef.” David nods back. He looks at Richie. “Where’d your translator go?”

The fuck? Richie does not look phased, at all. He also looks like he’s been crying— So it might just be that nothing phases him, right now— But at the very least, Carmen would expect some surprise. So this disrespect must not be new. Why didn’t he tell him?

Maybe he did, actually. Maybe that’s what happened forty minutes ago? How’d that lead to you leaving?

“My what?” Richie knows exactly what David’s getting at, but he asks anyways, to embarrass the fucker.

But David doesn’t feel embarrassment, it’s just not in him. “Your somme.”

“She had to leave early.”

“Ah,” He nods, “You’ve got her number, by chance?”

A deep and sharp exhale, through Richie’s nose, as he desperately tries to be a good host. Tries to be star material. But he runs his tongue across his top teeth and he just can’t bring himself to bite it. Richie hates both of the men in front of him right now. “I do, I do, actually— I’ve had her number for three years, memorized, y’know why?”

David shrugs, delighted to upset someone. “She your wife or something?”

A sharp, terrifying chuckle, honestly— One that hides any sign of a smile. Rich steps forward. “Oh, I should be so lucky. I would be so fucking lucky, if a woman like that—” And he pivots his head, to speak very deliberately, to Carmen. “Decided for some Godforsaken fuckin’ reason, that I was worth an ounce of her precious time— Let alone her hand.”

“If only, truly, David.” Still looking at Carmen, squarely in his face. “If fuckin’ only. If I had someone like that— I’d be on hand and fucking knee, for her.”

“Chef.” Carmen’s talking to David but looking at Richie, but that might also be because he can’t look anywhere else.

“Chef.” David shrugs, whatever fight here is beyond him. He doesn’t fucking care. Carmen knows the Michelin thing was bullshit—Certainly David can put in a good word, but inspectors are anonymous, that’s the whole point. But his stupid fucking Exec wanted to see if Carmen would stoop so low as to take the bait. It also wouldn’t hurt to get your number, you’re perfect. Carmen doesn’t think he’d have taken the bait, but the fact that he’s not sure speaks volumes.

David steps back into The Bear, and an Executive Chef and his dead brother’s best friend stand outside their restaurant. There’s a joke in here somewhere, and it’s probably Carmen.

“I’d fucking kill him.” You shake your head, when Mikey tries to brush off the end of his story like it’s no big deal. “I can’t believe no one fuckin’ said anything.”

“They might’ve.” He sniffs, arms crossed— Guarding himself. He sits opposite of you, both sitting on the floor of his office, backs against either wall. “But I couldn’t fuckin’ hear anything but him— And then the fucking car, obviously.”

You can tell he’s trying to move on. He wants you to ask if his mom was okay. You don’t honestly care, and you don’t care if that makes you a bad person, either.

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

It’s close to midnight, a humid but cool August midnight. A week or so, since Mikey’s overdose. You’re finally christening your jumpsuit with a patch from The Beef, on the left shoulder. You do keep stabbing yourself with the sewing needle— If you were sleeping beauty you’d be fucking dead.

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” You both laugh, but you’re still stuck with him, at that dining table, in your head. You’re still hearing Uncle Lee screaming, despite never actually hearing it. “They should’ve said something.”

“It’s different when you’re there.” He shrugs, again. “Hard to speak in those rooms.”

Your lips stay tight, for a moment. There’s a long silence of just staring at each other, because you want him to know that you’re completely serious when you say— “I would’ve said something.”

“Sug tried to say somethin—” “She told you to stop, that’s bullshit.” “She was mediating—”

“And why the fuck were you the one that needed to calm down, exactly?” You frown, deeply. You don’t have anything against Sug, but this story just rubs you the wrong way. The way no one was on his side verbally. “Just cause you’re the guy, means you can’t stick up for yourself? I hate that shit.”

He thinks on that, for a moment; because no one has ever said the thing out loud, never acknowledged it. He nods, tucking one knee up to rest an arm on it. “It sucks, being the guy.”

“It fucking sucks to be the guy!” You shout back, emphatic, practically jumping to agree— You jab yourself again. “Fuck, ow— Yes, it sucks.”

“And—” You’ve really opened a faucet for him. “And no one wants you to acknowledge that you’re the guy— Like you can take the compliment, but you can never say ‘I know, I’m doing it on purpose.’”

You poke at the tip of your nose with one hand and then to Mikey with the other, bang on. “No one wants the guy to know they’re the guy!”

“We always know!” “We always fucking know!” “We’re the guy on purpose!”

It’s rare for people like you two to talk and actually get along. The typical stereotype is that two sweethearts will always end up butting heads, too intimidated— But instead, you’re both just able to honestly commiserate over being who you are. The Guy. The Dependable One. The Head.

“You shouldn’t have to always be good and—and like, understanding of every single fucking person— Especially when they’re a dick!” You yell, exasperated. “You are allowed to fucking stick up for yourself!”

He tightens his lips in a line, because he agrees, but he has been so trained to lay down and take it. To take the teeth; it’s one of the many many jobs of being the guy. You know it just as well. He sighs, “I know.”

“You’re worth standing up for, Mikey.” You emphasize. They should’ve said something. It shouldn’t have been on you. You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself. They should’ve protected you, like you did for them. Like you always do for them.

His eyes flicker, a bit. He clears his throat and punches his chest, shaking his head out of it, because if he doesn’t, he might actually fucking cry, and that’s not what the guy does. “Okay.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He kicks your foot with his. “Now tell me some fucked up thing that happened to you, Jack.”

You laugh, and it quickly turns into a groan as you try to come up with something. “I uh… Oh! I fuckin’ hate the nickname ‘Jack’, that’s something.”

“Oh?” He leans forward, teasingly intrigued— You’ve thrown him a bone, because you’re the guy, too. He’s able to focus on this in lieu of himself.

You nod and continue. “My dad gave it to me, when I was really really little, like five or six— And it was ‘cause I like— For a kid, I was really into uhm, like— Like everything?”

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

You chuckle. “I liked helping him go on jobs, and barely being able to hold flashlights. And I liked learning what all the wires and the pipes do— I liked doing chores and like— Making shit for people, or doing shit for people, if it made ‘em happy.” You’re a little too zoned in, on your sewing. The motion helps keep you grounded. “And so he would go like Awe, my helpful little Jack of all Trades, you can do it all.”

You pull the string up and out of the fabric, taught, dramatically high. “Which like, of course he was trying to be like, a good dad and hype me up— But my kid brain just garbled it and translated ‘you can do it all’ to ‘you have to do it all.’”

“Damn.” He cringes but laughs, sympathizing. “You got ‘guy’d’ at fuckin’ five?”

“Well, when did you get ‘guy’d?!” You snap back, he takes a moment to think about it, sighing.

He shrugs. “Probably five.” “Exactly!”

You both laugh, a bit too aggressively, honestly; compensating for the sting. Mikey sniffs, adding. “So that’s why you hate it? ‘Cause of the weight?”

“‘Cause of the weight.” You nod. “Like a constant reminder, that I need to be like— constantly at service.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyes looking down. Thinking about far too much, and though you have become his closest confidant, there are still parts of him that he won’t show. “Drinking helped?”

“Drinking helped.” You close the last stitch on the patch. “Which is funny, because that whole thing started from wanting to be helpful.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“There was uhm—” You can’t help but laugh a little, at the ridiculousness of it. “There was this girl, and she was my best friend, and she fucking loved— Or I guess still loves— Cooking. And even as a dinky little highschooler, she’d have me try shit, and it’d be like— So luxe.”

“Right.” Mikey smiles, thinking of all the dishes that have been foisted on him by the precocious cook in his life.

“And I wanted to be like… equally impressive. So I started doing research on wine pairings and shit, so I could have something to talk to her about, have somethin’ to say other than wow great job— Because I could tell she always wanted more.”

“And so you became an alcoholic?” “I haven’t gotten there yet!” “Well stop burying the lead!” “Oh don’t you point a finger when it comes to burying a fucking lead.” “Oh, fuck you.”

“Anyways!” You clap a hand on your knee, casting aside the completed sew job. “I’d give her pairings based on research— still teens, so we couldn’t drink yet, but she appreciated the thought. And then I went to college and she went to CIA and we were talking and then we graduated and suddenly we weren’t…” You knock your fist against your hand a couple times. “We weren’t talking, anymore.”

“And so you became an alcoholic?” “Kinda.” “Oh. I was being sarcastic.” “Yeah, dontchu feel guilty as fuck now?” “What happened?”

“It was easy.” You shrug. “I started working at pubs in college, I was getting free drinks all the time, I was trying more wines for her— I didn’t really see it as a problem, because like, I didn’t do it to function, I never reached for anything like ‘oh I fucking need this.’”

“That’s how it starts.”

“That’s how it fuckin’ starts.” You nod. “Then suddenly we weren’t talking and I became an E-M-T, and then suddenly I was watching people y’know, live through the worst moment of their lives or die, and I— Suddenly I did need that drink.” You should’ve just called her. She would’ve done a lot more for you than a bottle could. But you were stupid and tired, and still are.

“Who coulda thunk it?” “I know! Ridiculous.”

“How long you been stable, again?”

“Six months, four days… But who’s counting?” You laugh, and so does he.

You’re both very literally counting. And the buzzer of a timer going off on your phone reminds you of that. You both stare at it, in a daze, as it officially hits Twelve in the morning. Once you silence it, you look to Mikey.

“Michael The Bear Berzatto, you have officially been sober for twenty-four hours.”

He smiles, no teeth, but he smiles. “Gimme.”

“Be patient!” “I am being the most patient a person can be.” “Yeah that’s fair.”

You opt to go for the cupcake first, a big One candle sticking out of it. “This is stupid.” Says Mikey. “Have some fucking whimsy in the face of adversity.” Says you, pulling out your disposable camera.

“Do we need photos?” “What the fuck else are we gonna put in my folder?” “I dunno, write me sonnets.”

“Do you want sonnets?” You ask, and the worst part is Michael can tell you’re being sincere. You would write him sonnets, if he only asked. You would do anything, if he only asked. You quit being an EMT, immediately after seeing the state he was in, last week. You are here for Michael, and he only has to ask.

He shakes his head and blows out the candle when you lift the cupcake to his face, and he makes a wish to whatever higher power exists, that he won’t drag you down with him.

You thread a 24 Hours in Recovery chip onto the embroidery thread you were using and tie it off. When you present it to him, he bends his head down. “Chip me.”

“That’s not what chip me means.” “It means something?” “I’m pretty sure chipping someone means shooting someone—” “Well Google it, Chip.” “Well, fuck, ok— Chip?”

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

You throw the necklace over his neck, like you’re knighting him. You grow a great degree softer. Even when he’s deliberately not supposed to be The Guy, when he’s supposed to be working on himself, he’s still your guy. Still looking out for you just as much as you look out for him. He will never realize that you consider the exchange equal.

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

“This sobriety thing is going to be easy.” “ —Okay, so— The thing is, everyone kinda says that after twenty-four hours and then a week or two in, it actually hits—” “It’s gonna be so easy.” “I love that you think that and I want you to keep that hope up, I also think maybe let’s just be easy on ourselves if it gets hard—” “It’s not gonna get hard.” “That’s what she said—” “Fucking gross!”

He throws his arm over your shoulder, a loving noogie, but a noogie nonetheless. You try to hit him from below, it’s a failed flailing. You both start laughing and he stops, opting to just hold you there. You hold his forearm with your hands, and sigh.

“...Even when it’s not easy, we’re on the same team, okay? Don’t forget that. That we’re on the same team and I love you.”

He squeezes you a little, bicep curling. In fifteen seconds you will complain that he’s choking you, but right now, he says, “I’m not gonna forget you love me, Chip.” and neither of you know this is a lie, yet.

“I’m sorry.” Carmen sniffs, is he actually going to cry? Holy shit, he might cry. “I don’t know what I said—”

“You don’t know what you said?” Richie scoffs, he can’t help but laugh. “You don’t know what you fuckin’ said? Ah— It’s— It’s all good, man. You don’t know what you said, so it’s all good—”

“I’m apologizing—” “Nonono— No— It’s all good, I don’t need a fuckin’ apology. I know how you feel now, so it’s all fuckin’ good.”

“I love you—” “You love me? You love me? Oh, that would’ve been nice to hear half a fucking hour ago.”

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

“No— No, you know what?” Richie takes a choked breath, pressing his index finger over his nose and mouth, then points it to Carmen. “If that’s what your fuckin’ love is— I don’t fuckin’ want it. And I don’t want that shit for Chip, either— So leave her the fuck out of your fuckin’ love or whatever the fuck you think that is, too.”

That one hurts, because it’s true. Carmen can’t say anything to that; the silence just eggs Richie on more. “Oh, was that a low blow, to you? Cause I’d say saying it was her fault was a pretty low fucking blow— Kinda below the belt shit, if you ask me—”

“What?”

A silence louder than anything either of them have ever heard hangs in the air.

“Fuck you mean what?”

“I said what?” Carmen’s spit still feels like glass, he is destroying his throat. “What—What did I say?”

Stunned, Richie is stunned. And he can’t tell if Carm’s lack of cognizance in the situation makes him more or less angry. He’s pretty sure it’s more. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Cousin, what the fuck did I say to her?”

“You said she failed him.”

Yeah, Carmen’s gonna cry. Carmen is absolutely going to cry. Not weeping, but a tear. Just the one. Just the one, and the dry heaving. The dry heaving and just short of falling over, managing at the last minute to fall onto his rear. He slides his back against the full length window of The Bear. All the guests will get to witness his full blown meltdown. Who fucking cares. He cards through his semi-matted hair, again— It’s not fucking working. It’s not working and he might as well tear his hair out because there’s no reason for it anymore if you're not in it.

“I am a monster.” Not said like a question, not said with emphasis, not choked. Completely monotone. Zero pulse. Said as a fact as simple as the sky is blue. And it is. Because now that he remembers that one thread, he can follow it back. “I am bullshit.”

It’s hard to kick someone, when they’re down. It’s hard to say all the things you want to say to a person, when they’re just saying it about themselves. Richie just stares, debating his options. He could so easily choose to destroy what’s left of Carmen. Frankly, Carm’s sitting at the perfect angle to kick his fucking teeth in. Richie came out here with full intent of throwing Carmen through the window. Came out here with the full intent of proving he’s a fucking problem.

“...I don’t know how to fix it.” But Carmen looks up at him, with a never before seen level of humility. “How do I fix it?”

His best friend loved this guy, and unfortunately you also seem to be on the verge of loving this guy. And even more regrettably, Richie loves this guy. He shrugs, and to any onlookers, his response would seem to be lacking any level of empathy.

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

Like tidal waves, Richie and Mikey crash against either side of the walk-in freezer door. Mikey desperately trying to escape the freezer; you and Richie desperately trying to keep him in.

Your phone rings, in the middle of this. “Ah, shit, she’s calling back, hold on—” You slide your back off the door slowly, giving Richie time to place extra weight where your body was to keep it closed as Mikey relentlessly slams. He’s pivoted to screaming like— Well, a bear, now.

You move just a few feet away— Enough to fog up the yelling, but not enough that you couldn’t run back to Richie if his arms start to numb.

“Yo, T.” You answer, thankful that somebody has finally returned your fucking calls. To be fair, it’s painfully early— But how is no one awake an hour before they have to clock in? C’mon.

“We’re doing this because we love you, fuckin’ numb nuts!”

“Don’t be fuckin’ mean when he’s in a vulnerable state!” You kiss your teeth, yelling to Richie behind you, just as Tina tries to say hi.

“I am not a fucking patient, Chip!” Another slam, another violent jiggling of the door handle. You’re pretty sure that shit is going to break off one day, if he keeps doing that. You don’t know how right you are now, but you will in a year or so. “Open the fucking door!”

You only remember you’re on the phone with Tina when she pipes up, vaguely hearing the yelling on her end. “...Two week milestone going well?”

“Just fucking peachy, T.” You grimace, rubbing the space between your brows. “You think it’s healthy to lock him in the freezer? I feel like we are fucking this up.”

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

“Guess who was—” You turn your head to Richie, when you speak into the phone. “So fucking stupid— And left his fucking xanax just out in the open with his unfinished breakfast?”

“I apologized—” “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Cousin! Now open the fucking door!”

“Yeah, I think freezer is the right call.” Says Tina; you’re both not sure if that’s true, but at the very least when he’s in there he can’t hurt himself or either of you. But fuck, he must be cold. Maybe that’s good for his nervous system? Every yell just mounts with guilt— But you’re his sponsor now. You are not his friend right now, you’re his mentor and you’re meant to do this. This is definitely— slam— the right thing—scream—to do.

“Yeah, probably.” You nod, to no one. “Well, basically, if you can let everyone know to just— Not fucking come in, today, or at the very least not come in for like— At least three hours. Maybe six. It’s not like you can work anyways, the freezer’s off limits until further notice.”

“You sure you don’t need us to come in?”

“Ah, T, that’s a nice thought but—” You wince, as you hear a crash from inside the walk-in. “I don’t know if it’s better or worse, for more people to witness this.”

Richie can tell what the crash is, because he himself has dropped shit an innumerable number of times in that walk-in before. “—Did you just knock over the fuckin’ stock—” “Fuck yourself! Fuck yourself! This is my fucking restaurant! Let me the fuck out, Richard!”

“Let’s just say call me back in three hours.” Is what you settle on. You don’t want to see this, and you don’t want anyone else to have to see this. And when Mikey eventually comes out of his rage state, he will be glad that the only two people that actually saw him like this, are his two closest friends. “Can you let everyone else know?”

“Yeah baby, I’ll let ‘em know.” First time Tina’s called you baby with sincerity instead of sarcasm, you wish you could savour it, but you’re so distracted with everything else that you really don’t even notice it. “Keep yourself safe too, alright?”

“Okay, Mama.” You reply with what is really only half sarcasm, and let her go. You sidle up to Richie, back on holding the door closed duty. Backs against the walk-in door, holding Mikey in, despite punch after punch after punch. He’ll wear himself out, eventually, but you’re terrified about how long that’s going to take. So is Richie.

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

You don’t need to check to know. “In six hours, he’ll be at two weeks.” You wince as one of Mikey’s hits against the door very directly targets your back, putting it in knots. “But it’s not like he’s suddenly going to go, oh well it’s been two weeks so I’m normal now, though.”

Richie just nods, pensive. “M’sorry.”

You shake your head. “I was just bein’ a bitch, we’re all getting used to it, I gettit, just try to be safer.”

He nods again, looking down at you as the beating seems to slow down. Richie tries to imagine a world where you two aren’t here right now; for some reason, he finds that universe more miserable. “We’re so fucked.” Because here it’s you two. You’re so fucked but it’s you two. It will take more than a year for you to figure out that’s how Richie feels.

“I know.” You punch back against the door, alerting Mikey— Not that he wasn’t already alert, and speak to both of them. “Same team, though!”

One last resounding body slam into the door, with everything Mikey has— It moves, just a bit, but not at all enough to open it. And then, a long silence. To the point where you and Richie look at each other, worried if Michael has somehow just died in there. But then a quiet voice speaks, like a white flag being raised.

“Same team.”

You look to Richie for permission, he’s just as clueless as you are here, as to what the right call is. With the most trepidation one could have, you put your hand on the handle and just start to pull on it, not even close to opening it. But Mikey notices the way the hinge moves by a hair, on the other side.

“Don’t open it.” You know he’s up to the door, just opposite of you. Not capable of looking at you; not capable of looking at him. “Six hours. It’s just six hours.”

But you can hear each other. And maybe that’s all you really ever needed. To be able to hear each other, even when he’s not here.

“Six hours. Same team.”

“I don’t know how.” Carmen’s nose twitches. “I don’t know how to stop being fucking—Garbage— I’ve tried—” “Have you?”

It’s a bit knife twisting, from Richie, but necessary. “Have you done the work? Cause it’s— I don’t think you have, Carm.”

“...What the fuck kinda work can I do, to fix me—?” Richie snaps his fingers, pointing at Carmen, interrupting him. “That— That is the exact fuckin’ problem with you, Cousin.”

Carmen almost rolls his eyes, putting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “What, that I’m self-aware?”

“That you just fuckin’ give up.” “I don’t just give up—” “You do! You give up and you go wah, I’m a Chef with issues and I’m gonna make it everyone else’s fucking problem—” “I am asking for help—” “Are you? Because the last person that helped you just ran out crying.”

Richie exhales, eyes closed. There’s a long forced silence, as a few tables full of patrons exit The Bear, awkwardly shuffling past what is clearly a crisis between the people that have been serving them tonight.

“That was below the belt, I’ll admit.” Says Rich, once they’re out of earshot.

Carmen just shakes his head, though he cannot look at Richie, though he can’t refute anything.

Richie steps next to where Carmen sits, and like an olive branch, Carmen lifts up his arm to offer his cigarette. Richie accepts, thank God— Thank you, for softening him up, because if you hadn’t, again, Carmen would be going headfirst through the fucking window right now.

“Don’t yell ‘t me—” That honestly hurts more than getting thrown through a window. “But I don’t think you got Andrea, at all.”

Andrea? Oh. “Chef Terry?” The Ever’s owner, Richie means.

“Andrea.” Richie nods, taking a puff. “Every second counts— I don’t think you got it.”

Carmen just shrugs, shaking his head, sure, he worked there for years and Richie worked there for days, but sure, he’s the one that didn’t get it. “Yeah? What’d I miss?”

“It’s not meant to make you fuckin—” He gestures to the general form of Carmen. “Tweak. It’s not about speed or— or— like firin’ off on all fuckin’ cylinders.”

“Then what is it?”

“It counts because it counts.” Richie hands the cig back to Carmen. “It’s— The fucking—” He kisses his teeth, trying to figure out the best way to explain. “When you took like, a million goddamn years to make that fuckin’ mont— Mont— What was it?”

“Montmorency.” Your cherry sauce. Carmen spent too fucking long reducing it, yesterday. He redid it like five times. He’d redone it so many times the autopilot in his brain fucked up that fucking plate yesterday, and it threw his entire life into a spiral. No. That's not what happened. He threw his life into a spiral.

“That was worth it, cause it— Cause it took time. Does that— Am I making any fuckin’ sense? Terry did this shit better, fuck.” Richie rubs a hand over his face, you’d probably be able to explain this better too. “It’s not the thing you’re doing that makes it count, it counts because you’re doing it.”

The value is in the time, not what is delivered. It does not need to be the most special, hyper condensed, hyper focused, upper echelon second to count. It will count because it counts. Time spent is worth it, no matter what was bought. Every second you spend, will always count. All the work and the not work and the love and the not love— It all counts. It counts because it counts. You care therefore you care. Any effort made is good effort.

Why does Carmen keep taking eons to learn what you are always trying to tell him?

The door opens, again. Instead of more patrons, Syd steps out— Wondering where the fuck her Exec and Host have gone. “Are we good?”

“No.” Says her Exec and Host. She nods, that’s good, cause she’s not good either.

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

“No one.” Lies Syd, Tina’s running the back, Sweeps is running the front, but she wants to freak Carmen out a little. She grabs the cigarette from Richie. “Burn the money, I say.”

“So, what you’re asking me to do— If I’m understanding, correctly, which— I might not be— You want me to take all my money, okay, and place it in a fucking furnace? Is that right?”

“So I’m sensing—” You curl your hand in the air. “A touch of hostility, which is fair.”

Bargaining with Uncle Jimmy isn’t the easiest thing in the world— Especially when this is your first time meeting him— And you’re begging him for money. Well, helping Mikey beg him for money.

“Listen, Uncle, please.” Mikey swallows, leaning in, elbows on the table. It’s nearly the end of January. New year, fresh start. No better time to pitch a half-baked pipe dream in the middle of The Beef’s dining room. “It’s not like I’m brand new to the restaurant gig— We turn profit, here, we can fuckin’ pay people.”

“Can you pay me?” “We will—” “Or you could just let me cut my losses—” “I wanna do something real, Uncle.”

“Why’s she here, again?” You shrink, when Cicero points at you. You swallow.

“I’m here as… Proof… That he wants to do something real.” You have to stop yourself from doing jazz hands, doubling down on the awkwardness will not make it go away, that is sadly not how that works.

Jimmy stares, for a moment, the cogs in his brain almost audibly whirring, as he stares at the space between you and Mikey, where you sit, at the other side of the booth. “Are you having a fuckin’ baby or somethin?”

The visceral reaction from your side of the booth is immediate. The worst part is he’s not even the first one to ask something like this— No, the manager at Wells Fargo was.

“What the fuck!” “Come on, Uncle…” “Do I— Do I look like a Milf, what the fuck is going on—” “She could be my daughter!” “Alright— So that is a little far, but the sentiment—”

“Alright, shut the fuck up, what is so fucking real that I’m suddenly going to hack up—”

Mikey tosses his necklace onto the table. It shouldn’t be physically possible, because it’s on a string, but it still manages to roll for a comically long time, like a coin, over to Jimmy. To thine own self be true. One Month.

“You will not be giving your money to some fucking junkie, Uncle—”

You wave a hand, interrupting Mikey. “Verbiage.”

He swallows and nods, taking the note. A hard lesson to learn. “You will not be giving your money to— To— You— You’re gonna give your money to someone who is trying, alright?”

Uncle Jimmy hasn’t looked up from the chip since it landed; Mikey continues. “And— And I’m gonna bring Carmy on, and we’re gonna do like—Like high level shit. Like a real fuckin’ Michelin level—”

“How many times have you gotten to a month?”

“First time.”

Jimmy frowns, crossing his arms. “How many times have you tried getting to a month?”

“Five.” Michael says, “Six.” you correct. Christmas was hard. Christmas was extremely fucking hard. You weren’t with the Berzattos, upon Mikey’s request— And neither was Carmen, upon Mikey’s ignoring him completely. And that made things a little fucking hard.

Jimmy just nods, arms still crossed. He’s forming some sort of plan, in his head, you’re just not sure what it is yet. He looks to you. “So you’re his sponsor, then?”

“Yessir.” “Do you feel qualified to do that?” “No-sir.”

Mikey kicks you under the table, your proclivity for honesty is not doing a great job selling this whole restaurant idea. You kick him back. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to feel qualified.”

“You sober?” “Not really.” “Well that’s kind of a key factor, I’ve heard.”

You sigh and lean forward, putting your hands in your lap. This is Mikey’s Uncle— Well, is he, actually? Unsure. But he gives as much of a fuck as you do, so you spill your guts, because you know he’s poking because he’s worried that some kid is taking care of Mikey and it’s the blind leading the fucking blind.

“I’m stable. I drink, sometimes— But never more than one glass, and never multiple days in a row. I’m coming up on a year, I still attend A-A— Though not as often as I’m told I should— And I’ve told Mikey that turbulent month long benders and a full blown decade long opioid addiction are not the same thing and I really shouldn’t be his sponsor.”

Mikey leans forward as well, then, meeting your level. “And I told Chip— And our coord— That I won’t do the program without her.”

After a long moment of silence, taking his time to digest every bit of information, Jimmy nods to the folder on the table. “N’ this?”

“It’s like a… Proposal?” You look to Mikey for help, he shrugs. This motherfucker— You’re not even a stakeholder in this, why are you talking? You turn back to Jimmy. “It’s like a promise.”

You open the folder, there’s loose sketches you’ve put together of The Bear’s signage, plus Carmen’s original piece— It was fun and weird, to work off of an artist you’ve never met before. There’s also cut outs from the New York Time’s and Food and Wine magazine showing off his award winning talents.

“We make money now.” Mikey finally chimes in, crossing his arms. “Imagine what we could do with him.”

“It would be cool!” You wingman. A little too excited for someone who’s never even breathed in a Michelin restaurant. “It’d be cool to have, like, a fine-dining establishment on North Orleans.”

“Or you’d completely cut out the audience that already likes The Beef.”

Mikey defends, “The people don’t know what they like, yet.” while you spread out some more papers across the table, showing off screenshots of food Carmen’s texted, that Mikey has never replied to. “They will like this shit— It’s— It’s art, Uncle. When they see this, they won’t give a shit about sandwiches.”

“They’ll give a shit about the price.”

“Uncle, I’m the guy.” Mikey uncrosses his arms, straightening up his posture, because now it’s serious. “I can— We can do this.”

As you continue to spread out papers, Uncle Jimmy stops you, seeing a peculiar page in the pile. He points to it, so you fish it out and hand it to him. He squints. “Joint bank account?”

You nod. “It’s so I can keep an eye on his spending and withdrawals.” Mikey tries not to wince at the fact a kid is in charge of managing his finances. You try not to wince at the fact that despite managing his finances, he's still reset six times.

“Y’know banks are a fuckin’ scam, right?”

You do not entertain Jimmy for a second, finally losing your whimsy. Your leg is shaking underneath the table— Thank God these tables are bolted. “I know that this is the first time in twenty years that my best friend is keeping savings.”

Not just living paycheck to paycheck, anymore. Not spending every penny on painkillers, anymore. Mikey is saving up because now there is a future to spend it on. Cicero swallows, nodding, eyes looking down, thinking deeply.

When he speaks again, it’s to say the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. “Ten grand a week.”

Your reply is in sync with Mikey, both jumping forward in your seats. “What?”

“Every week.” Jimmy pushes the chip back to your side of the table. “Every week that you keep going, that’s ten grand.”

You flail your hand under the table, grabbing for Mikey’s— He does the same, and it’s like a contest for who’s going to break who’s hand first, with how hard you’re holding each other.

Mikey’s first to ask the question, “Is that… Starting now or starting since I—”

“I’m so glad you asked, fuck no, that’s starting now.” He points to you, now. You flinch. “You’re gonna piss test him every fuckin’ week. I’m not fucking around about this.”

“Right. Heard.” You can only nod, because if you express anything else, it might just be screaming forever and ever. He pivots back to Mikey.

“And it’s gonna be cash— It’s not going in that fuckin’ joint, aright?” “Heard.”

“...Alright. Deal.” Cicero comes forward in his seat, and shakes Mikey’s hand. And despite not being a stakeholder, he reaches for yours, too; you shake it, and after a moment, he ruins this excitement stirring in the room, moving out of the booth. “I gotta piss, now.”

When he leaves for the bathroom, Mikey leans his head to you, putting his chin on your shoulder, whispering, “Art of the deal.”

You push his face away immediately, laughing. “Shut the fuck up! Why did you make me lead that shit!?”

Tomorrow Mikey will relapse again, and you’ll reset his necklace for the seventh time, but you don’t know that yet. Carmen’s gonna be so excited, when he finally comes back to Chicago and gets a sober brother and his dream restaurant. You’re excited to meet the guy, one day. Fingers crossed he likes you.

“That was fucking nuts.” Sydney decides that’s the best way to surmise it. “Like more than usual.”

“I’m aware.” Carmen can only nod, and despite the fact that he’s just going to lie down and take this, it does not remove the bitter feeling in her heart at all. Syd’s fucking mad, and she wants him to know.

“I’ve— I’ve literally only ever seen her cry like, like during Pixar movies or when we graduated. Like she just— That’s not a thing she does. I, I’m so— I literally don’t know what the fuck to do, right now.” For a second, she thinks her vision is flickering. “Oh my god, am I finally having a stroke?”

The three restaurateurs look up to see their neon white logo of a bear’s head, flickering and occasionally buzzing out. Richie’s the first to speak, as they all blankly stare at it. “Who are we gonna call, f’this?”

If this was yesterday, or maybe even if this was an hour ago, it wouldn’t be a question as to who they’d call. Carmen scratches the back of his head, the flaking hair gel is getting itchy. “Ted?”

“Who’s Ted?” Asks Syd; that’s not Tony, Terry or Tommy.

“Ted Fak.” Richie and Carmen answer at once, she almost gasps.

“They’re multiplying?”

Richie rolls back into his memory. “There’s eight— No, fuck, nine of them— I always forget Avery.”

Sydney just nods and hugs her shoulders for warmth. They all keep staring at the flickering bear, like moths.

“I don’t—I don’t have anyone, except her, y’know?” Syd sniffs. “Like after my dad, it’s— it’s literally just her. She’s my best and only friend.”

Carmen presses the palms of his hands over his eyes, “Heard.”

“I don’t want to choose between her and my career.” Carmen thinks she’s pausing, so he waits, but she’s not talking. That was the end of the sentence.

“Heard.”

“If that’s what getting a star takes, I don’t want it.” That’s huge. That’s a big statement, from Syd of all people. That gets the men to turn their heads from the light to her.

Syd continues to stare at the flickering bear, which lights up the two single straight streams of tears perfectly. It’s silent. She’s not snivelling or anything, she just shakes her head in tight swivels, biting her inner cheek. “It’s just— it’s just not worth that.”

“How can I fix it?” Maybe Syd will have a better answer than Richie did, something a little more actionable. She finally flits her gaze from the light down to Carmen, where he sits.

“Can you stay after close?”

“—Nobody in this motherfucking city knows transit etiquette— Why does everyone get on and go ‘wow I love standing in the walkway’— I’m so— There was so much seating just ahead of the blockage, Mikey, I’m so pressed, I’m literally—” You massage your brows, finishing up your rant from this morning’s commute. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“If you weren’t a little passenger princess, this wouldn’t be a problem, Chippy.” “I have my fucking license! I just don’t have a car!” “Then buy one!” “With who’s money!?” “Mine?”

A terrible running joke, from Mikey, is telling you to spend his money— The money he gets from staying sober. The money he’s saving for The Bear. The reason why he thinks this is funny, is because you have no fucking idea where he’s been putting it. But you know he hasn’t spent it, so that’s all that really matters.

You just huff, leaning back against the wall of his office as you watch him work, arms crossed and cringing as he futzes with the wiring. “You’re going to light us up like a Roman fucking candle.”

“It’s Jewish lightning—” “Top twenty-thousand reasons we do not say that— Number One—” “It’s gonna work! Just trust me!”

Mikey’s office looks a lot more lively, lately. He never cleans up the mugs of coffee you give him, every morning. He says it’s his way of tracking which flavour is his favourite, since you’re always switching up. It will never change from the chai spiced blend, and you both know that. It’d be more accurate of him to say he likes the sticky notes you tack on to each mug, saying you love him and saying he needs to keep going.

“I could fix it, y’know.” At that, Mikey turns away from his distressing handiwork to look at you.

“I know. But I wanna prove I can, too.”

That hits you right in the chest. You want to tell Mikey that he never has to prove anything, with you; never has to lift a goddamn finger. But he would hate to hear that. “Okay.”

You hear from outside the office, the back door opening. “Child incoming, no expletives please!”

“What the fuck is an expletive?” Mikey asks you, whispering.

You whisper back, leaning forward off the wall to close in on him. “It’s what you just did.”

Eva runs in, the way that kids do— The way they kinda waddle. Immediately up to you and Mikey. Uncle Mike and Aunty Chip, she calls you both. Sometimes Uncle Jack— Because she hasn’t completely grasped the concept of gender yet— Good, no one should.

“Watch!” You have yet to even say hi, before she immediately attempts to do a cartwheel in the middle of this very small office.

“Good job, Evie!” You clap, after she just barely lands safely on her shins.

She nods, “Can you do that?”

“Honestly? I don’t think I can.” You look up from her to Mikey. “Can you?”

“Can I cartwheel?” He stumbles back, slapping his hand over his chest. Gutted. “Can I cartwheel? Eve— She doesn’t think I can cartwheel.”

“Insane, Uncle.”

“Not what I said!” You can’t hold back your laughter, what a shining this kid has taken to her dad. “I’d love to see it, I really would!”

Mikey just shakes his head, kissing his teeth. How dare you offend his honour, in this way? This forty-two year old man can absolutely cartwheel with the best of them. In five minutes he definitely isn’t gonna eat shit in the dining room of his restaurant. He pats Eva on the shoulder. “You go with your dad and clear out some tables out front, I’m gonna need space.”

“You’re gonna break your neck, Mike.” Richie chimes in, standing in the doorway now, waiting for Eva to return to him. “I don’t wanna plan your funeral.”

“Please, you would plan a terrible funeral.” “That’s bull—”

“Expletive!” You cover Eva’s ears. She just laughs, looking up at you with that cute and bizarre blank kid stare. What a little patoot.

Richie looks to you, forgetting the bit for a moment, “Y'need a grocery run, tonight?”

You nod, removing your hands from Eva, but then she holds them there. Goddamnit, kids are an awful idea but she's fucking cute. “Pay you gas money in the form of Wendy's?”

“Marone!” Richie exclaims, poorly, grabbing your face by the chin and top of your head to kiss your cheek just short of a million times. “The perfect woman—”

“Not Italian!” is the synchronous reply from you and Mikey.

Richie rolls his eyes, “Not Italian— Fu—”

Eva interrupts him, taking as much as a shining to you as she does her father. “Exp—Expultive!” She looks at you for approval and you nod in delight.

“Just go set up front, would ‘ya?” Mikey brushes Rich off, the man just rolls his eyes, picking up his daughter from you to fly her off like an airplane.

“Let's set the stage for your Uncle’s neck injury, sweets. Bwwwwrrr—” Richie makes good airplane noises. Richie’s a good dad. You will never find a good time to tell him this. You watch Mikey’s back flex, as he cracks back into the hole of wires in the wall. He's been working hard on a lot of little things lately.

You will not realize he is trying to make things clean and square, until it is too late. Right now, you’re just happy, because, “You’re already at three weeks again, and you haven’t even noticed.”

“Oh, I fucking noticed.” He doesn’t face you, when he says it, but it’s with a hearty chuckle. He’s noticed it violently, he’s just getting very good at the first month, now— Well acquainted with the burn out. “But now there’s money on the line, I can’t lose.”

It’s not that money’s on the line. It’s that his brother is on the line now. And Mikey couldn’t do this for himself— but the guy could do it for his brother. So he’ll just be the guy, that’s what the guy’s do. Six hours, same team. Nine weeks, Mikey, come on.

“Well you’re doing good, I’m proud of you.”

“You believe in me?” He says it like he doubts your conviction. You nearly punch him in the back of the head.

“Of course I believe in you.”

Mikey bites his inner cheek, though you can’t see his face. “...Why are we keeping the candles?”

Ah. You’ve still got the one and two candles in his drawer with a lighter, ready for the next cupcake. They’re slowly but surely melting with each reset, eventually they’ll be incomprehensible. Do you believe in me? If you do, why are you saving them? Do you think we’ll need them? That’s what Mikey’s asking. You scoff.

“You’re so stupid.” “What the— I confide in you and I get this—”

You interrupt him, arms crossed. “One day, one week, one month, one year, fuckin— When we get to double digits? Ten months? One decade?”

He’s mum, at that. You add. “We’re getting our fucking mileage out of these candles, Mikey. I believe in you.” You think Mikey has a future, still. Mikey knows he doesn’t. He changes the subject because if he doesn’t, he’ll tell you everything and you will stop it.

“I want you to start talking to Carmen, when he comes back.” You should’ve asked Mikey why he was so certain Carmen would be coming back. But you weren’t smart enough.

“What the fuck?” You snort. “Okay, out of literally nowhere—” “You’d like him.”

“He sounds very nice.” “He’s not. He’s a—” “Ball buster, yes, you’ve told me.” “He’d like you.” “Why?” “Cause you’re you.”

“Wow, pretty inarguable there.” You can only smile, unable to see the wheels turn in Michael’s head. “Guess we’ll be besties.”

“I meant talk like talk—” “Are you trying to hook me up right now?” “He’s a virgin, so it’s definitely not a good deal for you—” “And— And why are we talking about your brother's sex life— Did we already explode and this is hell?” “I just want you to be prepared for what you’re getting into, he gets performance anxiety so—” “Mikey!”

“You’ll talk to him?” Mikey turns away from the wall, wanting you to look him in the eyes and promise him.

You shake your head and roll your eyes, but stick a hand out for the Berzatto to shake. “Yes, Bear, I’ll talk to your virgin Michelin star ranked brother.”

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

After close, after everyone but Carmen, Sydney, and Richie leave, the three make plans to meet in Michael’s office. Carmen will go in ahead to hide your folder because he doesn’t want to see it himself and he absolutely doesn’t want anyone else to see it. Even if one of them could very well explain it, because he’s fucking in them. It’s fine. He looks at your wrapped up painting in the corner of his office. Carmen considers for what feels like a decade, whether or not he should open it. But he hasn’t earned a gift from you, so he doesn’t— Not for now, at least. He hasn’t earned your art right now.

Underneath your ICE folder is his notepad— The one he was scribbling recipes for his Exec into, the one he scribbled your recipe into, and underneath all that torn up paper— His list, from this morning. The non-negotiable rules he wanted— Wants? To add to The Bear. There’s twenty-seven. Half of them are spelt wrong as he wrote them while absolutely losing his shit, this morning. This list did not go over well, when it was proposed during family, at two in the afternoon. Some of these could still work though, right? At least the technique and the boxes and the—

Richie comes in, not knocking, and immediately spots the list. “Oh good.” He grabs the notepad and rips off the twenty seven points. Leaving only the title, NON-NEGOTIABLES.

“Come the fuck on—” Says Carmen. Richie rolls his eyes, tossing the list onto the desk. Richie can tear him and his stupid fucking list a new one another time— Richie and Carmen can sort out their own part of the fight in a week, when they take a twelve hour road trip. Right now though, they are both completely focused on you.

Sydney comes in with two labelled deli containers of coke. Time codes and everything, she can't turn it off. She hands one to Rich, the other one is for herself. That’s fine, soda on Carmen’s shredded throat really wouldn’t be great right now anyways. She takes a sip, looking over Carm's shoulder. “Oh, we’re doing a real list, now?”

Carmen just sighs, letting the dig go, because he deserves it. He clicks his pen, sitting down, ready to write, without hesitation. “Go.”

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

“Lay off her,” Sydney waves her hand over her neck. “Leave her the fuck alone, for like a week, minimum.”

“No— What? No— You should call her like now—” “Absolutely not the right move—” “Solve it hard and fast—” “Why hard—?”

“I’m just gonna wait.” Carmen decides, typically Syd is the right one, anyways. Plus if he hears your voice right now he might throw up and he doesn’t have your tums, anymore. “Next?”

“An exorcism.” Richie doesn’t laugh, when he says it. “Also read fuckin’ Runnin’ on Empty— By Doctor Webb.”

The two cooks just look at him, like Richie’s grown five thousand heads. He groans before they even say anything. “I’m fuckin’ well read, shut the fuck up— It’s—” He snaps his fingers, pointing to Carmen’s list, “It’s an audiobook, too, on fuckin’ Spotify— Listen to that shit on your commute you have no excuse.”

“Yes, Chef.” Carmen writes it down, he also writes down under things to look into, catastrophizing, while he’s at it. Richie watches over his shoulder, and adds, “Look into sublimation and behavourial dysfunction.”

Syd’s still reeling over the sudden character growth. “You need to relax with the self-help books.”

“Yeah, well you need to read Mark Wolynn’s ‘It Didn’t Start With You.’” Richie’s got lists of books now, instead of zingers. They somehow hit harder.

She’s got no come back for that other than a surprised pout and nod, taking her own phone out to write it down. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmen pipes in, not looking up from his list of to dos “Should I also read that one—” “Yes.” “Heard, Chef. Next?”

“It cannot be on Tony to be your fucking punching bag. If you’re tweaking— Keep that shit between you and your therapist—” Syd switches from her notes app to search, “We’re finding you a fuckin’ therapist.”

“Is that covered in our contract?” Didn’t he write it? Carmen doesn’t know.

“Doesn’t matter. Also I don’t know, but doesn’t matter.” Syd hasn’t read it yet. She also doesn’t know.

You are worth a couple out of pocket fees. Well, more importantly, Carmen is worth a couple out of pocket fees— Well, alright, he’ll discuss his weaknesses of self-prioritization with the therapist.

Before Carmen can even say next, Richie adds. “Also you smell like shit.” The hair gel is pungent in a bad way.

And before he can defend himself, Sydney adds, not looking up from her phone, “We’re going to fuckin’ Kohl’s after this and we’re getting you a skincare— And haircare— routine. You’re seconds away from breaking out, I bet you use fuckin’ Palmolive dish soap.”

“Well— I’ve been using Tony’s, actually—” “We know.” It’s a completely synchronized interruption.

“It’s been her signature scent, since highschool.” “Who do you think took her grocery shopping when she didn’t have a car?” “I thought I was having a flashback everytime you walked by in the kitchen, this past week.” “You should go back to it.”

“I know. I will.” He’s got every intention of re-upping on your shampoo and conditioner, when he’s taken on a shopping spree to get his shit together. Hopefully you won’t mind him copying you. “No more Five in One.”

“You’ve been using fucking five in one!?”

Carmen thought, yesterday, naively, that he would do right by you on Friday. He didn’t, he did the very opposite— But even if he did, that’s weak shit. Carmen’s not gonna do right by you for just one single fucking day. Carmen’s gonna do right by you, for the rest of his life. The three get to well over twenty seven points, and he has every intention of showing up to it. He’s gonna be your man, and he’s going to fucking earn that title. He’s going to prove it.

“Okay. So can you tell me what happened on February 22nd?” She’s a shit therapist. You’re imagining both you and her dead in your head. You’ve been imagining a lot of people dead in your head, for the last two weeks. Every time your dad comes to check on you, you imagine that he’s a ghost.

You imagine having a passing conversation with someone, maybe catching up with Syd, one day. And she’ll ask you ‘Meet any interesting people?’ and you’ll say ‘Yeah. But he killed himself.’ That’s gonna suck. You didn’t prepare for that one. So you need to prepare now. Look at all of your friends and family, and imagine they are dead— And introduce them as such. ‘That’s my friend Richie, he died.’ Make it hurt now, so it doesn’t hurt then.

You didn’t prepare enough. Didn’t do enough. Countless little mistakes and moments you missed. The therapist is looking at you, oh right, it’s your turn to talk again. You’ve told her all these cute little stories but now she wants to hear how the sad shit went. Or maybe it was all sad shit. Maybe it’s all coated in a film of grief, now.

You’ll tell her that Mikey was very thorough, with his plan that you didn’t know about. He waited until he thought you were out of the city— When he knew you’d be out of the city. When your sister in law delivered your nephew and you went to Oak Park to visit.

Just days before, you celebrated three months of sobriety with him and Richie— You’ll tell the therapist, excitedly, that this was his longest streak so far, it took him a year to reach three months— It was a big fucking deal. You were beaming all day. You didn’t realize, however, that days after Uncle Jimmy had made his deal with you two, that Mikey did the math. Figured out exactly how many weeks he’d have to be sober, to get three-hundred grand.

Thirty weeks. Roughly seven months and two weeks. He did it. Not in sequence, but he did it. You’re still not sure where that money is. Uncle isn’t either. Maybe Carmen will figure it out. It’s meant for him anyways. You’ll say that Carmen will figure it out in such a way that she asks— “And do you hold animosity? Towards his younger brother?”

You look at her like she’s a psycho, because she is. Replying incredulously, “I don’t fucking know him.”

‘My best friend Michael is dead.’ ‘My best friend, Mikey, is dead.’ Doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.

“Do you wish you did?”

“I really couldn’t say I give a shit, ma’am. Can I tell you about the guy I did know, though?”

She nods, you roll the fuck on. You tell her that the morning after you got to your brother’s place— February 22nd, you all decided instead of staying for the week, as you’d planned, as Mikey planned, you’d instead go home early. Because as much as you wanted to be helpful, having more people in the house was stressing the new mom the fuck out. Understandable. So you took a train back to Chicago early.

You got home, and you found that you’d gotten some mail, waiting for you on the floor, shoved through the mail slot of your door. Bill, bill, invoice, spam, coupons, handwritten envelope— Ah. Mikey’s handwriting. A deep unsettling feeling burrowed its way into you. It just says For Chip. There’s no letter inside. No. There’s a debit card, his, of your joint bank account, there’s a key, yours, a copy of your key to this apartment, and a necklace, his— With his three month sobriety chip hanging off of it.

You call him, immediately. He doesn’t answer the first time. You call him again. He answers on the last possible ring.

The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life— Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call with an old friend.

“Yo, Ice-y!” A classic nickname, reserved purely for phone calls with Mikey. Because in his phone, you’re 0ICEChip, so you’ll show up at the top of his contact list, if he’s ever found unresponsive. Typically a pro-tip reserved for those in hospice care.

You don’t entertain him. “Where are you?”

“I’m just out for a walk, sweetheart.” “Shut the fuck up out for a walk— Where the fuck are you?”

He hums at your snarky tone. “Nephew didn’t take a liking to you?” “I came home early.”

The silence is long, and you can hear the heavy wind coming through his phone. He’s outside. He’s somewhere outside. It’s a cold night. It’s usually not this cold at the end of February, but it really fucking came down, this morning.

“Oh.”

“Why did you leave this shit at my door? Where are you?” You thought of 0ICE but you didn’t think to have him turn his location on? Fucking idiot. Fucking idiot. You didn’t do enough. ‘My friend, Bear, is dead.’ You didn’t prepare enough. “Bear, c’mon, what’s going on? I told you, if we need to reset, it’s two steps forward, one step back, it’s okay—”

“It’s not.” “It is! We will get there!” “I’m not. You’re gonna get there, I’m not.” “That’s not true!” “I love you but we both know this was a pipe dream.”

“Mikey—”

“Chip, I’m not going anywhere. You’re— You’re fucking going somewhere. I can’t— I can’t let— We both know where I’m going and it’s nowhere you should begin to be.”

“You don’t get to make that choice for me. You don’t get to make that call. I decide what I bet on— Mikey, where are you?” You’re walking out of your place, you hadn’t even closed the door before leaving again.

Fucking idiot, you should’ve bought a car. How are you supposed to get to him on foot and train? Fucking idiot. The snow is beating down, the wind is cutting into your face. ‘My best friend died on February 22nd. On the State Street Bridge.’— Why didn’t you get a fucking car? You didn’t do enough. You can’t remember any of your training, right now. What are you supposed to say? “Are you using?”

“No. No. I’m— This is me, Chip.” “No it’s fucking not, Mikey! Shut the fuck up, where are you!?”

“I love you, I didn’t want this to be— I-I—I’m not killing myself, Chip.”

“You’re not?”

You shouldn’t have believed him. You should’ve just kept walking. You would’ve figured out where he was, eventually. You should’ve called the coast guard, or some shit. Should’ve just figured it out.

“I’m not. I’m— I’m okay, I’m really just going for a walk— I-I just— I had a… I— I don’t want you to be my sponsor anymore. That’s it.” It made sense. He didn't want you to feel hurt, so he was hesitant. It made sense.

“Why?”

“Cause you’re a kid, and I can’t make you responsible for what I do.”

“I’m not a kid.” “To me, you are.” “Then we’ll find you someone else.” “Yeah, okay.”

You pause, for a good bit, listening to the shakiness of his breath. “You’re cold, Mikey.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re just cold.” That’s all that’s wrong. He’s just cold and he doesn't want you to be his sponsor anymore. “Go inside, soon. Come home.”

“I will.”

Mikey always had that way of making you think everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t. “Okay.”

“I want you to start treating our joint like an advanced payment, by the way. A million things are always fucking breaking at The Beef, there’s no point in wiring all the time.”

Mikey wants this to be clean and square, too. Because he couldn’t figure out the wiring by himself— He needs to make sure his baby brother is taken care of, he needs to make sure his restaurant is taken care of, he needs to make sure that you have something to do because Michael fucking saw you.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You nod to no one. “I think your toilets fucked, speaking of.” You laugh, everything’s okay. There’s a long silence, and you think he’s hung up.

“Good. Okay— You should— You should come fix it, sometime soon… Love you, Chip.”

“Love you, Bear.”

You will tell your therapist that after that phone call, you went back inside, cleaned yourself up, unpacked unused toiletries, changed out of your borrowed brother’s sweats into your nice pajamas, because Mikey said he would come home. He said he would come home and you believed him because he never lied to you before. You set up the things he left for you in your handmade clay dish tray; so he can take them back. Just because you’re not his sponsor, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t keep his chips.

You will tell your therapist that you fell asleep on the couch, waiting for Michael. You will tell her you woke up to a phone call from Richie, and all he said, wavering, was, “You should come over.” Richie doesn’t ask things. Richie will always say, come over. You don’t know why that’s the signal you get, since you seemingly must have missed so many other obvious signs, but you know then that your— Your— Your best— Fuck, the knots are fucking debilitating, fuck fuck fuck.

You will not come over. You will walk, in the cold, to your dad’s place. You will not bring anything with you. You will stay there and rot for two weeks, as will everything in your apartment. He will force you to go to this several hour long therapy appointment because he can’t keep watching you do this, and you will resent the woman you are telling all this.

You will continue to see her, for five more sessions, because the first six are covered under your insurance. She will help in a lot of ways, she will hurt in others.

Wells-Fargo will ask if you want to close your account. You don’t want to, but it’ll accrue monthly banking fees, so you take the money out and close it. You buy a shitty maroon 2004 Dodge Intrepid off Facebook Marketplace with the two and a half grand. It barely functions as a car. But it will drive. The next time someone needs you. You can drive. Next time you’ll think of everything, next time you won’t fail.

You stop paying the phone bill, for your business line. It goes defunct. You just don’t think you should be trusted to be helpful, for the next little while. You will blame your father for this, when people ask about it.

On the day of his funeral, you will go. You will go, and you will sit on the curb across from the church, and you will not go inside. It's just not possible. You will buy a pork chop-cheese sandwich from a bodega nearby and you will eat it on that curb and it’s only then, after shoving it down for so long, that you will scream and cry.

You will leave before anyone sees you, and you will go to State Street Bridge, and you will set up a small vigil. You will finnick with the candles and the flowers until you feel they are perfect. They will never get perfect. You just don’t want to leave. You have a tendency to do that.

You will stare at the little stuffed bear, the roses, the picture frame of him, and you will finally say it aloud.

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

When Carmen shows up, two hours later, not honestly that long after you finally left, he will add a bouquet and a prayer candle. He will readjust all of your work, to his preference, and then readjust it again and again and again— and he will finally say it aloud.

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

No matter how you say it, it won’t roll off the tongue.

And about thirty-nine weeks from that day, you will be in New York, at a wedding, talking with the virgin Michelin star ranked brother, as you promised.

You will have abandoned your bar after making confessions under the counter, and have instead co-opted the single stall gender-neutral bathroom to have ample time and space to tell each other everything you’ve told your therapists. Even now, neither of you can get the words to roll off the tongue.

But Carmen manages to make “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry— I will never be able to surmise, how sorry—” roll off well enough. Alas, he’s interrupted, by a knock on the gender-neutral bathroom door, made by the only fuckers that knows you two are in here.

“Guys I— Guys I don’t know how to run bar, and I don’t think I should’ve been trusted, with this.”

Carmen will not look away from your bleary-eyed face, he will not break his focus even when you laugh at the sudden tension break. He will just tell the Faks to fuck off and figure it out.

“I’m gonna fix it.” Carmen will tell you, and you will nod and say, “I will too.”

Because it’s not just on one of you, anymore. It can be both. The shared burden. The shared grief. No more fucking shoes, because it's all out now.

It’s not negotiable.

I love when tumblr drafts fully start to lag and my macbook lights on fire because the post is too fucking long. I have so much to say about this chapter but I think I will just make a separate post entirely about this. Because I’m. I’m really proud tbh not to toot my own horn but I think I kind of maybe a little bit ate with this one.

Fun fact, that you may or may not believe: The Carmen scenes? Not planned. Fully did not plan to do any of that. This was going to be entirely Mikey flashbacks, originally— There might’ve ended up being more honestly, if I didn’t add Carmen, but after Something to Do when I started writing I was like,,, these cats aren’t cooking, Carmen’s side is missing a second beat before the third. And so, here it is.

I know everyone was expecting a depression week for Carmen— And to be fair, I also kind of was. But I then thought, nah. They’d done too much work, and I don’t think Rich/Syd would allow him to wallow. Like get your shit together, not for you, for her. Ugh.

Speaking of Rich and Syd— FUCK man my heart. The way their scenes from the past and present meshed together in such a deeply painful way I’m sooo SICK WITH IT!!! WHAT DID YOU THINK?!?!! Just fuckin— The way Tony was too scared to reach out to Syd but it’s SO FUCKING OBVIOUS that Syd was on the other side of Chicago thinking the exact same shit i’m SO SICK!!!!! I’M HACKING UP A LUNG HERE!!

Anyways it’s my birthday send me well wishes and an essay on what you thought I’d love to hear it. I know this was a tough one. Thank you for getting through it with me lmao. Tag list! Hope I didn’t forget anyone, pwease note i ownwee add pweople who swend theiw twoughts— It also may or may not hurt my feelings when people don’t read this text at the bottom. It might. It might a lot.

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin @ashtonweon @sharkluver @fridavacado @hoetel-manager @mrs-perfectly-fine

Next Part

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #mikey berzatto #michael berzatto #carmen x oc #carmy x reader #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #the bear #the bear hulu #the bear fx

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jenniferjareauwife · 25 days ago

Text

Work Stress

pairing: billie eilish x fem reader

category: fluff

warnings: anxiety

word count: 629

summary: you get home after a stressful work day and billie comforts you

I came home with a heavy weight on my shoulders. It had been a rough few days, Billie was spending her free time making music which inevitably meant less time with her but I was stuck at work with meeting after meeting with nothing but anxiety weighing on me.

I set my bag down on the kitchen counter before retreating to Billie and my's shared bedroom.

There she was, headphones on, notebook in hand. Scribbles of art written all over the pages with one liners next to almost all of them. I wanted more than anything to get in bed next to her but she was busy and I didn't want to disturb her so I just walked to the bathroom to take off my makeup. "Hey baby." I couldn't help but feel my heart melt at her sweet voice.

"Hi." It came out as a whisper and I looked to her as she took off her headphones.

"Everything alright?" She leaned on the doorframe, her brows furrowed a bit as she tried to read me.

"Long day." I sighed and leaned against the counter with my hands, giving her a small frown.

"You could've texted me. I would've faked a car crash so you could leave work." I laughed along with her.

"Aw I really should've shouldn't I?"

"Well that's what I'm for, right?" I pretended to give it some thought but I eventually just agreed with her.

"It's not that I don't like my job." I started. "It can just be a fuck ton sometimes."

"I know sweet girl, I know." She took me into her arms, placing a kiss on my forehead.

"We should just live on an island or something."

"I agree. Have a few parrots." I laughed at the thought.

"We could create a civilization. Create a new language." I offered. She giggled and rubbed my back. "Come on baby, let's get you into some more comfortable clothes." She guided me to the bed before starting to undress me, starting with everything on top before removing everything on bottom.

"It's chilly. Hoodie?" She smiled and nodded, already reaching for her hit me hard and soft hoodie that was laying on the floor. It smelled like her, making my body relax.

"What else can I do for you my love?"

"Hm. I mean...I think I'm just really tired, you know? Kinda wanna settle down. You can go back to writing if you want, I just want your company."

"No baby, I've spent all day writing, I'm here for you." She pulled the covers up over me before getting comfortable next to me. "Any shows? Books?"

"I don't really know. Kinda was just looking forward to you."

"You're so cute." She kissed my nose before pulling the hood up over my head.

"Ew it's gonna mess up my hair."

"It's cute." She shrugged as I pulled the hood down, my hair already messed up. "You're so pretty." I scrunched up my nose and leaned into her, burying my face in her neck. "I'll tell you what. For this weekend, I'll cancel my studio times."

"Why?" I pulled my head out of her neck, a quizzical look on my face.

"To spend more time with you, help you through this bit of anxiety." She ran her fingers gently through my messy hair. "I'm sorry I haven't been here." She had a small frown on her face that I quickly kissed away.

"It's okay. I know you have multiple priorities, I can't expect you to be around all the time." I laughed softly, trying to make her feel a bit better.

"Okay." She smiled. "But if you ever feel this way at work again, remember, car crash." She held out her pinky, linking it with mine.

"Car crash."

#x reader #billie eilish #billie eilish x reader #wlw post #lgbtq #billie eilish x fem!reader #sapphic

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bonbonly · 3 months ago

Note

I need more college au max and physio trainee! What would happen if you didn’t listen to his instruction about not giving any other patient the same treatment? You figured if it was working for max, surely it would work for the other guys. you didn’t get to blow anyone else off, just suggested it but your supervisor walked in before anything could happen. max hears about it. He pretends to be hurt again, and you’re already on your knees, ready to treat him like usual but he pulls you up and sets you over his knee, he spanks your ass and your cunt many times, teaching you a lesson that you’ll only touch and suck his cock, and just to be safe, as another “punishment” he fucks you right then and there, telling you that if you let anyone else in your pussy but him, your next punishment would be even worse.

and when i tell you i started giggling a maniac reading this I-

bon's thoughts (18+)

it was just a normal monday morning. dr. bentley was running a bit late, and your first patient happened to be a good friend of max! you were more than delighted to see patients that were friends with your other patients, because maybe then you could build connections and gain a good reputation! problem was, max's friend had probably been out with a girl right before his appointment with you, and his boner refused to leave. you glance down at his shorts, connecting the dots in your head. well, max did tell you to never treat someone like you treated him, BUT who were you to deny your patient the care they deserved?

"you want me to fix that for you?" you ask, pointing at the outline of his cock and max's friend stares at you, jaw dropping at your words. there's no way you just offered to give him a blow job in a health clinic? and before he can even respond, dr. bentley opens the door and he smiles at you,

"ah! my trainee! you can take a break you know? always showing up, go get yourself a treat!" and you smile at your mentor, exiting the room completely unaware that max's friend was about to have the wildest story when he got back to his dorm.

"she asked... to fix your.... boner?" max swivels in his gaming chair, staring at his friend.

"yeah man, she wanted to suck me off! it was so weird, who even does that? i wasn't gonna complain though, because i figured... well, i felt bad," max's friend confesses and max's face hardens, he's seething that you were so stupid enough to go against what he asked. he sighs, opening his computer to book another physio appointment with you, specifically on a day where dr. bentley was gone for a medical conference.

when you get the file that max is your patient, you're so happy to see him! your prized patient, your very first patient, and you were so grateful that you got to treat him. he's sitting on a chair in the room, crossing his arms when you lock the door (just like he always told you to!) and rush over to set his file on a table besides him. you're on your knees, "same like last time?" you ask, smiling.

"no," max reciprocates your smile for a split second, before his face falls and he grabs your arms, throwing you over his lap.

"w-wait what's-" your question's cut off by a firm smack on your ass that makes you instantly shut up.

"i just don't get it, I tell you... I tell you to only give the treatment to me and no one else, to only suck my cock and no one else's, but here you were trying to do it to my friend," max tears your leggings off of you, grabbing a fistful of your ass before harshly smacking it once more. his hand burns against your skin, and tears prickle at the corner of your eyes,

"i-i was only trying to help!" you whimper, earning another harsh smack. he listens to your choked sobs, and flips you over on your back so that you could look him in the eye,

"help? you call that help? help is what you do to me, because that treatment only works on me, no one else!" he glances over at your panties, rubbing his knuckles against your clothed cunt that makes you close your legs on instinct. he's never touched you like this before! max scoffs, shaking his head, "oh, so you won't spread your legs for me, hm? but i'll bet you do it for every other patient right? because you're just so helpful, aren't you?"

his words don't seem to make any sense to you, but he brings your panties down to your ankles, and rubs slow, teasing circles on your clit that has you bucking into the palm of his hand,

"max, t-that feels so good!" you whine out loud, but he pulls back and slaps your cunt. you shriek out loud, which causes him to clamp a hand around your mouth, slapping your puffy folds more.

"count this as your punishment, if I see or even hear you touching or sucking anyone's cock other than mine? this is what will happen, you understand?"

"y-yes, max, i apologize," you whisper, nodding your head through small tears. max raises an eyebrow, eyes drifting down from that tight shirt you always wore to your wet, dripping cunt. he bites his lips, shaking his head,

"i don't think you learned your lesson, yet," he sighs, and you begin to freak out, of course you learned your lesson! you were always willing to help him and only him! "i might switch to another trainee, or go somewhere else for my physio appointments."

"no, no, no max! max, no!" you cry out, "no, I promise I'll do anything! i'm so sorry, I won't ever think about sucking someone's cock unless it's yours! please don't leave, I need one patient letter of recommendation before the semester ends!"

max has you right where he wants, and he tilts his head, "is that so? well, you're going to have to prove it to me, then, right? show me how you'll take care of me enough so i won't leave your appointments."

you're scrambling off him, desperate to get down and suck his cock just so that he could stay, but he catches your wrist, tutting his tongue, "oh, schatje, not this time, remember? no, I think I need to make sure you learned your lesson for good."

he doesn't really care how unsanitary the cold tile floor is, as long as it's a bit uncomfortable so you understood the lesson, he's more than happy to fuck you. he's watching your head toss and turn, having never felt something so intense in your life as he's drilling his cock into your poor cunt. you're milking him again and again, and he doesn't seem to stop anytime soon. his lips bite into your neck, your shoulder, the valley of your tits, and he even tugs your nipples with his teeth, watching you squirm and cry, "max, 's too much! 's too much!"

"well, you should've thought that before, schatje. the rule for your mouth applies for your pussy as well, if i find out you've spread your legs for any guy, and let him into your sweet cunt, i'll punish you worse... far worse." he warns you, gripping onto your waist as he pulls out and slams right back into you. your wails are quickly silenced by his mouth on you, tongue delving into explore as much it could.

when you open the patient review an hour or two later, max left a comment:

"she's good, could be a bit better but she's good... i'll see her more next week and see if she's improved"

and that's enough for you to never ever think about someone else taking your pussy, even if it would help with their treatment.

#bon's asks #bon thoughts #bon's anons #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x reader smut #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fanfiction #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen one shots #max verstappen headcanons #f1 smut #f1 x reader smut #f1 x you #f1 x you smut #f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 imagine #college!au

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virginiaisforvampires · 2 months ago

Note

I really appreciate your account because you're one of the rare true Loustaters. I've noticed a trend where some people don't truly care for Louis or only see him as a love interest or other just hate lestat and criticize him. But you offer genuine analyses and truly understand their dynamic, which is such a breath of fresh air in this fandom. It often feels like it's "Louis fans vs. Lestat fans," and it's incredible how few people understand that one can't exist without the other.

I wish the fandom wasn't so divided because either if you only like Louis or only Lestat and hate the other you're gonna be miserable because their stories will be connected.

Last time, I saw someone say they don’t want Loustat back together until before the last season because Louis fans are "annoying," and they want Louis as far away from Lestat as possible. And let’s not even get started on how many so-called "Jacob fans" who want him out of the show just to make sure Loustat never ends up together. It’s so depressing,you have this beautiful and complicated love story, but it feels like so few people actually want them to be together anymore.

Thank you for saying this. ♥️🙏🏽

Can I let you in on a little secret? I tend to ignore all that ^^ for the most part, because I know from where the discourse stems, and everyone (aside from the tiny portion I’m about to describe) wants Loustat. 😁

That tiny portion is either A) book readers who have an agenda and want Lestat with other lovers, B) people pretending to be Louis fans but don’t actually care anything about him (or Jacob) at all and only use him as their token for their morality olympics for attention, and C) secretly love Lestat but cannot reconcile that with their so-called “morality” but use Louis as their self-insert to be fucked by bad daddy Les.

I have found that 99% of the anti-Loustat/Lestat vs. Louis nonsense comes from a certain subset of show-only fans who’ve made up a show in their heads that doesn’t exist, and it also comes from a very small portion of book readers who willfully misinterpret the book canon and do not understand Louis or Lestat at all.

So I’m glad you’ve found my blog and that you enjoy my content, because it is always 100% pro-Louis, 100% pro-Lestat, and 100% pro-Loustat.

They are literally two halves of one whole, and you are absolutely right in that their individual stories depend upon the other to even function. Besides that though, they are both fascinating and extraordinary characters with so many layers and facets, and Sam and Jacob do an incredible job of bringing them to life, and this isn’t even touching upon their chemistry. Like, Jam is top tier. You won’t ever beat those two.

So yeah, I’ve loved both Louis and Lestat for over a decade. They are the loves of my life for different reasons, but it’s not one or the other for me. Not really. They are a set for me, because I adore them both on a fundamental level, and I feel like I understand them.

I want Louis and Lestat happy and healthy and at peace, and I hope that certain fans will take the time to understand them and understand how their relationship exists. That would be the best thing that could ever happen in this fandom. ♥️

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv amc #amc interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #loustat #sam reid #jacob anderson #jam reiderson #iwtv 2022 #vampire chronicles #the vampire chronicles

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weirdgenetic-fuckup · 4 months ago

Note

Could you write about James Hetfield (from 1998) and reproductive perversion?

A/n: I tried so hard to figure out what this means, I hope I wrote this right

I wrote half of this literally months ago so I genuinely don’t remember what happens

Warnings: smut, fingering (f receiving), breeding kink, reproductive perversion (assuming I did it right), if you think I missed anything please let me know bc I don’t remember what I wrote 😃 otherwise enjoy!

Metallica was hiring and they were one of your favourite bands, plus you really needed a job so you sent in your resume.

You hadn't expected to hear back so soon, or really ever, but it only took a week and you were called in for an in person interview with Metallica.

You walked into some fancy building and were led right to a office. You thought there'd be a line of sorts or something but no, it was fairly quick.

You hadn't expected Metallica to really be there, you thought it would just be an assistant or something, a manager maybe. It wasn't the whole Metallica, just James, but that wasn't nothing and you were still nervous.

"The others are in different rooms, we wanted to get through the interview process fast." James explained simply, sitting across from you behind a desk. He'd set it this way so you wouldn't be able to see how hard he was through his jeans.

You'd sent a picture of yourself with your resume and when James saw you he knew he'd have you one way or another. The band had already decided on you being the new hire, James had offered to tell you himself and the rest of them had left it at that.

James took that picture of you home, unclipped it from your resume and stared at it as he jerked off, cumming on your pretty picture. It wasn't enough but he consoled himself, knowing he'd get his hands on you one way or another eventually.

"I didn't see a line waiting outside?" You said, looking over your shoulder as if to see something, like the office wasn't a closed in space.

"You're early." He said, shifting in his seat and biting his lip as his eyes raked over you.

You thought your interview went fine, James even reassured you at the end that your spot was 'pretty much guaranteed' given the interview.

The goodbye handshake lasted a second too long, not nearly long enough for James. He wanted your hands around his cock, his own groping your chest, squeezing and pulling, fucking your tight hole and getting you ready for him.

You got the call from James himself that you were hired, he wanted to do it in person but after a second thought he knew he wouldn't be able to control himself, over the phone he could get off to your voice without you ever knowing.

And thus started a little routine, at the end of every day, when he knew you were home, he'd call you and listen to you talk about your day or whatever, he never really focused on your words, he just needed to think about your voice and it was enough to get him to that high.

But it wasn't enough, he needed you, in person, with him, on him, under him. His, but he'd wait.

Tours started again and you couldn't be happier, seeing the world, the band you loved, all of it was perfect. Sure, you had to work through it, but James was there when you got stressed.

Somehow you always ended up in a room with him. Of course you did, he wanted you close to him at all times and that meant changing the sleeping arrangements so you were with him.

It started slowly, James would offer you a back massage, to get you food or run you a bath, gradually his offers grew more... aggressive.

He played them off as jokes but you could sense the need behind them.

"You know what the best medication for stress is, don't you?"

"Oh, come on, what's it gonna hurt you?" A small pause, always followed by a much softer "Other than the use of your legs." Which you just had to pretend you never heard.

He ran you a bath and you thank him for it.

As you were laying in the bubbly water, head tilted back and listening to the silence, the door opened and James walked in. He didn't say anything at first and just sat on the counter, watching you closely.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't worry about it." He said quickly, not needing to converse when you were so close to him, so exposed to him.

You tried to ignore him, it was easy at first, but hearing his low groans as he palmed himself through his shorts was harder. It's not that he wasn't attractive, he was, and watching him get off to you felt nice, but he was your boss and it felt wrong on every other level. But it felt so, so nice.

When you watched him he became less shameless, pulling himself out and watching your eyes bug at his girth and length. His noises got louder as you practically drooled over him.

His head fell back as he came, loud groans echoing off the tiled walls, thick strings shooting from his tip and landing on the tiled floor.

He fixed himself up and left the bathroom. "Clean up, would you?" He said before closing the door behind himself.

You got out of the bath and dried yourself off before reaching for your clothes, only James had taken them. You wrapped a towel around yourself and went to your suitcase, as you walked past James's finger hooked your towel and tore it off of you.

You spun around, unintentionally giving him a full view of you naked body. But he didn't grab, just looked -or stared.

"Don't worry about clothes, sweetheart, I've seen it all anyway." He said nonchalantly and went to bed, stripping himself of his own clothes as he went.

This particular hotel room only had one bed. Earlier you'd discussed pulling out the couch, he said he'd sleep there, but now he was in bed so you went to the couch.

"Here." He stated in a much firmer tone than he usually used with you. "You sleep here." He gave the spot next to him a pat.

Not wanting to make him angry, although he already seemed on the verge, you just went along with it and crawled into bed, naked, with him, who was also naked.

He didn't give you a second to think about it before he was right behind you and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight to him under the covers.

You were small and vulnerable and weak in his embrace. If you wanted to run you couldn't, part of you didn't feel right but the other side... the other side needed James to break your back and you didn't know how you felt about that.

James's hand snaked around your waist, holding you close before his hand found your cunt.

"Already wet for me, sweetheart?" He mused, thick, experienced fingers running through your folds and rubbing your clit, drawing soft sounds from you.

He pushed a finger into you and moved it slow, finding your sweet spot before he decided to go faster. Your back arched against him, head falling onto his shoulder, resting on his bicep.

He started planting soft kisses over your neck, slowly getting more aggressive until he had two fingers abusing your hole and his canines digging into the spot connecting your shoulder and neck.

“M’close, Jamie, m’so close!” You cried, tears rolling down your cheeks. You’d been close for a while but James always stopped just before you came.

“That’s not my name, sweetheart.” He said through gritted teeth. “You’ll call me by my name or you won’t cum, you understand?” His hand was still moving, but he’d already warned you about cumming without permission, it was getting harder to care to listen and obey his words.

“M’sorry, please, jus’lemme cum, please!” You whined, hips bucking into his hand, begging for release.

“Please, what?” He taunted.

He never gave you a name or title, if you guessed wrong… “Please, daddy, I-I’ve been so good, s’good, please!”

He smiled and kissed your cheek. “Good girl… Cum for daddy, then, cum on his fingers.” You obeyed him, letting yourself come undone in his hold, body melting into the bed, into him. He rolled you onto your back and got on top of you, not wasting a moment before he pushed into you, stretching you out so deliciously as he bottomed out in one quick thrust. “They say higher chances of pregnancy if you cum first.” He said, emphasizing the important parts with thrusts. “That’s it, suck in daddy’s cock, just like that.” He said, his head falling back.

He pulled your hips into his lap, holding your plush flesh in a death grip, not like you were going to try to get away anyway.

You were barely processing anything that was happening, his words weren’t registering and all you could think about was how good he felt inside you, how the veins on his cock dragged against your gummy walls, angling his tip to hit the same spot he found earlier, making your eyes roll back into your head.

“No need for permission anymore, huh?” He asked, feeling you clench around him, close to another orgasm. His hand came down open palmed on your ass, causing you to flinch but he held you still. “Think again, hun.” He’d never called you that before, no one had called you that before, it went straight to your core and you came whether he wanted you to or not, you felt like you were on cloud nine.

The following weeks to come were spent by his side, only giving you breaks when he was on stage and you were to either stay on the sidelines where he could see you or you were locked in his dressing room, usually tied to something with a vibrator in you to make sure you were ready for him when he got back to you.

Your stomach bulged with his cum, you were certain you were pregnant, he was too which only made him more protective and possessive.

You didn’t care, not in the slightest. He was sweet, he loved you and didn’t make you do anything, no cooking or cleaning. No need to work when you were carrying his child.

#metallica x reader #metallica smut #metallica imagines #metallica rp #metallica fanfiction #80s metal #metallica #metal #james hetfield x you #james hetfield fluff #james hetfield smut #james hetfield x reader #james hetfield fanfiction #james hetfield

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notmorbid · 6 months ago

Text

the berry pickers.

dialogue prompts from the berry pickers by amanda peters.

dying is something we have to do alone.

i want to be my full self for you.

whatever makes you happy makes me happy, too.

i'm not sure what's true and what's not anymore.

you never know when you might need kindness from people.

you see anything strange around here?

age brings all sorts of fears.

i think i've always known something was out of place.

you'll grow out of it. you'll forget.

sometimes i wonder if you have any sense at all.

don't worry. they can't hear us.

your only job right now is to be a kid.

when no one's looking, you can be a sweetheart.

it's funny how old you think your parents are, when you're a child.

stop trying to grow up so fast.

there are things more important in this world than taking credit.

there was love, but none of us knew what to do with it.

don't pretend you didn't hear me.

i will try my damnedest not to be sad.

it's hard, looking for someone who can't be found.

you never know what your last words to someone are gonna be.

words are powerful and funny things, said or unsaid.

some people are meant to read great works, and others are meant to write them.

you do love me, after all.

you're jealous. i need you to admit it.

i did what i thought was best: i left.

you seem taller, somehow.

hope is such a wonderful thing, until it isn't.

i never blamed you.

it's not your fault. it just happens, sometimes.

i guess i assumed i'd just wake up one day and everything would be normal again.

i've done my grieving. i can't do it anymore.

some wounds never close, never scar.

i just want to get away. you choose where.

make sure you write everything down, the good and the bad. but mostly the good.

what ghosts haunt your dreams?

are you going home, or leaving home?

sometimes i forget that you're hurting, too.

swearing can make you feel better.

anything you want to tell me?

there's something to be said for salt air.

i love you. i'm sorry i've been so far away.

i've never felt worse. i need you to know that.

i assume the universe knows what it's doing.

getting better isn't easy.

i was convinced the pain would haunt me for the rest of my life.

i was determined to let my pain and anger ruin me.

you like to find fault with everyone but your own self.

you have no right to hold onto that guilt all by yourself.

i'm sick of tiptoeing around you like you're going to break.

don't be sorry. be useful.

i've never been much of a talker.

it's not fair to be young and weak. there's no fairness to it at all.

prejudice runs deep and offers no apologies, in small towns.

you can't stay mad at me.

i didn't sleep because i was worried about you, asshole.

maybe i'm just one of those people who are only happy when they aren't.

it's not that i don't remember. it's that i don't want to.

why do you always assume you're on your own?

i remember. i didn't think you did.

people are always saying nice things about the dead, especially when their family is in the room.

sometimes a lie becomes so entrenched, it becomes the truth.

you never deserved anything i did to you.

the only person i have a right to be angry with is myself.

it wasn't because i didn't love you.

you know of any work i could get around here?

i wonder, sometimes, what i did to deserve it.

you got a story?

you seem too young to have a story of any interest.

something is making you all dark and moody.

what are you doing out here? there's a storm coming.

i don't go giving my name out to every stranger i meet.

people seem to need to get away from me.

own your mistakes. make amends and move on.

you feel things too quick and too heavy. you need to let things go, sometimes.

i'm here. it was just a dream.

i kind of hoped i would die before i had to tell you this.

i wanted to hate you, but i couldn't.

anger and sadness are just two different sides of the same coin.

time is never a friend to the sick or the old.

i don't like to see people i might know.

how are you still alive?

the lord must keep me around to amuse himself.

where is home, for you?

what's at home that's got you afraid to be there?

the only misery you're causing is your own.

i'll be honest, because i don't know how else to be.

don't worry. i'll remember for you.

i ruined myself all by myself.

i prayed you would come home to us.

what on earth have you got to be sorry for?

tell me about ___. if it's okay.

lost souls have to find their own way home.

i don't think i've ever laughed that hard in my life.

#rp meme #ask memes #rp memes #inbox memes #ask meme #rp prompts #historical meme #families

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depravitycentral · 2 years ago

Text

Partnership

Yandere! Uvogin x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, theft, threats of violence, implied non-con, if your name is Stacy pretend it isn't, Stockholm Syndrome, brief mention of vomiting, Nobunaga is featured a bit in this but don't worry he doesn't want you, fem reader, MDNI

This is dedicated to @ramwrites, who is amazing and wonderful and offered to write me a welcome back gift, and I couldn't not give something back in return! Thanks for letting me write this for you; your writing is so good and makes me all giggly and inspired. For those interested, please check out her Shalnark piece - I haven't read it yet, but I'm sure it's just as good as everything else Ram produces.

WC: 10K

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

“So you went and got yourself kidnapped, huh?” Uvogin asks, cocking a brow at you.

You, who’s tied to a metal chair, gagged and blindfolded, very clearly having no fucking clue what is going on.

You squirm, sitting up straight at the sound of a new, unfamiliar voice. Your cute little sleeping shorts had ridden up a bit, exposing more of your thigh than you were probably comfortable with, and Uvo notices with a distant sense of enjoyment that the thin nightshirt you’re sporting is doing very little to hide the way the cold air is affecting your chest.

You’re weak, really; a pathetic little thing that has him scoffing and crossing his arms.

“Listen up, I’m only gonna tell you this once. A friend of yours – Stacy, was it? Anyway, this friend of yours got herself noticed by the wrong type of guy.” He starts, plopping down and sitting in his own identical metal chair, just without the restraints.

You stop struggling when he mentions her name, and he takes this as a sign to continue.

“See, Nobuanga’s not a bad guy. He’s a little rough around the edges, sure, but any guy who isn’t is hardly worth knowing.” He chuckles at his own assessment of his closest friend, though you don’t seem to share the sentiment. “Stacy works at that shitty little restaurant he loves – the one with the sticky, greasy booths and the fries that come drenched with salt and are so limp they literally drip oil.”

He shivers at the mere memory, the hamburger he’d ordered barely worth eating.

“Don’t know what she did, exactly, but somehow he’s smitten – she’s got him all fucked up, ranting and raving about how beautiful she is and how she smiles at him all the time and flirts with him on the clock. Real annoying, if you ask me.” He sighs heavily, letting his thumb sit at his chin as he loses himself in the story of his best friend falling in love – with your best friend, no less.

“And then she quit her job, I’m sure you know. Started working up at that movie theater – more shitty, oily food, just popcorn instead of fries this time.” He laughs again. “Nobunaga went crazy over that, you know, thinking that maybe she wanted to work in a more intimate setting like that so that he could sneak her off into some abandoned theater and get some one-on-one quality time, if you know what I mean.”

You grimace, at both the implications of his last statement and the mention of Stacy quitting. You know exactly why she’d quit – it was the whole reason you’d been staying at her place, really. She was convinced she had a stalker, that there was this crazy man who used to bother her at the diner and follow her home. It’d scared her, obviously, and she’d requested – with a guilty look and fiddling thumbs – if you’d be willing to spend the next few nights are her place with her, because maybe if there was more than one person home he wouldn’t get gutsy and break in. Of course you’d agreed, believing her fully and not wanting to leave her alone to deal with this crazed freak.

Although now, you’re starting to regret that decision just a bit.

“As I’m sure you know, it didn’t change much. Pretty stupid, to be honest – if a stalker’s that dedicated, how the hell is a change of occupation going to change anything? Chick’s pretty dumb, if you ask me.” He shrugs, and although you can’t see it through your blindfold, you’re sure his face is awfully apathetic about the whole situation. “She was ignoring him, refusing to serve him at the theater, reporting him to her manager, even calling the police and getting a description of him circulating. She was going to get a restraining order against him, even – again, like that’d do shit.”

He snorts, and you bite into the gag harder.

Sighing, he looks up at the ceiling. “See, that’s the thing about Nobunaga. He might seem a little lazy sometimes, but he’s got a heart of gold when it comes to the ones he cares about. He’d do anything for that woman – steal for her, kill for her, anything at all. He’s a sap, totally obsessed with the chick, but it’s kind of sweet in a way, I guess. Means he really cares about her. Isn’t that funny? Her stalker really is in love with her.”

You don’t find it particularly funny, but you can’t say much.

“Anyways, the police finally got a sighting of him last night. Went through the system pretty fast – I’m a little impressed, to be honest. Normally takes those bastards much longer to process things. Regardless, a few too many sirens were going last night, even a few cars parked outside the apartment he’s been squatting in, yelling his name in those big, gaudy megaphones of theirs. Caused a real stir, and sent the guy into a panic.”

He takes a moment to breath, tapping his foot lightly on the ground. “So what does he do? He calls me, in the middle of the night, talking so fast that I can’t even understand the guy. All I’m hearing is Stacy this, Stacy that, police and blah blah blah recognized. I had to force the words out of him before it made any sense, the idiot.” That same laugh rattles in your ears.

“Eventually I got him to be coherent, and he told me that he had to ‘make his move’, whatever the hell that meant. Said he couldn’t wait anymore, that he had to take Stacy and run – the police were coming, and even though it’s not hard to take out a couple of poorly trained guys, it’s still a pain in the ass and Shizuku’s not here to clean up his mess.

“Anyways, he starts begging me – literally, actually pleading with me, imagine that – to come and help him out. He told me there’s this other chick at her place – some girl she’s been keeping around for some unknown reason, and he needs someone to take care of the body.” Your blood goes cold, fear suddenly creeping back up your throat.

Was he going to kill you? Why was he bothering to tell you all this if he was just planning on slicing open your neck? Did he find some sick pleasure in prolonging your death?

He notices your discomfort, it seems, because soon he’s rolling his eyes, scoffing at you. “Calm down. You’re such a bad actor – can’t even see your face, really, and I know you’re scared shitless now. I’m not going to kill you, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You calm slightly, but not much.

“As I was saying, there’s this girl he needs me to take care of – a quick death, nothing too flashy, which makes me immediately ask why the hell he’d request me of all people, when every time I kill it’s messy. It’s kind of my trademark, you know?”

You didn’t, and you hoped it’d stay that way.

He sighs again. “Anyways, I head on over to Stacy’s apartment, meeting Nobunaga outside and listening to him run down the plan. He’s going to run inside and knock her out, pulling her out of bed and running off to God knows where he’s got all set up for the two of them. And while he’s busy doing that, I’m supposed to head in and eliminate the friend. Seemed easy enough, if not a bit tedious, so I agree and we head inside, keeping mind of the sirens still in the distance.

“Everything’s going smoothly, except once we get the front door open, it becomes very clear that Nobunaga was stupid and panicked and didn’t bother to doublecheck if Stacy was actually asleep.” He pauses to sigh dramatically, like it’s some big annoyance. “She’s fully awake, standing about ten feet away from the door, and then she starts fucking screaming.”

You remember that bit – the screaming, that is, because it had woken you up from your slumber on Stacy’s couch. Everything is still blurry after that, disorientation fogging your brain from being so abruptly woken up.

“She’s yelling and screeching, and if Nobunaga hadn’t been there I probably would’ve killed her myself just to get her to shut the fuck up. She’s got one of those high, shrill, shrieky voices, you know? The kind that really drive me up the wall - it’s damn annoying.” He pauses, looking at you skeptically. “Hope you haven’t got one of those, things’ll get messy real quick if you do.”

You hope you don’t, either.

“He rushes forward and tries to grab her, but she swats at him and, get this, manages to punch him in the dick.” He laughs aloud at that, slapping his knee and throwing his head back. “This weak-ass girl manages to get him on the ground flat, stupid ass’s hands clutching at his dick, and what does she do in the meantime? She runs over to the couch, grabbing this girl and staring back at me like I’m some monster.”

You make a noise through the gag, but Uvogin ignores it.

“I’ve gotta hand it to Stacy, though, she’s got guts. She starts yellin’ at us about how she won’t let us kill the girl, how she’ll kill herself before she lets us get our hands on her, and immediately Nobunaga crumbles. I don’t know why the idiot didn’t think of the possibility earlier, but he totally freezes up when she threatens that, just gaping like a fish. It was pretty awkward for me, to be honest, because watching him get so thoroughly rejected was giving me serious second hand embarrassment. I mean, the chick literally said she’d rather kill herself than let Nobuanga take her – pretty harsh if you ask me.”

He looks back at your covered face, letting his gaze linger on the edges of the blindfold. “So he panics and gives into her demand, telling her he won’t kill her friend – says that he’ll just take her too, so that way everyone’s happy.”

He frowns a bit at you, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, everyone except you, probably. And except Stacy, too, probably. And except me. So really, Nobunaga’s the only happy one.”

Your face would sour if it was able to.

“Anyways, it wasn’t hard to knock them both out and bring ‘em to their respective holding places. I’ve got no clue where the hell Nobunaga’s keeping his chick, but I’m sure you’ve figured out that you’re Stacy’s little friend.”

You nod, slowly, the movement limited by your restraints. Your wrists have gone numb and your ankles feel bruised and sore, the ropes keeping them pinned the legs of the chair making blood flow difficult.

“So, what to do with you now.” His voice is wistful, like he’s actually contemplating, and that same familiar fear washes over you again.

He groans, the chair skidding out behind him as he stands to his full height. “Would you quit it with the fear? I already told you I’m not killing you, are you even listening to me?”

You nod again, faster this time.

Uvogin sighs, shuffling forward towards you. You can hear him approaching, and although your shoulders stiffen up, you try not to look as terrified as you feel. It doesn’t seem to work all that well, but he spares you another comment about it.

Soon the blindfold is ripped off your head, leaving your hair messy and out of place, your eyes squinting and blinking rapidly to adjust to the rather bright white light hanging over you and what you can now see is an absolute behemoth of a man.

He’s fucking huge – towering over you in every sense of the word, muscles practically bulging out of his body with how defined and massive they are. Black hairs cover every inch of his body you can see, even his arms and especially the bits of chest peeking out of his white top. Ragged, unruly hair sweeps down to his shoulders, making the muscles of his neck look even firmer, and you gulp. Any chance of escaping has basically left you now – there’s no way in hell you could ever beat that, especially if he’d already managed to kidnap you once.

He clears his throat and your gaze is brought up to his face, a small, strange wave of embarrassment flooding through you as you realize you’ve been caught staring. He’s smirking, though, and you take in the sharp line of his jaw, the thick, dark eyebrows that frame equally dark eyes. He’s attractive, in a strange, rugged sort of way, and you immediately feel sick at the thought.

“You like what you’re seein’?” He teases, and you immediately look away, still unable to reply with the gag covering your mouth.

He laughs, and sets his hands on his lips. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Before you freak out, I can’t kill you because that damn Stacy really seems to care about you, and she’s told Nobunaga she’ll kill herself if she doesn’t get regular proof that you’re still alive.”

A flame of hope ignites in your chest, and internally you thank Stacy, even if this whole situation is less than ideal.

He seems to sense your sudden upturn in mood, chuckling with a condescending lilt. “Oh no, princess, that doesn’t mean I’m letting you go. No, you’ve gotta stay put, because now that you know what I look like, you’ll go to the cops and report me as fast as those little legs of yours can manage.”

You shake your head at that, eyes glistening with tears as he shuts down your last hope of escaping. Please, you internally beg him, hoping he’ll somehow be able to sense this too. I won’t, I promise!

His gaze narrows at you, before that same smirk is back. “I’m sure if you could talk you’d be telling me how you’ll never tell a soul, but you and I both know that’s bullshit. So I’ll save us both some time and keep you here, so that I don’t have to track you down again and lock you back up once you’ve just gotten free.”

You visibly deflate, and if Uvogin had been a kinder man, he would’ve almost felt bad for you. But instead, he just hums, crouching down in front of you. Even squatting he’s still taller than you, and it does nothing to make you feel less scared.

“Now listen up, here are the rules. I’m a pretty nice guy, all things considered, so don’t break my rules and I won’t break your bones.”

Your eyes get wide, but you nod along. He smiles, patting your knee.

“That’s good, see? You’re already doing better than that Stacy girl, at least you’re not fighting me every step of the way.” Something about his statement makes guilt eat away at your chest – are you supposed to be fighting more? There doesn’t really seem to be a point – this man is massive, and you’re all bound and unable to move. You’re doing the best you can, right?

“First,” He holds up a finger, “don’t even bother trying to escape. I’m bigger than you, faster than you, stronger than you, and smarter than you. There’s nothing you can try that I won’t see through, and you’ll end up regretting it more than you can imagine.

“Second, no trying to hurt yourself. Nobunaga will kill me if I let you die, and it’d be a pain to deal with him.” He fixes you a stern look, and you nod.

“Third, don’t go digging through my shit. I’m doing my buddy a favor by keeping you here, and if I find you snooping around… He didn’t say anything about roughing you up a bit, and it might be good for Stacy to see you with some bruises or a cast or two.” His threat doesn’t go unheard, and you nod again, throat bobbing as you swallow.

He stares at you for a moment more, gaze calculating and judging whether you’ve really accepted his conditions, before strong fingers come up to untie the knot keeping your gag in place.

“Don’t you scream, I’ll have to shut you up if you do.” He warns, before pulling the fabric away. Immediately you’re flexing your jaw, the muscle aching as you move it, and he watches with a neutral expression. You’re still tied up, unable to move really, and Uvogin gets a fleeting thought of how pitiful you look.

“Um,” You start, your voice a bit hoarse from being so dry and unused for the last few hours. “What’s your name?”

He blinks, before laughing a bit. “Of all the questions you could’ve asked, all the things you could’ve said and done as soon as you woke up from learning you’ve been kidnapped, and that’s what you chose? Shit, you wouldn’t survive in the wild, would you?”

Shame creeps up your neck at his belittlement, but before you can defend yourself he’s answering. “It’s Uvogin.”

You nod, not willing to look at him. It’s silent for a few moments, before he sighs again and reaches forward to untie the rope shackling your ankles and wrists. As soon as you’re free, you try to stretch out your limbs, keeping a weary eye on the man – Uvogin.

What a stupid name.

“Well, the fact that you’re not screaming your head off is a promising sign. Get up, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.” He orders, already taking off towards the door in the corner of the small room. You try to follow him, but your legs aren’t moving right, and it takes you a while to make your way over there. He looks irritated at your lack of speed, but says nothing, only holding open the door until you make your way through.

You’re led down into a rather sparse apartment, only furnished with a single gray couch against one wall (with a few stains on it that make you wince a bit), a TV and some cabinets, a wooden table and two chairs, and a beat-up fridge in the adjoining kitchen. Everything’s clean, but the space lacks any sort of personality, and it makes you uncomfortable.

“That’s your bed, extra blankets are in the closet. If you need anything tell me, and I might snag it for you next time I’m out on a job.” Something about the way he says ‘snag’ makes you nervous, so you just mutter a small affirmation.

He gives you one last glance over, his eyes once again lingering on your chest, before stepping through the doorway.

“Wait, Uvogin!” Your voice, a bit wobbly and unsure, makes him turn back, his brow cocked and curiosity dancing on his features. (And a bit of surprise, too, because he hadn’t expected you to say anything to him, or even use his name. Maybe you weren’t as skittish and weak as you seemed – though, he doubted that.)

“Um, is it possible for me to see Stacy soon?” You asked, voice growing smaller with every word. He blinks, before standing up a bit straighter.

“Actually, you’re in luck. Nobunaga called me about an hour ago and let me know we’re meeting up in a few days – he said it would be good for Stacy to have a ‘playdate’ with you. Whatever the fuck that means.” Uvogin shrugs, looking entirely uninterested, and you bristle at Nobunaga’s choice of words. Poor Stacy.

Excitement brews in your chest; at least you’ll have a familiar face, and hopefully the stranger hasn’t done anything too terrible to your friend. Nodding, you glance back to the floor, wishing the hulking man staring at you would just leave. He does, a few moments later, and only then do you allow yourself to slump onto the bed he’s assigned you. The bedroom is bare like the rest of the home, with a twin bed set in the corner and a small set of drawers sitting nearby. It makes you laugh humorlessly – were you supposed to fill that chest? With what? You hadn’t brought anything with you, and you seriously doubted Uvogin would let you return home to grab some of your clothes.

Sighing, you sat onto the bed, the mattress firm under you. Distantly, some part of you was pleased – at least the bed would be comfortable enough.

Time passes slowly as you sit on the bed – not your bed, not yet. You stare at the wall ahead of you, the fear slowly seeping out of your system until only exhaustion remains. Sleep eventually takes over, and although you try to fight it, you’re slipping into a dreamless slumber before long.

Uvogin’s tolerable, you’ve found. He’s certainly not nice, nor is he an especially great person to be around, but he could be much worse, you suppose. He’s fed you twice daily for however long you’ve been stuck here (it feels like a week, so you’re assuming it is, if only to stave off any self-doubt that’s creeping into the corners of your mind), and the food’s not terrible. It’s clearly takeout, the packaging sometimes even having Chinese characters on it or restaurant logos, and you’ve been mostly satisfied with his choices so far. He’ll sometimes ask you what you want, and while you were too scared to answer the first few times (which only makes him scowl and roll his eyes, muttering a small damn, Nobunaga owes me one), eventually you’d felt safe enough to be honest.

He hasn’t hurt you, either. At least, not yet. You’re aware he could, if he wanted to – those muscles make it hard to forget, and you’d seen him crush his phone in his hand like a bug when a phone call with someone named Franklinwent poorly.

He’s scary, still, but you’ve reached the point now where you aren’t practically hyperventilating every time he enters the room. You still keep him in your field of vision, weary for any sudden changes in his behavior, but every day that passes has you growing more complacent with your position. The constant threat of Stacy potentially facing consequences for your actions doesn’t deter you from being on your best behavior, either.

Besides, sometimes he’s even a little bit funny – not that you’d ever laugh at his jokes, but he has this weird sense of humor that you think you’d like, if the situation had been different. If you’d met him on the street you definitely would’ve tried to cross to the other side, but you would’ve found him oddly charming, his snide remarks and cocky air a bit entertaining.

You try not to think about that, though, because the mere presence of these thoughts means the Stockholm Syndrome is starting to kick in. And while you aren’t the most resilient person on the planet, even you have to admit it’s a bit early for that.

Sighing, you take another bite of the curry he’d brought you, pleasantly surprised that the spice level was perfect. Uvogin didn’t have many rules, it was true, but he did have a few unspoken ones – one of which being that meals, particularly take-out meals, were to be eaten at the small, rickety table. Together, which wasn’t ideal.

“I’ve gotta make sure you don’t try to starve yourself or choke.” He’d told you the first time, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you into the seat across from his, the noodles sitting in front of you still packaged neatly in their container. At first you’d been nervous he would try to poison you, but eventually hunger got the best of you and you were slurping the noodles down, still keeping a nervous eye on the hulking man in front of you.

“So, big news.” He starts, taking a bite out of his chicken. He always took big bites, you’d noticed, but he ordered enough food that even if his pace was twice as fast as yours, he never finished before you.

You glance up at him, trying not to let toomuch curiosity show on your face, but he seems to realize anyway.

“I know you haven’t been up to much, but don’t make your excitement so obvious. Hurts my feelings to know you think I’m so boring.” He’s joking, you think, and to sate him you attempt to smile.

“Nobunaga called me again this morning; today’s the day.”

You practically choke on your food, eyes blowing wide and your hands beginning to shake. Finally, finally you’d be able to see Stacy – you’d been worried sick about her the last week or so, terrified that her transition to the life of being a captive hadn’t gone as smoothly as your own. (You snorted bitterly at that – smooth probably wasn’t the best word for how you’d been feeling, but at least you hadn’t been hit yet, or assaulted or any number of things. Hopefully Nobunaga wasn’t any worse of a person than your own captor.)

Uvogin is watching you, you realize, with a strange look in his eye. As soon as you glance up at him you look away again, clearing your throat and trying to keep your voice even as you ask, “That’s good, it’ll be nice to see her again.”

It’s silent for a moment, before his booming laugh makes you wince a bit. “Yeah, I’m sure you are. Finish up, I don’t like wasting food. Once you’re done we’ll head out - try to not to choke.”

He says that right as you start shoveling the food into your mouth, hoping that eating quicker will mean you can see Stacy quicker. He chuckles at you, but you follow his orders and slow down a bit. He throws you one more glance, that cocky smile on his lips, before digging into his own food again.

He’s eating a bit faster than normal, too, you notice.

He apologizes with an insincere tone as he ties the blindfold back on you (he’d told you that you can’t know where you are just in case you decide to get rebellious and run away), and soon you’re stuffed into a car. Everything’s hard to keep track of when you can’t see, but Uvogin’s talking (like normal), so you try to tune into the sound of his voice to help the time pass.

“Now listen, you might not wanna touch her too much, Nobunaga’s a bit…” He trails off, and you can hear his hand tightening on the steering wheel. “Possessive. You’re her friend and all, and I’m sure he won’t hurt you, especially not in front of her, but be careful.”

You nod, absentmindedly.

“Also, don’t be too surprised if she doesn’t look the way she used to. He was always going on about how she was dressed too inappropriately in her day-to-day life, so she might be a little underdressed.”

He’d hesitated to say underdressed, and you tried not to think about what that could mean.

It’s quiet for a few moments, and you shift in the car seat. He’d let you sit in the front, an unexpected luxury, but you didn’t like that he could see you while you couldn’t see him. He wouldn’t hurt you, you were mostly confident of that now, but who knew what he had planned.

“We’re almost there. If things go badly, I’ll get you out of there. You’re pretty damn weak, a broken bone would probably take a few weeks for you to heal. I don’t want to deal with you being injured, and I’m sure you don’t, either.”

Your lips must’ve given away your fear, because a moment later he’s sighing. “Did you know that you practically reek your emotions? I feel like I can smell ‘em, even when I can’t even see half your damn face.”

You don’t have anything to say to that, but you force yourself to speak anyway, not wanting to dignify his last comment. “Do you think – well, do you think Nobunaga will want to hurt me?”

Uvogin ponders your question for a moment, surprised that you’d spoken up. You hadn’t done much talking in the time he’d had you – he was sure it was because you were scared, but it was nice to hear you talking to him like you weren’t scared shitless of him. Even if you had every reason to be so terrified.

“Honestly, probably. Especially if you touch her.”

You suck in a breath, and Uvogin hums. “But it’s not going to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

You could practically hear his toothy grin.

“It’s my job to protect you, right? So I will. Even if the one you need protecting from is the same guy who wants you to be protected.”

Something in his tone gives you the impression he means those words more than he’s letting on, and you shiver as you imagine just who this Nobunaga guy could possibly be.

“Oh my god, oh my god – you’re alive! Thank god!” Stacy sobs, arms wrapping around you like a vice before you can even respond. You clutch her back just as tightly, burying your face into her brown curls, a few tears pricking at your eyes. You’d been nervous that Nobunaga would’ve hurt her, with the way Uvogin was describing him, but after a thorough look-over, you find no bruises or marks marring her olive skin.

Eventually she pulls back, but keeps her hands firmly grasping your shoulders. Her eyes are red with tears, and her lower lip is wobbling. She’s not hurt, but she looks bad – there’s heavy bags under eyes and her hair is frazzled, her lips look swollen and she’s clutching onto you hard. Really hard.

“Stacy, are you hurt?” You ask, letting your hands cup her cheeks. You see Nobunaga – who Uvogin had pointed out with a small that’s the guy when you’d walked in – stiffen up at that, and Uvogin’s warning flashes through your mind. You might not want to touch her. Right.

Stacy glances over at her captor, and you follow her gaze, only to see Uvogin give you a small nod and drag his friend out the door by the collar of his purple kimono, calling over his shoulder that they’ll be back in exactly five minutes, and that they’ll know if you try to escape.

As soon as the door closes, Stacy pulls you in for another hug, the words flying out of her mouth so quickly you can barely understand her. “He’s – Nobunaga, he’s horrible. He never leaves me alone, and he treats me like I’m some incompetent little baby, and he’s always touching me and I just – I can’t –“

You cut her off by pressing her face into your neck again, rubbing the back of her head and letting her cry. You’re crying too, now, but your tears fall silently compared to her sobbing.

You don’t say much, because what can you say? It would be a lie to tell her that everything’s going to be okay, and every other reassurance that dances on the tip of your tongue just feels wrong, like you’d be pointedly lying to her. Instead, you let her get it out, her grip on you never loosening. You’d known Nobunaga had been the root of all her anxieties the last few months, long before he’d gotten the gall to kidnap her. And while you were happy that she wasn’t hurt, it still pained you to see her like this.

Eventually she’d calmed down, and you feel her pull back and wipe at her sniffling nose. “I’m so sorry.” She whispers to you, looking like she’s on the verge of crying again. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this mess, I should’ve just gone quietly and left you alone. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay with me for a few weeks, now you’re really stuck with that monster.”

You don’t tell her that it’s okay, because it’s not. Some part of you is still bitter and resentful towards her for involving you, because she’s right. You could be still living your life if she hadn’t requested you to help deter her stalker from making a move. But despite your anger, you can’t find it in yourself to hate her. Not when she’s like this – not when she’s probably experiencing something even worse than you.

“It doesn’t matter now, all that matters is that we’re both alive, and we’re both okay. Or, at least, okay as we can be, given the situation.” You tell her, smiling softly. She blinks at you, eyes wide and vulnerable, before nodding and swallowing.

“Yeah, I was worried that you wouldn’t be, with the way Nobunaga was talking about Uvogin.” Her voice was hoarse still, and you laughed humorlessly at that.

“Yeah, well, he hasn’t hurt me yet, so I think I’ll be okay. He mostly just ignores me, honestly, so I guess I’m lucky.” Your attempt at optimism doesn’t make Stacy smile like you’d hoped. Rather, her lips pull into a frown and her eyebrows furrow.

“He ignores you? That doesn’t make sense.”

You expression mirrors hers. “What? I mean, the only reason I got kidnapped too was insurance so that you wouldn’t kill yourself –“

Stacy’s face morphs into one of horror, and her grip on your shoulders goes slack.

Quickly you’re backpedaling, worried the mention of her self-imposed death might’ve triggered something you wanted to avoid. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, I totally understand why you –“

“Alright, time’s up.” Nobunaga’s voice interrupts, and knuckly hands are suddenly on your shoulders, pushing you aside so that Nobunaga can stand in front of Stacy. You stumble back, falling backwards against Uvogin’s hard chest, immediately standing up straight.

Nobunaga’s cupping Stacy’s chin, and you can see from this angle the way he smiles, a slight pink color flooding his cheeks. It makes you sick, and the pained look on Stacy’s face only makes your gut sink more. She’s looking at you still, and something about the way her brows are cocked inward that makes you feel like she’s almost pitying you.

“Did you miss me, baby?” Nobunaga’s cooing down at her, and it makes your skin crawl. Uvogin sighs from behind you and grabs your wrist, dragging you out of the room. His grip is surprisingly gentle, and as you watch Stacy slowly fade from your view, you can’t help but be slightly grateful that at least your captor isn’t leaning down for a kiss like hers.

The car ride home is mostly quiet, and it’s not until you’re nearing the end of your time in the vehicle that Uvogin breaks the silence.

“So, what did you talk about while we were gone? Girly shit?” You think he’s attempting a joke, but you can’t even pretend to laugh at it.

“She’s not happy.” You comment, voice slightly flat, and Uvogin snorts at your words.

“Of course she’s not happy, she’s just been kidnapped. And by her stalker, no less – would anyone be happy? Hell, are you happy?” He asks you, and you blanch at his question. Somehow, though, it feels like some sort of trap, so you stay quiet.

He doesn’t say anything more until he’s pulling you out of the car, your footsteps hesitant and clumsy because he’d put that damn blindfold on you again. He guides you up to the apartment, and soon you’re standing in the living room area, the fabric falling from your eyes.

“I’ve got some errands to run today, so I’ll be gone for a while. Do you want anything while I’m out?” He asks, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed. You’re a bit touched that he’s offering to get you something, but you try not to focus on it. Of course you’re feeling grateful for him – he may be holding you captive, yes, but at least he hasn’t tried to kiss you or touch you. Poor Stacy didn’t share your luck.

“Um, maybe some chips? I don’t care what flavor, just something crunchy…” You trail off, looking at him nervously. You’d never requested anything before, and some part of you is convinced he’d only asked you the question to laugh in your face and deny you.

He cracks a smile and nods, hand already on the doorknob. “Okay. Okay, but you’d better be prepared to share, because I happen to be a big chip fan myself. So don’t get greedy, yeah?”

You half-smile, rubbing at your arm. “Yeah, I won’t be.”

He steps out the door, and once again the apartment is silent, his presence gone and all movement within the room gone, too.

The TV won’t work for you, you know that, but you’re still trying to get it to behave. Uvogin had to type in some password every time he turned it on, and it was too long and encoded for you to ever be able to decipher it. Still, you were clicking the power button of the remote over and over, hoping against hope that it would somehow short circuit and bypass that password screen. When it didn’t, you only sighed, rising to your feet and wandering towards the monitor.

Uvogin, you’d learned, was surprisingly meticulous – surprisingly organized, really. Meaning there was a chance he’d written down the password to the TV and had it stored somewhere. He’d only been gone for about a half hour, if the clock was any indication, and you had a lot of time to kill before he returned home. Not that he was your only source of entertainment – though, you’d read the single book he owned three times already.

Your knees crack as you kneel down in front of the cupboard the TV was sitting on, the wooden doors creaking as they open. The shelves are mostly empty – a few older remotes, and a cable channel guide.

Frustrated, you huff and let your shoulders slump, trying to decide what to do next. The TV obviously wasn’t planning on cooperating, though there was a cupboard right next to the one you’re searching through that could potentially hold the answer.

Uvogin’s rules distantly float through your mind, his gruff voice replaying in perfect clarity. Third, don’t go digging through my shit. Glancing back up the clock, you bite your lip. You had time, because while he was massive and huge and scary, there was no way he could get all his errands done in just thirty minutes.

With a deep breath, you move over to the other cabinet, letting your fingers curl around the knob. The doors don’t creak when they open, and immediately you’re scanning the shelves. These ones are full – with boxes, each labeled with a date on them. Cocking a brow, you examine the dates. January 4th – January 25th, April 29th – May 7th, and so on.

Intrigued, you slowly slide out one of the boxes, noticing not a single bit of dust is sitting on the cover. He must use this cabinet much more often than the one you’d been searching through previously, as a thick layer of dust had sprung up in your face the moment you opened the cabinet door.

The box itself is light, but you still set it down in front of you, your fingers delicate and careful, too worried that you’ll break something if you press too hard. And then Uvogin would know, surely, especially if he truly used this cabinet that often.

Slowly, you take off the box’s cover, and immediately your brows are scrunching together. What the hell?

When you’d imagined the kind of ‘shit’ Uvogin didn’t want you to snoop through, you hadn’t pegged it to be this. Whatever this was, that is.

It looked like a box full of receipts – tons of pieces of paper, all in weird sizes or shapes that looked like they were ripped out of some sort of notebook. The handwriting is messy, the letters all crammed together and difficult to decipher. You pick the paper on top up, turning it this way and that, trying to read the text.

Her: Sorry, I know it’s late, but I need to ask you a quick question.

Them: Yeah? What’s up?

Her: Do you think he’s alright? Chris, I mean – he hasn’t called me back for a few days, and I’m worried about him.

Them: You know Chris, it always takes him a while to respond. I wouldn’t worry, he’s just unpredictable.

Her: Yeah, I guess…

[6 second pause]

Them: Go to sleep, it’s late. You’ve got work in the morning, right?

Her: Yeah, I do. Okay, okay, I’m getting into bed now. Goodnight.

Them: Goodnight, call me when you hear back from him.

Her: Okay.

What was this? The ambiguity of it all confused you – who was her? Them? Chris?

You furrowed your brows, confusion sitting in your gut alongside a strange feeling. The hairs at the back of your neck prickled up, and a small pang of unease bolted through you.

Setting the piece of paper back into the bin, you picked up another one. This one was shorter, more to the point.

Her: Are we still on for Friday night?

Them: Yeah! Freddy’s, nine o’clock sharp. I’m buying, remember.

Her: You always say that, and you always get too shit faced to pay. Liar!

Them: Hey, I just know how to have fun! You could learn how to do that, you know.

Her: Yeah yeah, okay, I’ll see you later.

Your fingers are shaking as you finish reading the small, triangular slip of paper. Your lips are slightly parted, brows still crunched together. Something about the interaction between Her and Them felt oddly familiar – like something you’d heard before.

And the mention of Freddy’s. That’d been the name of a bar you frequented often with your friends, back before everything had gone to shit with Stacy.

Unnerved, you set the piece of paper back in the box and slide the box into its place on the shelf, running your eyes back over the listed date. August 28th – September 16th. One of your best friend’s birthdays was in that range.

Wiping your palms on your thighs, you try to calm the pounding of your heart. Something feels off, wrong in a way you can’t quite place. Surely, Freddy’s is a common enough name; it doesn’t necessarily mean your favorite bar. Plus, even if it does mean that particular bar, who knew who these people were. You surely don’t - who the hell is Chris?

Wanting to put some distance between you and the cabinet, you get to your feet again and close it, wandering away into the little hallway connecting the living space, bathroom and two bedrooms. Cupping some water in your hands from the bathroom sink, you splash your face, letting the cold wash over your skin. Closing your eyes, you try to calm down. It doesn’t mean anything – how could it? You’re probably just all shaken up after seeing Stacy and her freaky captor. Nobunaga disturbed you, you can’t deny it.

Sighing, you open your eyes, wiping your face with your towel. (Uvogin had been kind enough to give you one designated as your own, saving you from the horrible fate of having you dry your body with a towel that he’d already used.) Though you notice with a small start that the towel is wet, despite you not having showered recently. Odd.

As you turn to leave the room, you notice a shirt sitting piled up in the corner. It was black, and surely not your own – holding it up, it looked big enough to dwarf you. Must be Uvogin’s, then.

His bedroom is across from your own, and while you haven’t been inside it yet, it feels wrong to just leave his shirt on the floor, where it could get dirty and maybe even moldy. Besides, doing a little cleaning would keep you occupied – both from boredom, and from contemplating those weird slips of paper further.

You slowly open the door, immediately getting hit with a wave of musk. Uvogin normally smelled decent, but the scent in here is strong enough to make you wince a bit, the overwhelming stench of sweat, mint, and male making you a bit nauseous. To your surprise, the room is spotless – a very, very large bed sits floated in the middle, a navy and black flannel comforter covering the top while a few large, puffy pillows sit at attention at the head. A few pairs of boots are lined up in the corner, and a single picture looks to be taped up on the wall above them. Curiously, you step forward, moving towards the photo.

Uvogin had told you very little about himself – only that he worked as a contractor, of sorts, and that he didn’t have too many friends, so you wouldn’t have to worry about visitors. But now that you’re looking at the photo, you’re wondering if maybe that last statement hadn’t been so true – the photo is of a dozen or so people, all posing for the camera with various degrees of a smile on their face. Uvogin’s in the back, on the left side, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a shorter blond man, his blue eyes in a wink and holding up his thumb. Uvogin’s smiling, and as you scan the photo, you stop when you hit Nobunaga, who’s seated in the front row next to a woman with big glasses and a modified cross necklace. Everyone looks happy, and briefly you wonder whether Uvogin considers these people friends. He must, if Nobunaga’s present – an odd sort of satisfaction worms its way into your chest at the thought. You don’t like Uvogin, surely not – but still, everyone needs friends, right? Even kidnappers.

God, you really are starting to develop Stockholm Syndrome.

Shaking your head to try and clear the thoughts, you approach his closet and snag a hanger, trying to hang up the shirt you’re holding in your arms. The thing is tall, and as you try to get the hanger’s hook to wrap over the metal bar, your eyes fall to the side, noticing something out of the corner of your vision.

It’s a soft pink, and you cock a brow. Uvogin? Owning something pink?

Eventually, and with a soft grunt, you get the hanger to successfully sit onto the bar, and immediately you’re investigating the pink thing. This goes directly against his rules, you know – you’re quite literally snooping, but hopefully he’d still be out for longer. Besides, even if he comes back, you could just tell him you’re putting away his shirt, and maybe he wouldn’t call you on your half-lie.

Whatever the thing is, it’s wedged pretty far back in the closet – you’d only managed to catch a brief glimpse of it, and for good reason. There’s a storage container in the back of the closet, an organizer of sorts with some compartments that all seem to be stuffed full. It’s hard to see, the overhead light dim to begin with and not penetrating too deeply into the dark closet, but you’re able to fish out the pink fabric soon enough.

It's lace, you realize, your curiosity only doubling. That same pin-prickly feeling is back, and as you slowly flatten out the cloth, your breath catches.

It’s a thong. Pink and lacy, with a bow decorating the back, right over the tailbone.

But more than that, the thong looks familiar. There’s a thread pulled on the front right side, and a stain on the fabric at the very bottom, looking awfully similar to the color your own discharge makes once it’s been washed.

Your fingers are shaking again, and you stumble back a bit, the back of your knees catching onto the bed so that you fall back and land on your ass, too busy staring at the cloth in your hands to bother trying to situate yourself.

These panties are yours.

You’re sure of it – you know because Stacy bought them for you a few months ago. She’d cheekily handed them to you with a big, gaudy bow on top, a wink sent your way and a demure because I know you’ve got a date tonight, and I also know you haven’t gotten laid in way too long. That was the night you’d been set up on a blind date with a friend’s coworker. He’d been nice, though you hadn’t slept with him, and you hadn’t gone out again after that. He didn’t seem all that interested in you as a romantic pursuit, but he was funny, and you’d hoped you could become friends, at least.

And his name was Chris. And he’d gone missing a few days after.

You drop the panties, a hand coming up to cover your mouth.

You don’t want to, and you know you shouldn’t, but before you can stop yourself you’re rushing forward to the closet, digging back to that storage compartment and rooting around for anything else you can find. It must be a coincidence; it has to be a coincidence. These can’t be your panties, you must be mistaken – why would Uvogin have these? How could he have these? You’d lost them in the laundry a while back.

At least, that’s what you’d assumed.

Pulling your hand back, you see you’ve grabbed a few items. They’re smaller, not clothing, but nonetheless incriminating. There’s a chapstick container, with a strange flavor on it that you’ve only seen once, back when you won it in some weird fundraising fair you’d been at for your job. Kiwi banana grape, it said in curling black lettering, and when you pop open the top, you notice it’s almost completely empty.

There’s also a button; it’s black with a strange shape, one you recognize as being from your favorite jacket. It’d fallen off one day, but you’d been too busy walking around the city to have realized. It was a real bummer, because it’d rendered the jacket unwearable because too big a draft would sneak through it.

And lastly, there’s a bandaid – it’s old, you can tell, with a kiddy pattern of some fairies and a dinosaur on it that the nurse had apologized for having to use, telling you it was all they had available at the time. You remembered it – it’d made you laugh that you’d gotten your flu shot and she’d patched it up with a bandaid designed for six year olds, even going so far as to snap a photo and send it in the group chat you kept with your friends.

You feel sick.

Throwing the small items back into the compartment, you rush to the bathroom, barely making it before you’re heaving, all the curry you’d forced down your throat earlier coming right back up.

What the fuck?

Who was Uvogin? Why did he have all of this? How did he have all of this? What did it mean? Your head’s rushing, too many thoughts and implications swimming through your oversaturated mind, and you have just barely enough strength to flush the toilet and stand up, staring at yourself in the mirror.

Stacy’s words rush back to you as you examine your face, seeing your wide eyes and the way your chest is rising and falling with each harsh breath slipping through your lips. He ignores you? That doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense – none of it at all. Why would your by-association captor have any of your personal items? Especially personal items you’d lost or thrown away literal months ago, long before you��d ever started staying over at Stacy’s?

You know why, you just don’t want to admit it, and as you stare at yourself in the mirror, you try to come up with any other possible explanation. No. It can’t be. Stacy’s the one with the creepy stalker, not me.

Suddenly, the sound of the front door’s lock clicking open makes you snap up, adrenaline suddenly coursing through your veins. Uvogin’s home.

Immediately you’re running to your bed, jumping under the covers and shutting your eyes tightly, praying that Uvogin will think you’re asleep and won’t bother you. You need more time to figure this out – it’s all too much, and while it probably won’t be any easier the longer you wait, you need something.

You can’t look at him yet. You won’t.

“I got your chips! Didn’t know which flavor to choose, so I got three I think you might like. I’m serious, though, you have to share. I’m an animal, and I will steal your food.” He laughs at that, and you hear him set down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Your eyes are still closed so tightly that it hurts, and you ball your fists up in the blankets as hard as you can. You’d curled up into a fetal position, and you force yourself to stay still as you hear his loud footsteps coming down the hall.

He calls your name, peeking his head into every room he passes. Soon he sees you in your bed, and although you look a little stiff, his shoulders immediately lose their tension. A smile flits across his lips, and he slowly, quietly shuts the door, retreating back to his own room.

You sigh, peeling open your eyes and trying to get your breathing under control. You’d been holding your breath, and now that he’s actually home in the apartment, it’s difficult to not let yourself panic.

It becomes much, much more difficult when you hear a noise come from his bedroom, though. What the hell’s this?

There’s a muffled curse, and your blood runs cold as quick, heavy footsteps lead right up to your door. He swings it open and your eyes fly shut, trying desperately in vain to appear like you’re still sleeping.

“Wake the fuck up.” He says, and immediately you open your eyes, your fear too strong to ignore. He’s holding the pink panties in his hands, and you realize with a small burst of terror that in your haste to get to the bathroom, you’d left them on the floor. In his room. Right where he can see that they’ve been moved.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"I only have three rules. What are they?” He barks, and you’re trying to curl up even smaller, hoping his promise of not hurting you will still ring true. Though, he’s lied about pretty much everything else – how do you know if that part wasn’t all a lie, too?

“No hurting myself, no escaping, and no – no snooping.” You whisper, and Uvogin bares his teeth.

“I’ve been good to you – patient, something that takes a hell of a lot of effort for me. And what do you do in return? You go and do one of the very few things I’ve forbidden.” He looks impossibly tall right now, towering over you with those muscles, the panties looking downright tiny between his monstrous fingers. “Tell me why. Explain to me why the hell you were snooping through my closet.”

You shut your eyes again, too scared to look at him. “I was putting away a shirt you left in the bathroom. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I did it, please don’t hurt me, please –“

He interrupts you with a huff, and you tense up, waiting for some blow to land. It doesn’t, though, and after a good thirty seconds, you finally peel an eye open, almost too scared to see what he’s doing.

You don’t expect the small smile that’s sitting on his lips, nor the hand on his hip. He locks his eyes with yours, then sighs. “Well, this is most definitely not the way I wanted you to find out. See, I had this whole plan – Nobunaga came up with it, one of the very few things he’s ever thought of that actually impressed me.”

You’re confused again, but that sick feeling still hasn’t gone away. All you can seem to look at are your panties, wedged in his fist.

“He told me that since you and Stacy were so close, we could cut a deal – kidnap you both at once, get more bang for our buck. There was no way to hide Nobunaga’s feelings for Stacy, sure, but you? Well, you haven’t noticed anyone following you, have you?” Uvogin asks, cocking his head at you and letting his smile get a bit wider.

You quickly shake your head no.

“I’m better at this stuff than he is. He always gets too excited to talk to her, wants to interact and have her lookin’ at him. I get it, I really do. Even now, even with you scared shitless and looking at me like I’m about to kill you, just you acknowledging me is getting me hard as a fucking rock.”

Involuntarily, your eyes dart down to his navel, and with a small, strangled sound of fear, you notice the way there’s a prominent bulge forming in those shorts of his.

He laughs at your change in focus, and steps forward. Hooking a finger under your chin, he smirks down at you. “I’m better at hiding myself, and I was willing to play the long game, content with watching you until the right time came to snatch you up. But when Nobunaga offered, telling me there was a way to get you all to myself and make sure you grew to want me organically? Well, I couldn’t resist, could I?”

You want to tell him he absolutely could’ve, or that you wouldn’t have ‘wanted him organically’, whatever the hell that meant, but your tongue doesn’t seem to be working.

He leans down, face coming closer and closer to yours. “You had no idea, did you? How do you think I knew what kind of mattress to get you? How do you think I knew exactly what to order for you for takeout, even when you were too scared to tell me? How do you think I know what shampoo and conditioner to buy you, or even what kind of fucking cologne you like? Believe me, I’m only wearing this shit for you.”

You’re frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at him.

“Do you get it now, princess? See, Nobunaga doesn’t give two shits about whether you live or die – he’ll get Stacy to do what he wants no matter what. But me? I give a shit.” He’s so close to you that you can smell his breath. It’s minty, like he’s just recently brushed his teeth. The cold smell only makes you shiver, fear still tingling up your spine.

“Why?” You whisper, overwhelmed at his sudden confession.

He pauses at that, smirk falling away as he genuinely considers your words. He’s quiet for a moment, before he smiles again, but this time it’s not as predatory – there’s something oddly soft about it, and it makes you feel worse.

“Because you’re perfect. That’s all.” He answers like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and before you can say anything he’s clambering on the bed next to you. You want to fight him off, to jump up off the bed and run, but you can’t seem to find the energy to. Besides, you’re not delusional enough to think you could beat Uvogin in any sort of physical altercation or chase. And while he still seemed to be adhering to his promise of not hurting you, you didn’t feel like testing the waters.

“So I guess the jig’s up. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out, but I can work with this, too. At least now I don’t have to act like I don’t know you. And now, I don’t have to do all that respectful distance shit – you’re mine now, babe, and now I don’t have to hide it.” He’s grinning again, his teeth looking too sharp, and before you can blink he’s above you, your wrists pinned above your head and his lips inches away from yours.

“So why don’t I show you just how much your attention the last week’s been affecting me?” His voice is low, sultry, and makes you gulp. He presses his face into your neck, deeply inhaling and groaning. “I promise I can make you feel good… I’ll tell you my last rule, okay?”

You’re frozen, but when he pulls back to glare at you, you shakily mutter out an ‘okay’.

His grin is wolfish, predatory, scary. “Rule number four is no running away from me, even if that cute little body of yours can’t take anymore. Got it?”

You nod.

#yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere uvogin #_lee's fics #_lee writes for ramwrites #_uvogin #_hxh

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ovtsakaramel · 7 months ago

Text

Colors

Finnick Odair x fem!reader

TW: death, mentions of forced prostitution

note: tried to match some things to Colors by Halsey bc I listened to Badlands while writing it, probably didn't turn out perfect lol and I do now know this is not the meaning of the lyrics

You take a glass of wine from the waiter. The bittersweet, a little tart taste from the drink washes over your mouth. A wave of shiver goes through your body. You've always hated the Capitol parties, especially the more "classy" ones. All those people smiling and talking like they had no worry in the world. And they probably didn't. Not as much as you, at least.

You ran your fingers over your dress. Glittery and shiny, the lights mirrored on the black diamonds covering it. It made you shine, it made you be seen. The long dress was hugging your curves perfectly, leaving not a lot to the imagination. Normally you would like the way it made you look beautiful, but almost nothing in the Capitol makes you feel anything but dirty.

It was all too much. All the stares, all the flirts, all the disgusting Capitol people eyeing you like a piece of meat, like just a doll for their entertainment. You rushed to the door to the small balcony and opened it quietly. Hopefully no one would find you here. Just peace and quiet. Peace.

You light up a cigarette and look through the window. Being on the higher floors of a skyscraper, the balcony was pretty high. You could see the whole region, filled with even bigger buildings, windows lit up like second stars. You could hear people talking, mostly gossiping from the party, the cars outside and the crickets singing peacefully. You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"What you doing out here, Satan's spawn?" Finnick, the victor of the 65th Hunger Games comes behind you. You look him up and down. Today he was wearing more clothes than usual. A white button up, the upper buttons undone, and dark sea green pants, matching his eyes.

"Your stylist felt generous to land you some clothes this time?" You ask, pointing at him with your cigarette

"Yeah, lucky me. I had to get on my knees for this." He goes next to you, his back pushed to the railing. He takes a sip from his own wine. "Why aren't you at the party?"

"Even you need a break, imagine me. Just needed some peace and quiet, that's all. And you and your pretty face came to ruin even this." He chuckles and rolls his eyes

"That's what I'm here for. To drag you from the darkest place of depression to irritation."

"Yeah, and you're doing a damn good job." You chuckle back. Only if he knew how much he helped you. You may sometimes seem annoyed by him, but everytime he smirks and tries to anger you you relax, really relax. He's the only one who could make you feel like the games didn't happen. Like Snow didn't happen. Like... You didn't happen. At least not the most of you.

"Are you doing well? I heard about your little tragedy..." Ha. Little tragedy. Everyone you loved was dead. Snow invited you to his office one day. Offered you to please his precious Capitol elite, for the price of keeping your loved ones. You said no. You couldn't give him the satisfaction that he had some control over you. He, in fact, has. But you could at least pretend. The very next day you were alone. Your family members bodies were still in your house, their throats slitted. Some of their eyes were still open. It was quite the sight to come home to.

"I'm... Just gonna deal with it. I still can't believe that they're actually dead. I feel like my parents are going to lecture me any minute now about how I dress like a slut, or how I look demonic. And that my baby brother will crawl on top of me to pull my hair and spit on me." You shake your glass. The dark liquid looks sweeter.

"I know you didn't have the best relationship with your parents, but they were still family... I'm sorry."

"It would have been worse if I said yes. Not all of us are that strong to deal with it. And you sure are. If I was in your place, I'd probably kill myself." You trow the cigarette out the balcony. "Hope it falls on top of some Capitolites head..." You think to yourself. They could at least get their wigs burnt if they were gonna torture you.

"Very encouraging." He smiles. His white teeth shine in the darkness. His smile was one of the most comforting things. Not the fake flirtatious smirk he pulled for the Capitol. But his genuine, sarcastic warm smile. It could make you giggle, it make you melt. His smiles were the best drug you've encountered on. Fuck morphling, fuck cocaine. Finnick Odairs smile was what you needed.

You two stand there in silence for a while. The wind blows into your hairs and his loose shirt as you both stare at the moon. It was one of those beautiful full moons where the moon is a bright fiery orange. It had found a place between two tall buildings, peeking from them as if to stare at you. But the moon wasn't like the Capitol. It's eyes didn't make you feel like they knew all of your secrets, every thought you were having, stripping you down to your most intimate pieces of self just with a glance. It's eyes were like a shield from the Capitols. It's fiery color made you feel warm and safe and at home, even though the cold night air and party behind you weren't very cozy.

"It has ways been weird to me how in one second someone could be alive and then the other: gone" he looks at you, the half empty glass in his hand holding on for dear life on the tips of his fingertips.

"Right? What's the meaning of life anyway if you're gonna just die... Like yeah, your children and their children, but you'd be dead. You won't feel the happieness in seeing them happy. You wouldn't even know they're happy. You'd be dead. Nothing would matter. All of this life, gone, just for nothing." His words felt like a deep exhale after holding your breath for years for both of you. You wanted to know that you didn't weird him out and he was like he wanted to talk for so long.

"Why are we even continuing living? Just for the sake of it? Bc maybe tomorrow nothing would matter. We reproduce but the children we make are also going to die one day. And why are we doing things to keep ourselves alive, going through so much pain. Just to keep something we're gonna loose anyways." A pause "When you think about it... Maybe it's not that bad."

"What?" He looked at you, his brows furrowing. His lips parted a bit on the middle, the little wrinkles he got looked cute.

"Killing. It's just death, you know? It was gonna happen anyways. For the person that died it won't matter. They'd be dead. And for their close ones... They're also gonna die one day."

"It's just... Disturbing and dehumanizing. It's bad. Sometimes it feels like we're brainwashed to think it's bad but thinking that you can just discard a life like that, someone who also thinks and feels it's just... It's just sick. No matter if it doesn't have consequences. The fact that someone could do it with no remorse at all, to play God, to think... That they're that important. When it's just sick and twisted." Your eyes met his and he looked away. You look down and he looks back at you, trying to find your eyes again. His eyes were your favorite part of him. They're the most beautiful sea green you've seen... Like all different shades of green but navy on the ends. A little yellow that makes them even greener somehow. Like you were looking at the ocean. Bringing a sense of warmth and a sense of refresh in the same time. The little pieces of very light colour looked like seafoam. It was like waves are actually crushing in his eyes.

"You're right. Some things are just bad, no matter how much you try to normalize them. No matter how much you think it's not that deep... Even if it will all end, just bringing pain is bad. Even if it won't matter and it will be all erased, just for one second bringing something, some feeling like that to someone. It's bad. It's... Just gross." He chuckles. You weren't sure if there was humor in it.

You empty your glass. You watch as Finnick does the same and how the liquid goes inside of him, going through his throat and his Adams apple moving as he swallows. He exhales through his mouth and put the glass on the window. You roll around yours in your fingers, tapping on it with the black nails and then leave it there too.

"Are you could?" He asks, looking you up and down. But not in a weird way. His gaze felt more like protection than danger. Liked the moon that always matched his hair color.

"I'm fine" you say, but he can see how you rub your arms and how you flinch a little when you don't move for some time. He takes off his jacket and puts it on your shoulders. It smells like cinnamon. You expected it to smell like some Capitol perfume that stinks of chemicals, but it smelled like cinnamon. Like Finnick. Most people would expect he smells like the perfumes or salt water. Yeah, he did smell like salt water in district 4. Everyone you knew from there had that little pinch on sea in their natural scent. But Finnick smelled like cinnamon. It was warm and cozy, but still playful. You inhale his scent and almost melt. He moves closer to you. You look at him. He looks lost. He looks blue. You also looked blue. You also looked lost. How could you live without your friends and family? You felt something creeping up on you. You felt all eyes on you, you felt tired and... Pointless. Grey. You felt them in your hair. Creeping up from the stress. Maybe they'll turn into whites. Maybe you'll look like Snow. Maybe you'll be as happy as Snow. Maybe you will rip and not be ripped. Maybe the grey from your smoke will draw a masterpiece on the dark night sky. Maybe that overwhelm will go away. Maybe you'll die.

"No you won't." Finnick says, cold as the air. Unintentionally you said all of this out loud. The anxiety dig it's nails deeper in you and you wanted to scream out the balcony and fall from it. Hoping you'd fall on some Capitolite and kill them. "We may act... Rivalry with each other. But... You bring me comfort. It brings me comfort when we talk with no mocking and just... Talk. It's a nice rest. Your voice is telling me that there are others that don't feel normal. That aren't normal."

"I did not find any sense in your words. But somehow I get them."

"Things maybe don't have to make sense to be ours."

"You don't make sense." You say as a joke and chuckle, you didn't mean to hurt him. As he just stared behind you you apologized. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean t- "

"Then I am completely yours." He said staring at your lips. Desperation was found in both of yours eyes. You both were sad, drank... Well, maybe you drank ymtoo much earlier and you're drunk. You could see in his lost gaze that he is too. Nothing had sense. Neither death, neither why you liked teasing him so much. Neither why you stared at his lips too. Neither why no sense had more sense. Why you two went close enough to feel your bodies touch. Why talking deep with him made everything a little more clear, like a raindrop on a foggy car window. Still blurred but at least now there were colors. Why you licked your lips. There was no sense in why-

Your lips found each other instantly and he grabbed your waist gently but passionately. Your arms wrapped around his neck clumsy but still enough to push his tongue to yours. You felt his warmth, his taste, all of them freeing you from the dark feeling of loss and grief. The sink left overflowing with your mothers body on the bathroom floor. You never saw her smile if it wasn't for others to see she was ok, which no one believed she was. Your little brother who you never appreciated ("Who appreciates a baby?" you thought when he was born and your parents didn't even ask you how you were after your games), sitting in his feeding chair, the light coming through the window and lighting up his face. Wishing you'd forgive him for just existing. Your father who you always lied to, who made you who you are. But he decided that color was not for him so he just yelled. Your blue jeans stained with their blood. You could have kept them if you just decided to take them off. But you took the right decision. Always keep yourself. But now the lips on yours made you wanna keep them and their saturated hope brought back the color in you. Color drained and lost from the lost of their blood. But Finnick's taste filled that white spot.

You two drifted apart for a breath and the emptiness came back again.

"Are you sure?" You asked him. You didn't want a nod, you didn't need silence. You needed his warm voice to fill the void.

"I'm sure. My room?" You nodded. Hypocrite.

You layed back down, exhausted. Your head rested on his chest,the skin to skin contact of your bodies making you overheat but too addictive to let go of. For a moment, you felt full. Full of love. Full of life. Full of warmth.

#finnick odair #finnick #thg finnick #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair fanfic #finnick fanfic #thg x reader #thg x you #the hunger games #hunger games #hunger games series #thg #thg series #the hunger games series #finnick imagine #finnick odair imagine

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lover-of-mine · 1 year ago

Text

lover-of-mine masterlist

Pairing: Evan Buckley and Eddie Diaz (911)

for everything we are (everything we’ve been) (9.5k, T) :

"Eddie," Buck breathes, almost a sigh as he drops his head, and Eddie can tell he's ready to drop it even if he wants to talk about it because he'll follow him. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asks, leaning closer to Buck, and he glances at him, "I have nowhere else to be, and I know you were just following my lead with this, we can talk about it all if you want," Eddie offers, trying to show him how serious he is about it but Buck just looks skeptical. "I don't know, man," Buck shakes his head, picking at the label of his beer, clearly wanting to say something but not knowing if it's his place to say it. “So here's what we're gonna do, the shit we've been through that you keep telling yourself didn't happen to you so you have no right to feel anything about it? You're gonna tell me how you felt about it anyway," Eddie says, turning on his chair so he's facing Buck fully and watching as Buck mirrors his movement, places his beer on the counter, and rubs his thighs before speaking. or the entity I've been affectionately calling "the trauma fic 🫶"

tell me how it feels (say it ain't so) (8.3k, T):

“It was a harmless comment,” Buck says, frowning at him, and he huffs. “Harmless? Did you see the look on your sister’s face? You’re so caught up in pretending it didn’t happen, you can’t look around yourself and realize what happened didn’t just change you.” “What- why-” Buck tries, but his eyes are wide, and he doesn’t seem able to find words. “Because this is what you wanted. To move past it, not to think about it, make the best of it, and I’m letting you do it, but this- that’s what you told me. She sees you for who you really are, right? I’m just forcing you to act like someone you’re not? That’s who’s been doing such a better job at supporting you? Someone who will never understand what it felt like? Someone who thinks it’s cool that you-” Eddie cuts himself abruptly, sucking in a sharp breath because he doesn’t think he can keep talking without crying, but Buck is still looking at him like he doesn’t understand what’s happening.

or Eddie hears Natalia saying Buck's death was cool and things spiral out of control. Or just what I've been calling the "Let's deal with Death & Taxes"

all i ever wanted comes right down to you (3k, G):

i'll come tackle the monsters (4.5k, T):

The thing is, Eddie knows he probably looks pathetic right about now. He can't help it. Not when the low light of the bar hides him just enough for him to be able to watch Buck leaning against the counter a few feet away talking to a woman he doesn't know without worrying about what it looks like. About how it would be interpreted. About keeping his expression neutral enough as he feels his heart ready to burst out of his chest. It's stupid, but he can't shake it. He can't move past it. Can't box it up into something he can manage. Can't make it something he can live with. It's like loving Buck is somehow wired into his DNA. That's not exactly the problem. He's ready to love Buck in whatever way Buck wants him to forever. It's just that sometimes… Sometimes he wants more. or Eddie is very dramatic in his pining and Buck overhears something that changes everything.

in case you don't live forever (8.5k, T):

But Buck didn't seem ready to talk. He just shifted, moving so he could drop his head to Eddie's shoulder, before nodding slightly and hiding his face on his neck. That is also new, Buck allowing himself to seek comfort. So Eddie waits, lets his hand find Buck's hair, fingers lazily moving through it until he relaxes against him. “I thought you were dead,” Buck mumbles into his skin, still hiding, almost as if he's hoping that if he stays like this, it can't hurt him. “It was just a bad dream,” Eddie tries to reassure him, fingers still moving on his hair, but he shakes his head. “No, not- not now, I mean, yes, in the dream too, but when you- I thought you were dead. You went down and you were looking at me, but then you weren't and I- I thought you were dead,” Buck explains and Eddie breathes out a soft oh once he understands what he means. “We never talked about it, about how it was for you,” he says, carefully, because even if Buck seems to be in a more open mood, he knows how fast he can shut down. or Buck has a nightmare and they talk about the shooting.

In hindsight, maybe they could’ve gotten out before the whole thing came down. It’s not like they weren’t aware that the building was unstable, but the truth is that it was too sudden for anyone to do anything other than just watch as the floor gave out from under them. There wasn’t even enough of a warning for an evacuation order to be placed. Because there wasn’t really the need for one, the floor was cleared and they were making their way back out when it happened. Buck was actually talking about how lucky they were that there was no one down there, about how an extraction from there would be tricky when it happened. And as they go down Eddie is actually thinking about how the universe seems to have a sick sense of humor. or Buck and Eddie get trapped in a collapsed building. Buck more than Eddie.

wedding bells were just alarms (10.2,G)

How long had he been pushing the knife deeper? How much had he actually hurt Eddie before he chose to pull it out himself and close the door so Buck wouldn't be able to anymore? How much would he take if Buck hadn't started to yell at him and let him do whatever it would take to be supportive? Would he make it through the wedding? Would he stand behind Buck at the altar, watching him marry someone else, never saying a word? Just shove his feelings down because he thought this was what would make Buck happy? The fucked up part is that Buck knows he would. Would even smile through everything too, help him with planning, and talk him down if he panicked. Just stand there, with his feelings unknown, letting Buck push the knife in deeper and deeper until there would be nothing left of them. Until there was so much pain that there would be no saving them when Buck finally came to his senses. or Buck proposes to Natalia, picks a fight with Eddie and things come to focus after they have a really bad week.

we didn't happen the way we were supposed to (where do we go now?) (4.1k, T):

i'll never give you away ('cause i've already made that mistake) (3.2k, G)

The craziest part is that Eddie doesn't even know why they're fighting. Can't remember what started it. Who said what that landed them screaming at each other in a way that reminds him of the way Shannon and him used to fight. Maybe it comes with it. With fighting your best friend. Letting someone know you means letting them know how to hurt you. And oh, has Buck been digging the knife deeper. He's not even sure Buck realizes how much he's been holding back. It's not like he really has a choice. At some point, they stopped talking.

or Buck and Eddie start fighting over things left unsaid or just misunderstood.

And maybe he should think this through before talking to Eddie. But, fuck it, it's not like he's known for thinking before he acts. So he's rushing out of the car, stepping up to the door, calling out before he even closes it behind him. “Eddie!” “Hey? Did we have—” Eddie peaks out of the dining room before cutting himself as he steps into the living room when he notices the look on his face, expression changing from fond confusion to plain worry, “Buck, what's going on?” “What happened at that party?” Buck asks, and he freezes in place, tilting his head. “What?” “What happened at that party?”

Buck almost kissed Eddie at the bachelor party and forgot about it. Until he remembered.

this is a state of grace (2.2k, G)

So, even though Buck has only been gone for a day, he can't help the way his heart speeds up when he hears Buck's key on the door. And, look, he tries to give Buck time to settle in. He manages the time it takes for Buck to take his shoes off and put his bag away, greeting him with a tired but genuine smile before Eddie just moves straight into his chest, arms wrapping around his middle, hiding his face on his neck and exhaling like he somehow had been holding his breath since Buck walked out the door the day before. or They just got together. Eddie is touchy and misses Buck. Buck is not sure how to react. They are in love and finally say it. From both POVs.

what if one of these days i go and change your name (2.7k, G)

So what? Edmundo Diaz wants to marry Evan Buckley. It's not a new development. The urge just had never been as intense as it is right now as he steals glances at him but it's always been there. And he can't get the smile off his face over the way Buck has his last name across his back and hasn't thought to remove the jacket even though he doesn't need it anymore now that he's out of the building and he's not actually supposed to be working. or Buck runs into a fire while off-duty, Eddie gives him his turnout once the 118 responds, then proceeds to spiral about how he wants to marry Buck.

nothing safe is worth the drive (2.1k, G)

i'm afflicted by the not knowing (1.2, G)

And, sure, it took Buck way too long to realize what he was feeling. To name it. To try to understand it. But he's here now. And can't keep not doing something about it. So he's doing something about it. He's getting in the goddamn car. Who cares if it's almost midnight? Who cares if they're just out of a 24-hour shift? Who cares if he doesn't know for sure the answer he's gonna get? He's doing it. He's gonna say it. Put his feelings out in the world. Evan Buckley is in love with Eddie Diaz. And he's gonna tell him. or Buck decides he needs to confess his feelings and drives over in the middle of the night.

But he's also feeling the need to confess, and this is the closest he can force himself into. So he drops into the chair and finally meets Frank's eyes. “I broke up with Marisol.” “I'm sorry to hear that,” Frank says in the calm let's talk about how that makes you feel voice that used to drive him up the wall. Maybe it still does. “No, that's not the problem,” Eddie shakes his head and he nods. “Alright, what is the problem?” “I lied to Buck.” or Eddie needs to talk about how he's feeling. That's what therapy is for, right?

i won't let nobody hurt you (3k, G) (this one is more about Buck and Chris):

you could take me home (6.2k, G)

The consistent buzzing is somehow shaking the whole bed. It makes Buck groan into his pillow, while feeling around the bed trying to find his phone without opening his eyes. Maybe he shouldn't still be sleeping, but it's his first day off after a 48-hour shift, so sue him from wanting to catch up on as much sleep as he could. He finally finds the offending device, opening one eye just to make sure he's not ignoring something important before going back to sleep. But then he reads the contact name on the screen and shoots up. He's definitely awake now. "Hello?" "Hi, is this Evan Buckley?" A voice he doesn't recognize asks and he's nodding as he runs a hand over his face trying to chase the rest of the sleep away. "Yeah, that's me." "We're calling from Durand School because you're listed as a contact for one of our students, Christopher Diaz?" or the one where Buck picks up a sick Christopher from School. The first installment of the extra fics for the trauma fic verse. Can be read as a standalone.

there’s no way that we could rewind (1.5k, G)

"Okay, they should be back here soon with your discharge papers," Buck says, coming back into the room and Eddie wants to cheer at the fact he wouldn't have to stay the night, "then we can get you home." "We?" He says, shooting a confused glance at Buck, who squares his shoulder as if he was expecting Eddie to put up a fight. "I'm staying with you," he says, tone final and Eddie groans. "Why?" "Why? Did you forget what happened today?" Buck's looking at him like he's crazy and he didn't think he should be this annoyed by it, but he is. "I don't need a babysitter, I'm a medic," he complains and Buck steps closer to the bed. "The only reason they are letting you go tonight is because I, a trained EMT, am agreeing to keep an eye on you so I don't care if you have a secret MD you never told me about, I'm staying with you or I'm not checking you out and you can stay here." "You wouldn't," Eddie frowns because he doesn't pout, but maybe he is pouting as Buck huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Try me."

or Buck takes Eddie home after the well collapse. The second installment of the extra fics for the trauma fic verse. Can be read as a standalone.

Buck going down is what makes Eddie move. The immediate threat is gone, Chris is safe and in his arms, so the gravity of it all hits him like a truck as Chim, Hen, and Bobby lower Buck into the cot behind him. It makes him adjust his grip on Christopher, getting him properly on his lap, before standing up and walking to Buck like something is pulling him. or The one at the VA hospital after the tsunami The third installment of the extra fics for the trauma fic verse Can be read as a standalone.

this surprise ending i’m depending on (could be the story of another us) (3.3k, T) (no happy ending)

wondering why won’t you crush me (you know I'll put you above me) (1.4k,G) (No happy ending)

"Buck is on a date. And Eddie is heartbroken. That much he knows. That's not the problem. Well, it is a problem, but not the problem at the moment. The problem is that he's heartbroken in a non-tragic way so he doesn't know how to make himself feel better besides moping around in his living room. He can't compare his wife leaving him or becoming a widower with his feelings for his best friend not being reciprocated. The closest thing he can come up with to compare is when the girl from his chemistry lab said no when he asked her to homecoming. But the comparison feels too small. Or maybe his feelings for Buck are too big. And it's not like he told Buck. It's not like he didn't fully realize exactly how much he wanted it until it was taken from him. But the thing is, it wasn't taken for him. Buck is still there. And Eddie had lived through Buck not being there, for a few horrible minutes Buck was gone gone, and he never wants to go through that again. Buck just wasn't his." or Buck is on a date and Eddie pines.

Maybe he was scared of what it meant. Because that seems to be the only thing he’s feeling. Fear. And an irrational need to sit down and cry. Maybe not irrational. He just never saw Buck look that… happy? Giddy? Free? And Eddie wants that for him. He does. By God he does. Buck deserves happiness. Last week he would’ve been ecstatic. Last week. or Buck has a boyfriend. Eddie has feelings about it.

in too deep to find a safe way out (1.5k, G) (No happy ending)

It happens slowly. It's like the high tide slowly making its way across the sand on a lazy afternoon. It's not what Eddie expects. He thought that if he ever felt this way again it would be sudden. A tidal wave. The realization is almost… peaceful. Maybe it would've been peaceful. Under better, more ideal circumstances. or Eddie's feelings come to light during Chim and Maddie's wedding.

tick tock goes the clock (1k, T):

Ficlets:

Buck always calls back. The lack of reaction makes Eddie move faster. Scream louder. But nothing changes. The storm is raging. The clock is ticking or Buck gets struck by lightning. And Eddie is counting down the seconds.

Season 7 premiere speculation where Eddie needs to hold back Buck (500 words)

Season 7 premiere speculation (kinda) where Buck has a panic attack and Eddie kisses him to stop it (500ish words)

#911 fic #911 fanfic #buddie #buddie fic #buddie fanfic #writing #masterlist #i need to accept i constantly write for this idiots so #masterlist oaksasoaksasaoksa #i put the ones i like the most at the top tho lol #yeah

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gingerparker · 2 years ago

Text

PULL ON MY THONG

Pairing: College!Peter Parker X Reader

Summary: Peter needs a vacation. So, naturally, he goes to Vegas during his summer break. He's thin on cash and finds a job at a water park! The hot girl behind the bikini bar is a great bonus to his biweekly paycheck.

Warning: Fluff, sexual tension, teasing, slight body worship, drinking (both reader and Peter are 21+)

Word Count: 7158

A/N: let's pretend this wasn't a summer writing challenge... life happened HARD for it to be posted now.. but i hope y'all enjoy anyway ajsjjs DISCLAIMER!! i know the hotel i used here doesn't have a water park but i was too lazy to use a real one sooo it's an invented one!

It's too warm as soon as Peter exits the airport. It's a sticky and dry kind of warmth, no wind of any kind can be felt around him. His small luggage feels like it weighs 5 tons more than it did mere seconds ago and he realizes how stupid it is to have worn dark clothes.

Travellers push past him to find a cab of any kind to get out of the intense heat. Families get into larger Ubers and some are crazy enough to be walking out. Peter is not that determined.

He has to shuffle through the crowd to find a free cab, they are being filled much quicker than he would have thought. Thank god for his faster pace.

Inside the car, he's blasted with cool air, the sweat on his forehead seemingly evaporating.

The drive to his hotel is smooth. He chugs the rest of his water bottle minutes into the ride. Queen's weather didn't prepare him for this.

In only a few minutes he's on the strip. Billboards of all kinds flash around the cab. It's day outside yet he feels blinded by the colourful lights. He sees half-naked men posing with tourists for money as well as showgirls doing the same. He doesn't let his eyes linger too long. The sidewalk is full of people; after all, it's tourist season.

A bright pink flamingo catches his eye, his hotel seemingly calling out to him! Come, Peter! There's some air con in me maybe you could go to my bar or even check out my casin-

"Sir!" he's startled by the harsh voice that calls him, the cab driver.

"Yes?"

"We're here? I've taken you to your hotel" he gestures to the building they are parked next to.

"Oh! How much do I owe you?"

"Y/N, I need you to do the night shift today! Bebe is stuck in St-George, you know how horrible the construction traffic is" Your boss, Xiomara, pleads over the phone. "And I can't come in I have an appointment with my OB"

"What about Charlize?" you ask.

Your phone is on speaker on your bed and you're already looking through the clean bikinis you have ready.

"I haven't been able to reach her, please please please!" she sounds so desperate that you laugh a little.

"Should I wear the blue holo set or go for the pink and red tie-dye one?" Mars squeals loudly, her voice cracks through the speaker on your phone.

"Tie-dye!! You're a lifesaver Y/N/N, I owe you"

"No worries babes, nothing exciting was happening with me tonight" You'll just have to reschedule your date with your vibrator for another day.

"I'll buy you breakfast on your next opening shift! Wait, that's tomorrow, oh god you're gonna be so tired. I can still try and reach Char-"

"Mars! Don't worry so much, keep it going and the baby will just shoot right out of you" you laugh as you pack your bag for the evening.

"I mean I wouldn't complain. I'm very much over pregnancy" she sighs and you only hum as an answer.

You both say your goodbyes and you're quickly doing a makeup look to match your uniform for the night.

Deep red lipstick, a thick black liner that frames your eyes just the way you like and a light amount of everything else. It heats up like crazy in the small bar so you don't want to be sweating it off in seconds. The finishing touch is some body shimmer, that's for the extra tips.

You live in a resort-like rental near the Vegas Strip. Your university funds top students from other states to live in these apartments. When you'd been accepted and offered to house you; you couldn't turn it down. Leaving New York was easy enough, your parents were always travelling for their jobs and your friends were leaving for other schools so it was an easy decision.

A big bonus was that it was only 10 minutes away by foot from your job in a hotel's adult pool.

You gathered all your things and made your way out.

Tuesday nights are the slowest nights. The restricted pool access you work in usually has a long cue to be let in but currently, there are only 5 people. 7 if you count the obviously underage girls that nervously fiddle with their fake IDS.

You've only made 50$ in tips so far which is pretty disheartening. Did you waste your best body shimmer for this?

After cleaning the bar for the third time in the last 10 minutes you give up pretending to be busy. Maybe you should make yourself a drink... A nice cranberry, vodka and watermelon purée slushy... You could even try the new bubblegum gin you received...

As you're trying to figure out what to mix the new alcohol with you spot a guy. A hot guy to be precise. He looks lost as he enters the area and pockets his wallet. His eyes are wide and they seem to be full of awe. First time in Vegas probably. His abs are what make your eyes follow him. For such a soft face the body he has is a pleasant surprise, muscles that don't look too bulky and that highlight the fact that he probably takes very good care of himself.

He looks like a Long Island ice tea type of guy, who likes alcohol but doesn't like tasting it all that much. You almost want to whistle at him or do anything to catch his eye.

He'd be a better date than your vibrator that's for sure.

It's Peter's fifth day in Las Vegas and he just learned about his hotel's private pool. They only let people 21 years old and older in. All he knew was that there was a small water park, and the kids' screaming could be heard throughout the day.

There are more palm trees to cover up this part of the hotel's grounds, giving more privacy to whatever happens here. There's a large DJ booth elevated at the end of the pool and at least 3 different bars. The DJ obviously pressed shuffle on a Spotify playlist and decided to scroll through his phone. The 3 bartenders he sees look bored out of their minds and are seemingly playing a card game. Only about 20 other guests are enjoying the privacy of this section.

He chooses to go buy himself a drink, there's nothing much to do besides that and swim right now.

Right as he's about to go and disturb the guys playing cards he sees a little hut next to the jacuzzi. It's pure white and only has a sign on the front where it's written "Cheeky Chicks" with a bright pink bikini painted on.

His brows furrow before he steps back to look inside.

His eyes widen and his breath hitches. There stands a girl. A half-naked girl. A very very pretty half-naked girl. A girl that's already looking at him. Peter's knees might just give out under him. A smirk forms on your lips when you realised cute hot chiselled guy noticed you. This is going to be so much fun.

"Hi," you say while leaning forward on your bar a little. The guy's face heats up instantly. Red creeps up his chest and onto his face. Peter is incredibly weak for pretty girls.

"Hi," he manages to breathe out.

"Come over here," you say with a wink. No one can tell you that you aren't good at your job.

Peter nods and makes his way over to her. His steps are quicker than he initially wanted, he did want to look cool and nonchalant. Too late now!

"What's your name?" you ask when he reaches your hut.

"Um... I'm not sure" his brain is screaming the answer at him but all he can hear is "her eyes are up there, her eyes are up there, her eyes ar-"

"Mh that's unfortunate, guess I'll have to stick with sexy stranger" your smirk grows when his tongue comes out to lick his lips.

"Right, um, I'm Peter?"

"You sure about that babes?" his eyes get as wide as saucers, nicknames are appreciated... You make a mental note of this.

"Peter Parker," he says "That's my name" he nods to himself. Probably feeling very proud that he's remembered it. God, he's adorable your practically melting.

"Hi Peter Parker, I'm Y/N, it's nice to meet you hot stuff" You lean back to your normal position, he's been working very hard to keep his eyes in respectful eye contact.

"What can I get you, Pete?"

"Huh?"

"You walked up to my bar, don't you want a drink?" you gesture to all the alcohol you have around you.

"Oh! Um what's your favourite?" he looks at the numerous bottles around you.

"Anything turned into a slush" you answer honestly.

"Ok... Something with cherry?" he suggests with a tilt of his head. You nod and get to work.

If you mix your shaker more than usual who could fault you? It keeps his eyes on you as silence settles over. After adding a cherry and coconut slush to the alcohol mix you top it off with maraschino cherries and a bright pink swirly straw.

You hand it over to him, purposefully making contact with his hand. He takes a big sip and your stare falls to his neck. Thick but lean, muscular and so soft looking. He'd look so good with hickeys littered all over it. You could even trail some down, down, down... just under where his swimming trucks start. God, you really need to get off.

"So what do you think, babes?" you ask him as he brings his straw away from his lips. He nods excitedly as a smile spreads on his face. How can you want him to rearrange your insides and bake him a cake all at once?

"It's delicious! I can't even taste the alcohol you put in here" he nods seemingly approvingly and you smile smugly.

"That's how you know it's a dangerous drink" you wink, turning around to quickly put away the things you used to prepare Peter's drink.

"So how much do I owe you?" he takes his wallet out and opens it up with one hand.

Maybe this is your chance to be bold. Get a date out of this incredibly slow day?

"Mh it'll only cost you your phone number" you shrug with a smirk on your face. Peter sputters on the sip he'd taken and flushes from head to toe. He shakes his head quickly and puts down his cup.

"I have to pay you" he goes through the bills he has in his wallet, instantly paling. He counts them again to then meet your eyes anxiously. "Um, any luck this cost under 6$?" he laughs awkwardly taking out the six 1$ bill he had. You cringe and shake your head. Why must you go for the broke cutie? He sighs and shoves the bills into your tip jar.

"I'm sorry, my aunt always tells me to budget better but this trip has got me much shorter on cash than usual..." Peter puts his wallet away, already knowing it's best if leaves as fast as he can.

"How long are you staying in Vegas for?" your question surprises even yourself. You both expect to have him just walk away and forget this interaction happened... but alas you're incredibly weak.

"I don't know really... I bought a one-way ticket so... I'll probably try and get a ticket to leave at the end of summer" which is currently two and a half months away.

"And you already have no cash left??" you gasp. How is that even possible? "Do you have a job? Or a sugar daddy?" you add in a rushed tone, shocked at his quite reckless planning.

"Think I'd look good in a bikini?" he teases. Joking at a time like this? He might just be your soulmate.

"You'd look amazing in a bikini but this is a woman owed and woman run" You sigh dreamily at the thought of Peter in a bikini. New kink unlocked? Or are you just incredibly horny... "Although... one of the lifeguards at the water park quit! Maybe I could get a good word in for you" You start shutting off the lights in your little hut and locking up the coolers and stands around you.

"Now?" Peter exclaims. You ignore his shock and turn back to him. You spot his unfinished slushy and hand it back to him.

"Drink it at least, I'm not doing charity for you not to enjoy it" you tease him before making your way out, locking the side door and hanging up the "Closed" sign.

"Oh and I'm still expecting your phone number"

That's how Peter Parker got himself a job at his hotel's water park. The man running it barely asked him what his name was before he was hired. They made sure that he had the right certification for a lifeguard job and the next day he was on the schedule. Well, they wrote him in with a Sharpie and they spelt his name wrong but he had a job!

The kids were... tolerable, the pay was ok and the conditions were bearable. His favourite part, however, is the hottie that always put extra cherries on his alcoholic slushes.

It's been three weeks now since he was able to pay back the first one, and it's also been three weeks since you've exchanged numbers.

You've been texting back and forth like crazy. Just facts about your days when you aren't working at the same time or you even like to have him pick out your bikini. He gets exceptionally shy and takes forever to answer but, surprisingly, he's got impeccable taste. Peter knows it's because of how attracted to you he is. Getting to know you has only deepened how doomed he is, how quickly his feelings have shifted from plain lust.

"So you haven't fucked yet?" Ned's voice is loud out of his phone speaker and it scares the shit out of Peter. He's on his lunch break and it's his weekly bro date with Ned. They have lately been full of your name.

"No, women and men can be friends. You know this" Peter knows full well that he'd ditch the friendship in a heartbeat for something more. He'll keep this act up tho, more gentlemanly... right?

"Not when they obviously wanna bone Pete... You're telling me not even a steamy make-out session?" Peter is glad they decided not to FaceTime because he knows what face Ned would be making right now and he doesn't want to see it.

"No" He wishes. He wishes so badly. Like it's actually starting to concern him how much he just wants you to sit on his lap, put your hands in his hair, maybe pull a little, definitely call him babes like you alw- See? He's going insane.

"That's sad Petey, get a move on! If Y/N is as hot as you say then you can't waste any time!" Ned's voice is so diplomatic it's weird but comforting.

"Oh. My. God. Babes you talk about me?" your chipper voice almost startles Peter off his seat and onto the suspiciously green floors.

Peter looks at you with a terrified expression on his face, like you've caught him mid-murder. Damn, his Peter Tingle for not warning him of your arrival!

"Is that her? Y/N! PETER WANTS TO FU-"

His phone is thrown across the room at record-breaking speed, destroying it. You barely seem surprised.

The silence that takes over the room gives Peter time to look you over. What you're wearing today has to be lingerie... just enough is left to the imagination and it's hypnotising. The way the slightest movement makes you look, the up and down of your chest as you breathe, how you look walking closer to him. Wait, walking closer??

His eyes snap up to meet yours as you walk over to him.

"Take me out tonight" You lean down to his eye level. The eye contact you hold is intense. So much is communicated through facial expressions. Peter's mind repeats your statement over and over, making sure he actually heard the right thing.

"Where?"

"Anywhere near an Apple Store so we can get you a new phone" you wink.

Smoking hot date, check.

Carefully picked out outfit, check.

Cute but comfortable makeup, check.

Get Peter a new phone before the date actually starts, check.

You and Peter are now slowly making your way down the Vegas Strip. With the ending goal in mind to find someplace interesting to eat. You walked past many many different restaurants but nothing that made you stop walking.

Peter's hand holds yours loosely, the hot weather unsuitable for real hand-holding. He's wearing a light pink shirt with flamingos and flowers patterned around it, obviously, he hadn't packed a "date shirt" before leaving New York and bought it at his hotel. His legs are barely hidden away by his short jeans short that have numerous rips in them... God you want to bite his thighs.

"You're staring at my legs again" You can hear him smirking through the tone of his voice.

"Oh shut up!" you knock your shoulder onto his arm with a laugh.

"It's fine this most likely compensates for the number of times I've at your boobs... or your ass... or anything really when you have a bikini on" he gestures with his free hand to you. Most likely visualising a bikini on you now.

"Mh, that's true... I'll keep staring then!" you smile proudly winking at him. His face and neck flush pink as he ducks his head. He's so fun to tease always so responsive.

Conversation is easy. It always is. Your personalities mesh together perfectly which makes hanging out with him so fun.

This being more officially a date has put weight on both of your shoulders. Somehow, it's made a sliver of anxiety surround the both of you. It must mean you both want this date to go well; to have many more after.

"Oh! How about hot dogs?" Peter points to a small restaurant to his left.

"Those are probably, like funky hot dogs... I'm down, let's go!" you tug him towards Haute Doggery.

You're both greeted by a woman behind the counter when you walk in. The place is small, with four two-person tables and a high counter along one of the only bare walls. That said it's cosy and inviting so you're immediately excited.

"Wow! A foot-long hog dog??" Peter gasps as he reads the menu. You giggle at his reaction now reading the menu yourself. So many options to choose from... "Want to share two regular-sized speciality ones?"

"Only if we get fries" you nod seriously, now choosing a hot dog to share with him.

"I definitely want to try the mac and cheese one" Peter looks away from the menu to meet your eyes.

"Good choice! I saw we get that one and the breakfast one, I can never say no to hash browns"

Once you receive your order you make your way to one of the tables, ready to absolutely dig in. Peter takes the time to precisely cut in half both hot dogs and gives you your pieces.

"Cheers!" you say knocking your half with his before taking a generous bite of the breakfast delight.

"So this is my room!" Peter shuffles inside his hotel room before holding the door open for you.

The room is nothing crazy. One queen bed in. the middle, a dresser with a tv on top of it, grey carpet flooring, pinkish walls, a bathroom and a balcony overlooking the pools and the waterpark.

You make your way over to his freshly made bed: thank you housekeeping. You sit down on it beckoning Peter over to you. He toes off his shoes in a hurry before practically lunging at the spot next to you. Cute.

"Had fun, cutie?" you look at him with seductive eyes and a warm smile. You want him to be putty in your hands.

Peter reacts immediately to the name you call him, blushing and wide-eyed.

"Yeah, you're easy to talk to and really sex- I mean smart. Really smart." his words seem to be tumbling out of his mouth in a panic.

"Babes, calm down!! You can compliment me. Physically too" you smack his chest feeling the firm muscle of his peck.

He only nods as an answer but keeps his eyes locked with yours. You're the one to break the eye contact to glance at his lips. You want to kiss him so bad...

"Can I kiss you?" Peter might be a mind reader.

"Please" is what you answer.

Kissing Peter is immediately addicting. He's so enthusiastic, kisses like his life depends on it. His left hand goes to your back and his right cradles your jaw. Your own move around his body. Gripping his muscles, tangling in his hair, slipping under his shirt. You're having a great time exploring his body.

You bite his bottom lip playfully, tugging it towards you and it makes Peter moan in delight.

"You're so hot, I'm going insane" he mumbles between desperate kisses.

You only hum in answer wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down above you. His body is so warm against yours like he's on fire. You tug off his shirt, to help him cool down is what you tell yourself.

"I know I see you without a shirt more than with one but this is so much sexier" you trail your fingers all. over. him.

Peter turns you onto your side to unzip your romper. His lips never leave yours, the contact staying feverish and fast. It's like he wants to eat you whole. Maybe he does, you'd let him.

The shrill sound of your ringtone startles you, causing you to knock your chin into Peter's nose as you look up.

He groans as you reach to silence the (incredibly rude) device. Unfortunately, your index has other plans and presses the accept call button.

"Y/N?" Xiomara... This can only mean bad news.

"I know you're on a date and I'm so incredibly sorry to be doing this. I just went into labour and you're literally in the hotel somewhere..." Her voice is strained and you breathe out in exasperation.

Peter's head drops into the crook of your neck. His hands don't start roaming, they travel, map your body out. Every single inch of skin he can reach. Inside the romper, your face, legs, arms... Anything and everything.

"I... I don't have a bikini" you manage to say.

"I really don't care what you wear. Actually, you know what I don't care about the bar right now never mind" She hangs up immediately.

"Thank fuck for that" Peter exclaims dragging the rest of your romper off.

You laugh as he readily gets back to what he was doing. His lips on yours, guided your hands into his hair and hips bucking into yours.

Yeah, this is so much better than taking over "Cheeky Chicks" for the evening.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #tom holland spiderman #mcu spiderman #spiderman #peter x reader #tom holland x reader

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mcntsee · 2 years ago

Text

Letters to her

prologue

summary: kaz’s letter to y/n throughout the years.

warnings: Kaz’s past is kinda mentioned, mentions of death, cursing

note: I tried to express kaz’s feelings and growth with every start and finish of all the letters, hopefully you guys understand it too. I added a little something at the end, hope you enjoy! <3333

first letter:

Deer y/n

My da said you can came come play wheneber you want to come play with my me again can you please come play with me soon pleas?

I miss you and Jordie miss and da and the little kitteny miss you we all misses you very much

Love Kaz!

(I drawed a pist picture of you and me and spots playing)

2nd letter

Dear Y/N,

I hope you're doing okay. I wanted to say a big thank you for being there when we said bye to my da. It made me feel better knowing you were there, even though it was kinda sad.

Guess what? Jordie said we're gonna move to Ketterdam. He says it's cause he wants me to go to a good school there. I'm not sure about leaving this house, but Jordie says it'll be good for us.

The cool part is that you live in Ketterdam! That means we can hang out more and play together. Remember when we used to build forts in the living room and pretend we were pirates? Maybe we can do that in Ketterdam too.

I'll miss this house a bit because it's where we played hide and seek and had ice cream parties, but I think Ketterdam will be fun too. And I'm really happy cause we'll get to see each other more often!

I will see you soon, okay?

Love, Kaz!

3rd letter

Dear y/n,

I'm really, really sorry I haven't come to see you yet. It's not 'cause I don't want to, I promise. You're still my bestest friend ever. It's just that things got a little crazy since we arrived.

Jordie met this guy named Jacob Hertzoon. And guess what? Jacob offered us a whole bunch of money for our house! Jordie said it's a really good thing 'cause we can use the money for important stuff. But it also means we're super busy.

I didn't want you to think I forgot about you or anything. I miss you a lot and I still want to see you and play together. Maybe once we're all settled in our new place and get the money, we can have a big adventure like we used to.

Thanks for being the best friend ever. I promise we'll hang out soon, okay?

Love, Kaz!

4th letter

Y/N,

Are you okay? Please write back! Jordie is gone. I need to know you're alive.

Kaz.

5th letter

Y/N,

I heard you went on quite the journey to Shu Han just to retrieve my cane. I assume the trip was bearable. Your efforts are appreciated.

It's curious how life unfolds, isn't it? One day we're children playing in the streets, the next we're scattered across the world for various reasons. Yet, here we are, still connected by some thread of familiarity.

I imagine you'll return from your expedition when the time is right. Until then, business with the dregs continues as usual. The city keeps turning, and so do its dealings. As for me, well, I have my own matters to attend to as soon as I’m able to walk again.

- K.B.

First note

Get well soon! Let me know if you need anything else.

- Love, Y/n!

6th letter

Y/N,

Your letter reached me, and I must admit, it contained more substance than I anticipated. Word travels fast in the Barrel, and it seems that Haskell has taken quite an interest in your recent endeavors. His words carry weight, though they seldom come without a price.

If his assessment holds true, and you manage to prove your worth in the upcoming job, it could indeed elevate you within the ranks. Haskell’s recognition of your potential is both promising and concerning. The higher one climbs, the more treacherous the fall can be.

In the midst of this, know that I await your return.

May you navigate these challenges with the same tenacity that has carried you thus far. I wish you the best of luck, Y/N. Tread carefully.

- K.B

7th letter

Y/N,

You certainly have a talent for uncovering promising recruits. Jesper Fahey. The word on the street is that he’s got a steady aim that’s worth noticing. The skills he possesses could indeed be valuable, particularly in the line of work we find ourselves engaged in.

However, I must tread cautiously when it comes to individuals entangled in debts and vices. Jesper Fahey, from what I’ve heard, is no stranger to gambling. His tendency to wager recklessly has garnered quite a reputation, one that isn’t entirely favorable. The loyalty of a man buried under the weight of debts is a precarious matter. Whether his skills can outweigh the burden of his choices remains to be seen.

Your perspective on recruits is valued, and I’ll certainly keep a watchful eye on Fahey. I trust your judgment, and I’m willing to entertain the possibility. In the midst of all this, remember that your return is anticipated and your presence missed.

Return safely,

K.B.

8th letter

Y/N,

Do you remember Jesper? It’s almost comical how, after discussing him in my last letter, fate seemed to conspire to validate our conversation. Not long after I sent those words to you, I found myself intervening to prevent Jesper from getting himself thoroughly thrashed due to his gambling debts.

I hope I’ve made the right call by extending a hand to Jesper. It’s a calculated risk, one that I’m hoping will pan out in our favor. There’s potential there, no doubt, but potential doesn’t always translate into reliability.

This letter is short, I know, but I will tell you more about it when you come back.

Stay safe,

K.B

9th letter

Y/n,

It’s been days since your last communication, and the weight of uncertainty presses heavily on me. The quiet absence of your presence has stirred an unease I’m not accustomed to.

I’ve seen you handle insane odds, and I know you’re more than capable. But here I am. My mind keeps wandering to places I’d rather it not go, imagining scenarios that could have unfolded, and none of them are sitting well with me.

I hope that this silence is a result of strategic detachment, that you’re immersed in the intricacies of the job and haven’t had a moment to spare for correspondence.

I’m not accustomed to this vulnerability, nor do I care for it. Yet, here I am, plagued by the absence of information. I ask you, if you’re able, to dispel this uncertainty. A simple message, a token of reassurance – anything to quell this rising tide of apprehension.

I await word from you with an intensity I hadn’t thought possible. May it come soon.

Expectantly,

K.B

10th letter

Y/N,

I received the coat you sent, and I must admit, it's a rare occasion when I'm at a loss for words. It's unlike anything I would've chosen for myself, yet somehow, it feels surprisingly fitting. I can't deny its utility either – I appreciate it.

Jesper and Nina have managed to cultivate a special talent for driving me to the brink of exasperation. Their camaraderie is both amusing and bewildering, a chaotic symphony that I'm still attempting to decipher.

Today was no different. Jesper's antics at the club bordered on audacious, and Nina's unbridled laughter was enough to turn heads in our direction. As I tried to navigate the sea of chaos they create, I found myself, unusually, yearning for a return to some semblance of normalcy.

I must confess, the prospect of your return holds an allure I hadn't anticipated. There's a steadiness in your presence, an understanding that's often a rare commodity in these tumultuous times. The chaos, the hustle – they feel more manageable when you're around.

Till then, I'll persevere in the sea of antics that Jesper and Nina stir up, counting down the days until your return.

Until then,

Kaz

11th letter

Y/N,

Your mention of the jurda parem caught my attention, no doubt about it. It’s a name that carries weight, and I’ve got a feeling we’re treading on some dangerous ground here. It’s the kind of thing that’s best left untouched until we’ve got a better handle on what it entails.

Listen, I won’t preach, but I’ve got to say it – be careful and keep an eye out for trouble. The city’s not known for being kind to those who don’t tread carefully, and I’d hate to see you caught in something you didn’t see coming.

I’ve got a job for you. One that’s right up your alley. It’s always better discussing these things face to face, so when you can, make your way back. The sooner, the better.

Until then,

Kaz

12th letter

Y/N,

I’ve never been one for words, as you well know. My tongue seems to have a mind of its own, often saying the wrong things at the wrong time. And when it comes to matters like these, I’ve found that my eloquence takes a swift exit.

So, here I am, writing this letter in hopes that the words come out right, that they somehow capture what I’m feeling. I’ve spent years navigating the intricacies of this city, and yet the complexities of my own emotions have managed to elude me.

I’ve always valued our connection, from those early days of childhood mischief to the present. You’ve been a constant in my life, someone whose presence brings a sense of order to the chaos that surrounds us. And somewhere along the way, that bond transformed into something deeper, something I’ve been grappling with.

I find myself wanting to say more, to articulate the thoughts that remain half-formed in my mind. But it’s difficult, Y/N, and this letter might be the best I can manage.

What I’m trying to say is that you’ve become more than a friend, more than a partner in crime. There’s a depth to my feelings that I’m only beginning to understand. And if I’m being truly honest, I’d like to explore where this path might lead.

I understand if you need time, if my sudden candor is a lot to process. But I wanted to put these thoughts down, to let you know where my heart is at. And if you’re open to it, if you’ve felt even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling, then maybe we can navigate this new terrain together.

Kaz.

Second note

I’d like to explore where this path might lead too.

Love, y/n!

13th letter

Y/N,

I can't thank you enough for stepping in when I couldn't. I hope the contractor in Lij wasn’t hard to handle.

Now, I have a proposal of a different kind. How about we put our skills to use in a more relaxed setting? I'd like to take you out to dinner. No heists, no secret dealings, just you and me, navigating the menu instead of the back alleys.

I've made reservations for us at a place that's a bit more reputable than the Barrel's taverns. Consider it a step toward normalcy, a chance to enjoy an evening without looking over our shoulders.

Looking forward to your return,

Kaz

14th letter

Dear Y/N,

Your letter reached me, and I've got to say, the way you put it into words – how much you miss me – it hits home. The distance is a constant reminder of the warmth I've grown accustomed to, and I find myself missing you more than I thought possible.

This job is driving me insane, and my thoughts often wander back to Ketterdam, back to you. It's like a pull, a magnetic force that tugs me back to the life we've been building together.

I bought something with me – a box of those chocolates you can't seem to get enough of. The catch? I'm hoping they survive the journey and don't turn into a gooey mess.

I want you to know that with every sunrise and sunset that passes, I'm getting more restless to return to the city that's been our canvas, our backdrop. Until then, my thoughts are with you, and I'm eagerly counting down the days until I can wrap my arms around you again.

With all my longing,

Kaz

3rd note

I apologize, it seems the chocolates didn’t fare too well. I hope they’re still somewhat salvageable and that they manage to satisfy your sweet tooth.

- Kaz

15th letter

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you on the mend, wrapped in warmth and taking good care of yourself. It pains me to know you're unwell while I'm away, unable to offer even the smallest comfort.

My love, get well soon. I miss your laughter, your presence – they're a part of my life I can't bear to be without for long. The distance feels heavier when I know you're not well.

Today, during the heist, I saw a small brown cat with delicate white spots. The sight of it was like a reminder of simpler times, of moments when things were less complex. It stirred memories of my old cat "Spots," whose antics used to provide a reprieve from the realities of the Barrel.

As I look around, I find myself yearning for the day when I'll return to Ketterdam. Until then, my thoughts are with you, my love. Rest well, recover soon, and know that I will be there soon.

With all my affection,

Kaz

16th letter

Dearest Y/N,

There are times in life when words are inadequate, when even the most eloquent phrases fall short of capturing the depth of one's emotions. Today is one such day, and I find myself grappling with a sentiment that defies my usual precision.

I love you, Y/N. There, I've said it, though the words seem almost insufficient to convey the weight of my feelings. You've woven your presence into the very fabric of my being, and I find that I'm navigating uncharted territory, stumbling upon emotions that have long remained dormant.

In a world marked by uncertainties, you've become my constant, the one I turn to when the winds of the Barrel grow fierce. I cherish our bond, our shared history, and the future we're forging together.

As the days pass, my conviction only grows stronger. You've touched a part of me I thought was unreachable, and I find myself grateful for the warmth you've brought into my life.

Love,

Kaz

4th note

I love you too, more than words can express.

- Love, y/n!

17th letter

My Love,

I've stumbled upon something while on my trip to Lij, a revelation that caught me by surprise. My old house is up for sale. I confess, it's a notion that's been hovering in the back of my mind, a possibility I've been toying with.

And then, as if fate had a hand to play, it occurred to me – what if we made it our own? Y/N, would you consider it? The thought of creating new memories in a space that's intertwined with my past is something that holds a certain allure. A place where we could carve out our own sanctuary, away from the schemes and chaos that surround us.

If this notion speaks to you, let me know. It's a step I'd only take with you, a shared decision that would mark a new chapter in our journey together.

Love,

Kaz

18th letter

This is to certify that Y/N L/N and Kaz Brekker is (are) now registered as the absolute proprietor(s) of the land comprised in the above-mentioned title, subject to the entries in the register relating to the land and to such of the overriding interests set out in section 30 of the Registered Land Act as may for the time being subsist and affect the land.

Kaz Brekker __________

19th letter

My love Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, even though I’m far away in Shu Han. I wanted to share something with you – I stumbled upon the perfect dining table. It’s a piece that seems to embody the essence of what we’ve built together, a symbol of the life we’re crafting, even from a distance.

As I stand here, thousands of miles away, my thoughts are never far from Ketterdam, from you. Every corner of the city is a reminder of our shared journey, of the future we’re molding. And with every passing day, I find myself longing to return, to be by your side again.

The plans we’ve made, the dreams we’ve spun – they’re a driving force, propelling me forward through the challenges that Shu Han presents. I promise you, Y/N, I’ll be back soon enough.

Until then, know that you’re in my thoughts, my heart, every moment of the day.

With all my affection,

Kaz

20th letter

Love,

I’ve come across some interesting information that might be of use to you. It seems that there’s a rumor circulating about a certain merchant in the Fifth Harbor. This merchant, it’s said, has been trying to make deals with both the Merchants Council and the Whitecrows, something that has my interest piqued.

I’ve also managed to uncover some details about a potential source of counterfeit currency that might be making its way into the hands of certain unsavory individuals. The source, surprisingly, seems to be tied to a printing press hidden away in the Barrel. It’s a curious development, one that could have far-reaching consequences.

And finally, I’ve received word that a shipment of goods has gone missing from a storage warehouse near the docks. This might not seem significant at first glance, but it’s the timing that intrigues me. A missing shipment, coupled with the merchant’s deals and the counterfeit currency – it’s all connected, I’m certain of it.

Stay vigilant, stay cautious. And know that even in the midst of our separate tasks, you’re in my thoughts.

I miss you, and I love you.

Love,

Kaz

21st letter

Y/N,

Listen to me, and listen carefully. You need to come back to Ketterdam, now. What you walked into, it was a trap – calculated, deliberate. I can’t explain it all in this letter, but trust me when I say your safety is in jeopardy.

I don’t care what you’re in the middle of, what plan you’re executing – drop it, and make your way back. I can’t lose you, not now, not like this. The threat is real, and the longer you stay where you are, the more danger you’re in.

I’m begging you, Y/N, hurry back. We can sort through the details, I’ll explain everything, but right now, all that matters is your safety. Don’t delay, don’t second-guess. Just come back.

Kaz

22nd letter

Love,

I’m pleading with you, begging you to reach out, to let me know you’re safe. This silence, it’s a torment I can’t bear. Every thought is tinged with worry, and I find myself grappling with scenarios that are far too grim.

I don’t care about the details, the reasons – they pale in comparison to my overwhelming need to know you’re okay. We’ve faced down darkness together, navigated treacherous waters, and I can’t accept the idea of you being lost in the midst of it all.

Please, Y/N, come back to Ketterdam. If you’re reading this, if you’re anywhere, find a way to let me know you’re alive. I’ll make sense of the rest later. Just, my love, come back to me.

Kaz

23rd letter

Y/N,

I can’t wait any longer. The silence is a weight on my chest, a suffocating reminder of the unknown. I’ve agonized, I’ve begged, and still, there’s no word from you. It’s time I take matters into my own hands.

Please, hold on. I’m coming. I hope you’re okay, I hope you’re just out of reach, waiting for me to catch up. It’s a risk I have to take.

I love you.

Stay strong, my love. I’m on my way.

24th letter

My Dearest Y/N,

It's been a week since you left us, a week of darkness and aching emptiness that nothing can fill. I know you won't get this letter, that these words will remain suspended in the void, but I find myself needing to put them down, needing to release the feelings that have taken hold of me.

The pain is suffocating, a weight that's settled into my bones. I still can't grasp the reality, can't accept that you're gone, that your light has been extinguished. It's a void that stretches beyond comprehension, a void I'm stumbling through.

The memories are a double-edged sword. They're a balm, a reminder of the moments we shared, of your laughter, your warmth. But they're also a blade, a reminder of what's been taken from us, of the future that was stolen away.

I want you to know, even though you'll never read these words – I love you. I always have, and I always will. You were more than a partner, more than a confidant. You were my anchor, my solace, my reason to keep pushing forward.

It's impossible to fathom life without you, Y/N. Your absence leaves a void that can never be filled. I can only hope that wherever you are, you're at peace, free from the pain that's gripped my heart.

Until we meet again, my love,

Kaz

25th letter

My dearest Y/N,

Six months have passed, and the ache of your absence has only deepened. The city, our city, is a different place without you. The crows, the ones you brought together, are slowly finding their separate paths, their separate destinies. It's as if the world itself is reshaping in your absence.

I found the little box where you kept all those letters. Your letters, my words – I'm surprised, in a way, that you kept them all. It's a piece of you that I'll treasure forever.

It's in these moments of solitude that I find myself yearning for your presence the most. Your laughter, your insights – they're still very much alive in my memories, and they continue to guide me through the labyrinthine twists of this world.

I miss you, Y/N. More than words can say. The void you left behind is as vast as the Barrel itself, and there's a hollowness that's impossible to fill. I can only hope that, wherever you are, you've found the peace that eluded you in life.

Until the next time we meet, my love,

Kaz

26th letter

My Dearest Y/N,

Time has continued its relentless march, and two years have slipped through my grasp since you left us. The city, once our canvas, has taken on a different hue, a different weight. The crows have scattered, their paths diverging, and the life we built together feels like a distant memory.

I wanted to share something with you – I've made a decision about the house, the one that once held the echoes of our shared history. It's a decision born out of the reality that without you, it's ceased to be a home. The walls, the rooms – they're empty without your presence, and it's a stark reminder of what's been lost.

Putting it up for sale again, it's not just about letting go of a physical space. It's about acknowledging that our time together, our shared moments, live on in memories, not in bricks and mortar. I carry you with me, always, but it's time to release the hold the house had on me.

Life continues to move forward, though it's a path I tread with a shadow that can never be dispelled. I hope, wherever you are, you've found the peace that eluded you in life. And I hope, wherever I am, you're watching over me, your presence a guiding light through the darkness.

With a heart full of love,

Kaz

27th letter

My dearest,

It's been almost three years, and some days it feels like it was just yesterday when I last saw you. I miss you, fuck, I miss you so much. It's like this gaping hole, this emptiness that can't be filled. No matter how many schemes I plan, no matter how many crows I put to work, it's like there's this void that's always there.

I was gonna do it, you know? I was gonna ask you. I got this ring, this small little thing that I bought just a month before you fucking died. It's funny, you know, I never thought I'd be the one to feel this way, to want something that much, to want to stake a claim in this shithole of a world.

But I guess that's what you did to me. You turned this cold, calculating schemer into someone who wanted more, who wanted you. I'm sorry I didn't ask you sooner, that I waited, that I let time slip through my fingers like sand. I'm sorry I couldn't be the one you deserved.

You were my light, Y/N. You shined a light into my darkest corners, and now that you're gone, it's like the shadows have returned with a vengeance. I need you, I need you so fucking much it's like a knife in my gut every damn day.

I don't know where you are, what's out there after this life, but I hope you're somewhere better. I hope you're at peace, and I hope you know that I'm here, waiting in this shithole, missing you every fucking day.

I love you, Y/N. I love you so fucking much it hurts. And I wish... I wish I could've showed it more when you were still here.

With all my shattered pieces,

Kaz

28th letter

Deer Y/N,

This will be the last letter I write to you, and as I put pen to paper, I’m filled with a mixture of emotions that words could never truly capture. The passage of time has been unkind, separating us by years that have felt both fleeting and eternal.

It’s strange, the way grief works. It’s a steady ache that never truly fades, an ache I’ve grown accustomed to carrying. There’s an emptiness in my heart that’s become a part of me, a void that can never be filled by anyone or anything else.

I’ve learned to navigate this world without you, though it’s been a journey fraught with challenges and moments of unbearable pain. There’s a longing, a yearning, that can never be quenched. You were my constant, the force that kept me grounded, and now that you’re gone, there’s a piece of me that will forever remain incomplete.

As time marches on, I find myself grappling with a heartbreaking reality – the sound of your voice is fading from my memory. The way you felt, the touch of your hand in mine, it’s becoming harder to recall. It’s as though the vibrant details of your presence are slipping through my fingers, leaving behind a hazy impression.

And oh, Y/N, the thought that your laughter will never again reach my ears, it’s a pain that reverberates through my very being. Your face, once etched in my mind with unparalleled clarity, is beginning to blur around the edges. The little details that I once treasured, the nuances that made you uniquely you, they’re slipping away, like grains of sand carried by the wind.

I love you, Y/N. Those words have become a mantra, a whispered refrain that echoes in the corners of my mind. I carry your memory with me, every step of the way, and I hold onto the hope that, wherever you are, you’ve found the peace that eluded you in life.

As I place this letter alongside the others, a part of me hopes that somehow, somewhere, you’ll receive these words, that you’ll know that you were loved, that you’re still loved, even in your absence.

I miss you, “we all misses you very much.”

Love, Kaz!

#fanfiction #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #six of crows x reader #angst #fluff #kaz brekker #i cry now #flangst

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