#for time frame context? shrug

[purgetrooperfox]

How has it felt to be the CEO of Foxblogging while fandom went through this whole evolution from hating him to babygirlifying him?

kddbdkdjd well I'm not the ceo of foxposting but it's certainly been interesting,,,,,, I spent my first stint of sw brainrot (and fox brainrot) just lurking and iykyk that people were uhhhhh. little haters. up until recently. like pre-covid maybe? not sure when I started really interacting with people but until 2020ish I did Not want to engage with the popular* fanon for him at all

so I dunno it's cool that people use a little more critical thinking than "he killed fives so he's evil" now and it's neat that people don't crawl up your ass (much) for liking him and it's fun to have a little circle of mutuals who are huge brained about him

*popular is generous. it wasn't many people but they had shared hcs, as was their right

[sskk-manifesto]

:)

[heavenbarnes]

I want older bf!simon so bad Jesus CHRIST!!!

Cuddling with him and showing him funny tiktoks (having to explain the context of each one in painstaking detail) before he fucks me within an inch of my life

it’s beyond a joke at this point, i actually NEED him 🫶🏼

the end of the day is the best with older bf!simon when you’re both in bed. he’s sat back against the headboard and you’re cuddled into his chest.

his hand is against your back, rubbing gently along your spine. your hand is against his stomach, resting on the bare skin as your scroll through your phone.

tiktok time, simon’s limited exposure to social media.

“so he’s singing in chinese because he doesn’t want to apologise to his girlfriend-“

“is that actually him singing?”

“well no, he’s lip syncing it’s just-“

“so he can’t actually sing in chinese? needs’ta ‘pologise to his-“

“ok next one, si”

it goes on like this, you explaining every single trend and every single meme to this man that views the internet like he was born yesterday.

“so it’s framing it like a competition about being cheated on-“

“terrible competition”

“yeah i know but it’s a joke, and khloe kardashian is there-“

“who’s that? the blue guy?”

“no, my love, thats squidward-“

and in the end you naturally end up on the nighttime side of tiktok and you’re getting one that says something stupid like “ladies try flashing your man when he’s had a long day” or whatever.

suddenly he understands tiktok like he might as well have invented it.

“y’dont do that for me”

your looking up at him under a quirked brow as you shrug, “let me know the next time you have a long day and i will”

you can feel his hand start creeping around under your shirt and you’re trying to hide the smile thats forming on your face as you lock your phone.

“had a long day, sweet’art”

[katsumiiii]

hobie x fem! reader

thinking of hobie brown rn…!

hobie who knows you love the height difference between you two and uses it to his advantage. is constantly angling his head upwards, which causes him to purposely peer down at you through his thick eyelashes. you always get flustered each time he narrows his eyes and tilts his chin, and him being the ever so perceptive spider he is, takes notice of your heated cheeks and continues to do so.

whenever he’s near a doorway or a thick frame he lovesss to lay a palm on the top of it, trapping your body beneath his as you ramble on about whatever it is you’re rambling about. he makes sure to nod along while effectively moving a hand towards your plush waist, bringing your figure flush against his own. he plays with the seam of your shirt, and urges you to keep going when you stutter from the sudden change in position.

hobie who loves to annoy you with his British slang. it’s not necessarily because he uses it often that irks you, it’s the fact that you have no idea what he’s saying and he never makes an effort to help you understand. (he actually finds it amusing each time you attempt to guess what he means and is completely off base every single time).

“babe, I’d love ta get ya that shirt you’ve been beggin’ for, but I’m skint right now. try me next week, yeah?” he hummed, kicking his feet up on the railing next to your bed.

“skint? I feel like you’ve used that one before..” you muttered, huffing in irritation by the smug look on hobie’s face, his lips quirked in amusement.

“told ya what it meant last week. thought ya said you could ‘se context clues?”

“whatever bee, maybe you should speak english.”

“‘aint that what ‘m doin’?”

hobie who always has a blunt neatly rolled on his dresser, his ash tray placed gently to the left of it. he often smoked before running off to whatever it is he did when he wasn’t home (he was very unpredictable as he switched it up weekly to “fuck up consistency” whatever the hell that meant).

hobie inhaled gingerly before tilting his head towards his peeling painted ceiling, his fingers lingered tightly on the wood before lifting it to your lips, “want a go?”

you shook your head, nuzzling further into his shoulder, “mhm no, too tired.” hobie chuckled before greedily puffing the joint, shuttering at the burning feeling it left.

“suit yourself love, more for me.”

hobie who you introduce differently to your friends each time you bring him up. one day he’s your boyfriend, the next he’s your significant other, and the next he’s your ‘close friend’. they always question the constant switch ups, but you don’t ever seem to mind. you know where you stand with the man, and to him that’s all that matters.

“so what’s up with you and…..” your friend trailed off, stirring the ice in her drink.

“hobie?” you questioned.

“yeah him, so is he your boyfriend or what?”

“it’s complicated, he hates labels, makes him feel confined.” you replied, shrugging your shoulders as you lay your head on your palm.

“that doesn’t bother you? is he like scared of commitment or something?”

you scoff, lightly shaking your head, “no, he just doesn’t want to contribute to the system.” you answered bluntly, taking another sip of your lemonade.

“the system?” your friend asked, eyebrow raised at the quip.

“nevermind, don’t worry about it.”

hobie who subtly brags about you to his people. loves to show you off, and has no problem admitting he does.

“yeah bruv, my girl jus’ got into her dream fuckin’ college. been workin’ hard for that shit all year, man.” hobie boasted, pushing his hands out in order to bounce off the wall next to him.

“oh my goodness how wonderful! when do we get to meet this companion of yours?” pavitr questioned, flinging his body upwards to keep up with the male to his right.

“eh, don’t know yet, when I feel like it, yeah?”

all in all hobie is so cute and I literally am in love with him!!

[carmenized-onions]

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

[stillness-in-green]

The thing that doesn't make sense to me if Izuku resolved to kill is how it doesn't let them prove AFO wrong? AFO did his big reveal which only makes it clearer how deep the grooming went and it should've been time for Izuku to understand Tenko and Tenko to understand the abuse then reject the mindset forced onto him. But Izuku killing Tenko doesn't do that. Tenko just dies. It feels very wrong.

I guess Izuku just wasn't very interested in proving AFO wrong! Honestly, the only thing I immediately remember Izuku disputing the guy on was the same thing he disputed Shigaraki on: that he was anything more than a human being. AFO isn't a Demon King, but just a lonely man. Shigaraki hasn't transcended humanity; there's still a human somewhere deep inside of him. Izuku won't correct his allies' use of dehumanizing language for Villains, of course, but he's quick to push back when the Villains themselves self-aggrandize.

Sorry, I really only have withering disdain for Deku at this point. And I guess I don't really see any evidence that Deku was ever particularly driven by "proving AFO wrong." He wants to stop AFO, certainly, but that's because AFO is a monster who takes advantage of vulnerable people to maneuver them into doing Bad Things that advance AFO's Bad Plans and sets them onto Bad Paths that are difficult to walk back, not because he expressly opposes AFO on this or that ideological point about the nature of humanity and society.

(Hit the jump for the rest of a somewhat rambly reply.)

If anything, current evidence is that neither Deku nor the manga itself really do disagree with AFO about the frailty of humans, as expressed by Tsukauchi answering Deku's question about how to prevent future tragedies by shrugging and saying, "You don't, because life fucking sucks sometimes and that's just how it is. Our hands are completely tied on improving the system as we have it, so all we can do is punch out the Villains that appear in front of us to stop them from causing more harm."

That's also me being a bit harsh, of course. The fact that Deku is even still asking that question in the epilogue suggests that the manga hasn't reached its final answer yet, and maybe it will yet come up with something better! It doesn't have much time left, but it's still possible!

All the same, Deku is still having to ask that question in the epilogue because he never truly faced it over the course of the story. Never thinking about what Shigaraki as a person said in favor of fetishizing the Crying Child, never coming up with any kind of non-violent plan of attack or conversational approach, I have to ask what exactly about Shigaraki did Deku ever disagree with AFO on?

AFO, in the end, characterized Shigaraki as a puppet he molded exactly as he desired, a doll who he sculpted and programmed to act as he wished, a feeble child who has never made a single decision that AFO didn't cultivate him to make. So far as I can tell, Deku never really contested that framing. He didn't know the extent of it until the full reveal, of course, but Deku, like AFO, insisted on approaching Shigaraki solely through that "Crying Child" lens. He seemed to believe that nothing Shigaraki said or did on the surface really mattered (save as a reason that Shigaraki had to be stopped and potentially killed), that the "truth" of Shigaraki was that feeble little weeping boy who never grew up.

How could Deku possibly "prove AFO wrong" in that context? He doesn't even disagree with him! I mean, he's got some nice talk about how people deserve a second chance, sure; he says that people doing wrong doesn't make them Villains for the rest of their lives. What does do that, however - insofar as I can tell from how opaque the series keeps Deku throughout the final war - is refusing the hand out of the darkness. You stop being a victim and become a Villain for the rest of your life by choosing to remain a Villain even when offered an alternative (no matter how patently awful that alternative is).

Shigaraki chooses to remain a Villain and Deku doesn't have a counter for that because Deku never really got past the false binary represented by Villains and Victims to begin with. And I think the same goes for people who expected Shigaraki to just fold when he realized the extent of the grooming he'd undergone. Disallowing Shigaraki any agency in who he is and what he's done is defining him the same way AFO and Deku both did; when Shigaraki refuses to accept that framing, refuses to be a passive victim, the only thing left for him to be is a Villain. And when a Villain refuses to stop...

Well, Hawks already told us what the Heroes' answer to that is. "Someone has to die." As no one ever stepped up to prove him wrong, as far as the story is concerned, he isn't.

AFO always knew that victims can be turned into Villains with the right nudges; that's the whole reason for him cultivating "warped seeds" whenever and wherever he found them. Hero Society is - and always has been - much too rigid in its enforcement of the Hero/Villain/Victim narrative to effectively combat him. Crucially, Deku - the boy who wants to bring everything back just the way it was - doesn't disagree with him. He thinks AFO is an asshole for setting people up to fail, but he doesn't disagree about what failure means. So if AFO, Deku, and the story itself are all in agreement, what's even there for Deku to disprove?

Now, there is something that would prove AFO wrong, but it isn't something you can do while insisting on drawing lines to separate sad manipulated woobie victims who just need to be saved from awful unrepentant villains who just need to rot. It isn't something you can do while infantilizing Shigaraki Tomura.

The way to prove AFO wrong is to make room in society to help all Villains. Even if they aren't asking for it, even if they never ask for it, and even if they're jolly bastards who don't really deserve it! As long as there's a point at which it becomes okay to give up on trying to save Villains, Shigaraki will remain unsavable. He will insist on being unsavable. He could no more let that go than All Might could step aside and let AFO's attack kill an innocent at Kamino.

That's what it means to be a Hero for Villains.

Ultimately, what makes AFO right is that he knows that Hero Society makes it difficult if not impossible to uncross the victim-to-Villain bridge, and so anyone who does cross that bridge (with or without his influence) is that much more susceptible to him. Deku, in turn, thinks the only Villains he can save are those who drop everything and come sprinting as fast as they can back to the Hero side, so anyone who won't do that is someone he can't help.

Shigaraki refused to stop trying to create a better world for Villains. Toga refused to live in a world that would imprison her. Twice refused to give up on the friends no Hero would help. It's the same with every other Villain who refused to quietly endure their status quo: in a society that refuses to change how it treats Villains, anyone who won't submit to suffering in silence cannot be saved.

That's the paradigm AFO exploits, and Deku will never prove him wrong without resolving to change the paradigm first. We'll see if the last two chapters get him there.

[crguang]

Smutty prompt 8, 12, or 17 for Kafka? 🥺

chose 8 and 12 for this one hehe, it's kafka dick wednesday i just decided (i yearn for it)

cw: gp!kafka, blowjob, face fucking? idk

You slightly pull away from Kafka’s embrace as she retrieves her phone from her coat pocket and accepts the call. Your arms hang loosely around her frame leaning against the back of the couch, a small pout on your face at the idea of having to wait for more of her attention. Kafka smiles when she meets your eyes, bringing the device to her ear and briefly resting her index finger on her lips in a silent command to be quiet. She answers the phone and begins talking to whoever is on the other line. Her free hand absentmindedly plays with a stray strand of your hair near your jaw, gaze lowering to watch how it curls around her finger. She hums to indicate that she’s listening, and you already feel your patience waning because Kafka usually deals with her business in private and you’ve already waited a week for her to finish up “something” at work. You’ve missed her and now that she’s here with you, you don’t feel like losing more of her to her mysterious work. Something shifts in her bored expression, a slight down curve of her lips, and you know she’ll be on the phone for longer than the quick call she promised you. 

Kafka notices your displeasure and lifts her hand to your cheek to pat it a few times. You narrow your eyes but she only replies to her interlocutor something about a shipment being received long ago. You try to decipher what she could be talking about and give up after a minute, the lack of context makes it difficult to connect her sentences together. Her thumb moves to your upper lip, her silk glove is soft as she swipes the pad of her finger on your lips. She multitasks well and doesn’t miss a beat in the conversation while she’s touching your face, eyes focused on the movement of her thumb tracing your cupid’s bow. You wait another minute, your own hands trailing up her back under her coat in a futile attempt at keeping yourself occupied. You sigh, tightening your hold on her body and leaning into her once more, resting your chin on her shoulder. You can vaguely hear a raspy voice on the other line, but the words are either muffled or don’t make any sense to you. 

“Relax,” Kafka says into the phone and her fingers sink into your hair, lightly scratching your scalp, “we’ve planned for the possibility. They’ll play right into our hands.”

The repetitive gesture soothes you a little and your eyes briefly shut to nuzzle into her; your lips find the skin where her neck meets her shoulder and plant a few kisses there. Kafka sighs, no doubt at something the other person said, but there’s a hint of pleasure in it. You trail kisses up her neck and across the underside of her jaw, and her head tilts, an implied permission to keep going. Her hand stays in your hair, fingers boredly curling the strands. Your lips part to place an open-mouthed kiss on her jaw and your hands wander down her back and around her waist to play with the waistband of her shorts. You fiddle with the handkerchief in her shorts as you kiss her face, going as far as the corner of her mouth before her hand leaves your head to rest her index on your mouth. You look up into her playful eyes, pouting. She speaks up again about studying a script and lightly taps your lips all the while. You’re sick of waiting, she’s right in front of you and you don’t even get to enjoy her presence. Your fingers toy with her waistband, snapping the material against her stomach, and an idea pops into your mind. 

Kafka raises a single eyebrow at your growing smile, the one you have when you’re trying to suppress one. You shrug at her inquisitive look, hands wandering down her abdomen to trail down her thighs. Her eyes narrow even as she answers a question with a dismissive, “Yeah, yeah.” You put on your most innocent expression and grip her plush thigh with one hand while the other slithers closer to the apex of them, caressing the material of her shorts. An amused glint shines in her gaze, her smile widening just a touch; a challenge she's daring you to take on. You hold her stare, suddenly growing bolder, and let a hand stroke her between her legs. Kafka doesn’t move, only regards you with more interest than two minutes earlier. She doesn’t miss a beat in the conversation. Your fingers teasingly caress her over her clothes, and you refrain the urge from biting the inside of your cheek when you feel her harden under your ministrations. Her growing bulge is noticeable, but she’s not ashamed in the slightest. Kafka plays with your earlobe with her free hand, rubbing the cartilage with her thumb, faking disinterest by humming into the phone. 

You start to feel a little hot just at the thought of what you’re going to do next. You cup her between her thighs in a firm grip and revel in the way her eyes flicker to yours instantly. Her gaze grows heated, following your every movement as you sink to your knees and tilt your head to face her with a smug smile tugging at your lips. You don’t tease her much, pulling down her shorts and pantyhose to her ankles and exposing her pretty boxers. Kafka’s hand moves to the back of your head to loosely grip your hair. She doesn’t apply any pressure, so you’re free to move as you please. You trace the outline of her bulge for a few seconds, anticipation bubbling in your belly, then place your mouth directly over it in a leisure kiss. You stroke her with a hand while your lips kiss her over the fabric, and Kafka shifts slightly, opening her legs wider to give you better access. She’s still in deep conversation and frankly, you’re getting annoyed. You pull her underwear down in one smooth motion and free her hard cock, feeling an arrogant kind of satisfaction at the sight of her already hard for you when you’ve barely touched her. 

“I know,” Kafka drawls exasperatedly in response to something said on the other line, elongating the second word. You wrap your hand around her cock, squeezing just right, and she inhales more sharply through her nose before she replies, “No, we’ll arrive in the morning to set it up.”

You don’t care for what she’s saying. Your hand moves up and down her length from base to tip, thumb tracing the most prominent vein up to the mushroom head, eyes fixed on your task. Your tongue swipes over your bottom lip almost unconsciously. Your throat is getting drier by the second. You lean forward to give her tip soft kitten licks, lashes fluttering at the taste of her skin, and the grip in your hair gets tighter. Kafka stares down at you, now more focused on you than the conversation still happening over the phone. Her replies come a little late as you lick a broad stripe up her cock, massaging her balls with a hand. White pearls of pre-cum coat her head at the sensation of your tongue wetting her cock and you decide to ignore her sensitive tip for now, kissing her base and the faint veins there. 

Kafka swallows, her hips softly thrusting further into your mouth, and she hums again, a little too long for it to have been intentional. Her eyelids are lowered and you can see the restraint in her expression when you look up to meet her eyes. She nods absentmindedly, then seems to remember that the other person can’t see her and that she actually has to reply.

“Yeah, we—” You apply some pressure on her cock at the same time your lips wrap around her head and suck hard, and Kafka pauses to swallow a moan even as she guides her dick deeper into your mouth with the hand on your head. “We should… Yeah…”

Your eyes close at the feeling of her cock filling your mouth, the weight of her familiar and arousing. You feel your own arousal dampen your underwear. Your tongue tastes salt when it swipes over her length and you use a hand to stroke what can’t fit in your mouth, 

“Mmm… Sure…” Kafka is rapidly losing interest in whatever is being said. Her breaths quicken, though she’s good at keeping them inaudible. You can tell the exact moment she decides that her need is more important than this phone call; her fingers burrow into your hair and pull harshly to separate your mouth from her cock, and you whine open-mouthed, a string of saliva stretching thinly between your tongue and her tip. “Yeah, whatever— Silver Wolf, I’ll have to call you back.”

Kafka doesn’t wait for a reply. She hangs up the call and tosses her phone on the couch before looking down at you with a dark smile that holds a thousand filthy promises. Her hands cup your cheeks, the touch deceivingly tender. 

“Since you’re so impatient…” Her thumbs stroke your skin and she arches towards your face, a command on her lips, “open your mouth wider for me, baby.”

You obey almost immediately. Without the need to bite back her reactions, Kafka groans low in her throat as you take her into your warm, tight mouth once more. She holds your head where you are and fucks your face instead, hips thrusting her cock deeper until you feel the tip brush the back of your throat. You can only stare up at her and let her use your mouth to build the pleasure buried deep in her belly, delighting in all the way her features twist and twitch. Mind a little hazy, Kafka thrusts deeper and your eyes begin to sting with unshed tears from how big she is. Your hands grip her thighs tightly. Her muscles twitch, her pre-cum fills your mouth, and you squeeze your thighs together knowing she’s close. Her groans and raspy moans are music to your ears and serve only to heighten your desire to have her come in your mouth. Kafka’s hips lose their steady rhythm, growing more desperate and eager, and with a long moan, you feel her cum hit the back throat in hot spurts. You’re forced to swallow and breathe heavily through your nose, a couple of tears falling from your lashes and running down your cheeks. You moan around her cock, sucking her thick head to coax more out of her. Her hold on your hair is tight, there’s a pleasant pulsing in your ears as Kafka regains composure and slowly inches out of your mouth. 

Her lips are parted, her pupils are blown, and she brings a thumb up to the corner of your lips to wipe the trickle of cum sliding down your skin. Kafka uses her other hand to wipe away the tears gathered on your cheeks. Her low voice drips with self-assurance, a bit strained at the edges, and she smiles smugly at the mess she’s already made of you.

“Crying already?...” She chuckles, eyes narrowing. “I'm not quite done with you yet. For this cute little stunt you pulled, I’ll fucking ruin you.”

[xomakara]

Waiting For Your Love

SUMMARY |   In which Mark is secretly your boyfriend, takes you to his place and wants to take your relationship to the next level PAIRINGS | Mark/Fem!Reader GENRE |  college au, non-idols, fluff, soft, smut RATING |  Mature LENGTH | 3,654 words AUTHOR’S NOTE |  I had this one-shot saved on my computer for awhile. So why not just post it? I will definitely be writing a chaptered/series of Mark though lol. Plus my title makes no sense in the story’s context but who gives a care. I hope you enjoy it!

"Take it."

You blinked several times, looking at the notebook that was suddenly thrown on your desk. You looked up at the male who was the culprit, his dark hair framing against his forehead, his lips in a grimace.

What the hell was his problem? You continued to look at the notebook, wondering what in the world was in it. It wasn't yours, you knew that much. One of your friends perhaps? Maybe one of the other guys dropped it?

"Because you were sick the other day." Mark Lee softly said, your gaze going to his face. He noticed your hesitation and explained his actions. "I took notes and thought you might want them."

"Hey!" One of the male students yelled from across the room. "That was my job! You can't just take my job like that Mark! Gimme those notes."

Mark shook his head. "No can do. Y/N needs my notes, not yours."

"Why you little-" Renjun was held back by a few of the other males in the classroom.

You couldn't help but chuckle. Mark was sure concerned about your health. But why and how did he even know you were sick the other day? As far as you were concerned, Mark never paid you attention nor seemed somewhat interested in you.

But that was before.

Until you started dating each other for a good year.

Of course it was a secret to everyone in the classroom. Apart from two people that were Mark's roommates but you had to blackmail them to be quiet or hell would let loose. How would it sound if THE Mark Lee, the most popular underclassman at your college campus was dating a nobody?

You shook your head, brandishing that thought from your head.

You were somebody. Granted you didn’t hang out in Mark’s social circles but you had a few of your own. And you were widely popular within those circles.

You frowned, not showing that you were secretly happy that your boyfriend took notes for you. You shook your head and turned to your female friends as they barrage you for answers.

"I can't believe Mark gave you his notebook." Jaemi whispered, lightly giggling as she watched some of the males teasing Mark.

You didn't know that he could turn a slight shade of pink.

He never turned pink in front of you. It was kind of cute. He turned around slightly, giving you a small shy smile before returning to his desk. Suddenly plopping down on his chair, he placed his head on the table, no doubt trying to hide his embarrassed face.

"I can't believe he took notes." Sumin muttered in shock, as she poked at the book. It was labeled 'English', supposingly for English Literature since you both took that class. "That's a surprise right there."

"Well, Haechan has always told me that Mark is pretty smart." Rahee shrugged and gave Haechan a small wave. "Even though he doesn't show it."

"Really?" You asked Rahee. You knew your boyfriend was smart but you decided to play along. "He seems like a slacker to me."

"Despite what everyone may think, Mark is actually a pretty laid back guy." Rahee nodded her head and looked at the notebook. "But he's pretty considerate considering his reputation. He's not a bad boy, so you can relax Y/N."

"And you know how, Rahee?" Sumin nudged the girl. "From Haechan?"

"It's one of the perks of dating the underclassmen rep." Jaemi answered as she watched Rahee winking at Haechan. "She gets all the dirty details from him."

"But if Mark—" You never got to finish your question since Rahee disappeared. You noticed Rahee snaking her arms with Haechan and walked out of the classroom. No doubt trying to find a private place to make out. "That girl always runs off with him."

"What can you say?" Sumin laughed as she noticed your expression of disgust. "Is it that weird for Rahee and Haechan to be dating?"

"Not weird." You answered, suddenly looking down at the notebook again. You noticed Mark's doodles and had to suppress a chuckle. "More of 'I can't believe Rahee snagged a boyfriend before us.’ Why can't I get a boyfriend?"

"We have plenty of male classmates." Sumin chuckled. "One of them is bound to date you."

"No thanks." You shook your head. You already had a boyfriend but no one really knew that. "Xiaojun, Hendery and Yangyang already asked me and I turned them down."

"But there's still Renjun, Jeno, Jaemin, Chenle, Jisung, and all the other dudes." Jaemi listed out, the guys looking up from their classwork or conversation. Seeing as it wasn't important, they continued whatever they were doing. “Plus the upperclassmen like Jungwoo, Jaehyun and Winwin to name some.”

"You forgot Mark." Sumin muttered, looking at him as if he heard.

He was still asleep.

"No to all of them." You scoffed. You thought of your boyfriend and slightly turned pink. "Well maybe to some of them..."

Your other two friends started laughing. You had always believed that you'd be the first of your group of friends to get a boyfriend first. Rahee ruined it when she announced she was dating Haechan. You came second after Mark secretly confessed that he liked you and you two started secretly dating.

It was no secret that you were quite a good-looking girl. You had your share of admirers; from the bad boy greaseball Jaemin, heart throb Jeno, irritable Renjun amongst some. You turned them down all flat, none of them remotely interesting to you. You had high standards for a boyfriend, and sure the guys you turned down all met those standards but it just didn't feel right.

Until Mark swept you off your feet.

"Yo babe," Hendery slithered to your desk and sent you a flirtatious wink. "The boys and I are going to play basketball. Care to watch?"

"No, thank you Hendery." You refused. Sure you turned him down but Hendery still called you babe. He was one of the two boys you blackmailed. "Last time I went to watch a game, I got hit by the ball because Jisung wasn't looking at who he was passing the ball to."

"My bad!" Jisung called out, his hair sticking in odd places. "I thought I passed it to Chenle but he was too busy staring at Sumin."

"Yah! Are you saying it's my fault?" Chenle shouted. The boys shouted in unison that it was indeed his fault.

"That sucks. Maybe next time." Hendery muttered before moving on to your friend Sumin, who gave him the middle finger. He chuckled before waving and disappeared from the classroom with the boys in tow, Chenle whining on how his hyung just flirted with the pretty girl.

"Should we just go?" Jaemi asked as she looked around the classroom. It was empty apart from the three girls, Mark, Xiaojun and Yangyang. "They all left to play basketball."

"Let's go Y/N. Besides Rahee has some explaining to do." Sumin rose from her seat and went towards Xiaojun and Yangyang, both boys looking up from their books.

Suggesting they all go watch the game together, the two boys nodded their heads and shut their books. Since you were putting your things away, Xiaojun stopped before leaving the classroom, only to say, "Y/N. Can you wake Mark up before you leave?"

"Okay, Xiaojun." You nodded and gave him a thumbs up. Xiaojun was the other boy you had to blackmail. You actually threatened to get rid of his stuff if he spilt the beans.

Walking towards Mark, you couldn't help but stare at his sleeping face. His lashes were surprisingly long, his skin looked smooth, and his jawline looked absolutely chiseled. He was a handsome man and you always told him so. You shook him lightly, he rustled slightly.

"Mark?" You shook him again. "Mark, wake up."

"Hmm?" He groaned out, sleepily opening his eyes. Noticing it was you, he slowly smiled. "Well, hi there."

What was this sleepy smile about? He kind of took your breath away for a second. "Don't say hi to me like that. What if others saw?"

"Is there anyone else here?" He mumbled, lifting his head slowly to look around the room. Seeing as he was in the clear, he looked back at you. "It's just you and me."

When will he stop smiling like that?

"Mark, everyone is playing basketball." You let out, your voice somewhat small. "Did you want to go join them?"

"Do you?" He asked, his husky voice asked you.

Was his voice always this deep? You never noticed it before but his voice was definitely sexy and that was one of the top five traits you'd like in a man. You shook your head to stop thinking such inappropriate things but Mark took it as something else.

"Why don't we go to my place?" He suggested, standing up to grab his bag and then to take yours from your grasp. You tried to refuse him but he took it anyway. "Let me carry your things."

Walking side by side with your boyfriend had never been as exhilarating as walking home with Yangyang and Haechan. Mark made you swoon with his manly side and he would occasionally walk where the road met the sidewalk so you wouldn't get hurt.

He was caring and you fell for him hard.

You had to speak up. "Mark? Do you like me?"

"If I didn't, you wouldn't be my girlfriend right?" He replied back with a question. Stopping in front of the apartment he shared with Xiaojun and Hendery, he unlocked the door and ushered you in. Kicking off your shoes, you strolled into the surprisingly clean home and settled on the couch.

Mark followed after you.

"The guys will be back soon after the game." You whispered as Mark leaned towards you.

"They won't be here for a while." He whispered back before claiming your mouth.

Mark was kissing you.

The fullness of your lips pressing against his. He tasted the sweet flavors of your lips. He was fully aware that he was kissing you, but man, did your lips make him go crazy. One of his hands clutched your lower back whereas the other hand cupped the back of your head. Your hand rested on his shoulder as Mark's lips moved over yours.

At first it was an innocent touch of lips: gently, sweetly, and with an eye to innocence. But gradually the roaring in Mark's blood began to beat back the gentleman in him, and he started to taste you rather than kiss you. And tasting you was like an intoxication in which every touch made him hungrier. His fingers curled possessively into your sweet-smelling hair, and he bent his head, taking your mouth, that unbearably desirable mouth, with a growl that had nothing to do with gentlemanly behavior.

Your mind was drowning, whirling. His mouth was hot on yours- hot! How could it be hot? You felt as if all your most important senses were lost, whirling around so that all you could do was clutch his shoulders and hang on, fighting the strange sensations that kept sweeping over your body, making your knees tremble and an unwanted heat grow between your legs, and your forehead felt feverish.

In fact, your whole body felt feverish.

Mark pulled back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"What?" You raised your eyebrows at him, your fingers coming to your lips.

"For kissing you." He clarified, his hand moving to cup your cheeks. "I just couldn't help myself. You look beautiful."

"Then don't stop." You muttered, looking into his eyes.

"If I don't stop then this will lead to things..." He stood up and walked a short distance to the kitchen.

You went after him and took his hands in yours. "Mark. I don't care if this leads to things. You want me and I want you."

"Oh."

"So just kiss me again. And whatever happens, let's just go with it."

Mark smiled, closing the distance between the two of you, as he settled his mouth over yours, felt you stiffen in a moment of surprise, then your hands crept up to his shoulders, slid gently around his neck, and you kissed him back. He could feel the rapid beating of your heart and the warmth of your small body pressing against him.

Mark tightened his hold against you, as he deepened the kiss, coaxing your lips apart, taking you with his tongue. His tongue touched yours and a jolt of heat went sliding through him.

He kissed the side of your neck, tasted the small shell-like rim of an ear, and kissed you again, cupping your ass and pulled you against his arousal. There was only an instant's hesitation before you melted against him, returning the kiss in full measure, your breasts brushing against the front of his shirt. He lifted you up and walked you to the kitchen counter.

Mark squeezed your ass and you yelped, his tongue sliding into your sweet wet cavern.

You writhed in his arms but had stopped when his hands covered your breast. You shivered in delight, the sensation new to you. You threw your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his dark thick locks of hair. He brought you closer, opening your legs so he could stand between them. His hands were under your skirt, slowly moving up your legs to your waist, to the sides of your upper body. He threw your shirt off only to reach behind and unhooked your bra, your breasts coming from its confinement.

You crossed your arms when you felt air hit your nipples. You didn't know why you were feeling the way you were feeling. You colored up again, crossing your legs from letting Mark remove your skirt.

"You sure the guys won't intrude?" You muttered as you bit your bottom lip. Damn, you looked really hot when you did that. You looked him in the eye and saw the intense look he was giving you. "I don't want them to start blabbering their mouths like they always do. Especially if we start to fuck."

"I'm sure they won't intrude." Mark sexily pouted, his body coming close to you and trying to pry your legs open again so he can stand between them. "Besides, Hendery told me that he and Sumin are currently seeing each other and that they're going on a date. Xiaojun is going over to hang out with Yangyang and Renjun."

"Is that why you asked me to come over?" You asked, surprised that Sumin didn't tell you that she was dating Hendery.

"Yeah." Mark brushed his lips against yours. "I. Want. You. Very badly."

"Me too." You muttered against his lips. But instead of backing away from him, you set your lips on his and boldly kissed him.

Mark was thrown off track. He grasped your hips and pulled you closer to him, your short skirt making way for him to stand between them. He brushed his fingers against your wet panties, knowing that you were undeniably wet and was going to writhe beneath him.

"Say you want it. Say you want me. And only me." Mark muttered against your lips.

You knew what you wanted. This feeling that he was making you feel bold. You felt your body go on fire, your cheeks red, your arms wrapping around his neck and clinging to him.

As if your life depended on it.

"I want you Mark." You pulled back slightly, breathing heavy. “I want you to fuck me.”

He chuckled. He slid his hands up your legs and grasped the inside of your thighs to part them for easier access to your panties. "I'll have you screaming my name, babe."

"Where did you learn to say that‒" Mark silenced you by kissing you again and again. One hand worked his way to cup your breast, kneading the soft globes and raking his nails against your nipples. The other hand slid your panties to the side, his fingers brushing against your slit. "Oh my god..."

"Baby, you know what's gonna happen right?" He asked, his voice husky against your ear. He pushed a finger into you, his long finger being buried into your wet heat as he kissed your earlobe and kissed your neck. "You are so wet and tight, Y/N."

"Ah...oh god.." You had tried to push your legs together from letting your boyfriend touch you in the most sacred of places, but he was already too fast as you felt his finger in your deep core, his thumb teasingly rubbing your clit. "Please, Mark..."

Mark bit your ear again, his tongue swirling around. The one hand on your breast was teasing, cupping, kneading, squeezing, brushing his thumb against your nipple. His other hand was still teasing you down there, his thumb rubbing ever so sweet, his finger pumping into you ever so soft and slow. "Y/N... You are beautiful in every way... You are just fuckable."

You shivered at his words. You never imagined that he would see you in this way, naked and in his arms. You never imagined him calling you beautiful and saying that you were 'fuckable'. Where did he learn that from? Did he hang out with Johnny, the upperclassman? Hell, you never imagined that you were about to have sex with him. Having sex this early in the relationship was a weird idea for you, but it just felt so....

Right.

"Y/N..." Mark kissed you again, his tongue plunging into your mouth as he grasped your wrists and led them to the front of his jeans. His tongue battled with yours, brushing against the roof of your mouth, your teeth, your own tongue. It was like a battle of dominance.

Your hands at the fly of his jeans, you blinked your eyes in a daze and pulled back slightly. "Mark?"

It was more of a question than a demand or anything. Your voice held uncertainty, confusion, or maybe you were asking permission to just push his jeans off. He gave you a soft smile. "Do it. It's okay, don't worry."

You fumbled with his jeans and freed him, noticing his bulge. Your eyes widened, not believing that he was large and...just large. "Mark, I don't think you'll fit..."

"Trust me baby. It’ll fit." He chuckled as you said those silly words. Mark rubbed your back as one of his hands slid your skirt and panties off until you were just as naked as him. "We'll fit perfectly. Y/N, you and I were made for each other."

You just nodded as he pulled you closer to his body, the kitchen seeming small. You could feel the cool countertops beneath your ass, aware that his body was pressed against yours, his skin so hot, his hair damp from his sweat. "Well, if you say so…"

"Trust me." He muttered before taking your lips in his. "Y/N, baby... help me."

You didn't know what he demanded of you. Chuckling, Mark grabbed one of your small hands and wrapped it around his large, bulging cock. "Put it in, babe."

"Where?" You teased him, lightly squeezing his cock.

He sighed and lifted your legs to wrap around his waist. The tip of him was at your entrance, teasingly rubbing up and down your slit. "In your sweet pussy, baby."

You bit your bottom lip. You reveled in the way his cock felt in your hand, your fingers curling around the rigid flesh. You slid the tip of him, just slightly, Mark taking charge instead. He kissed you deeply, to catch your cry as he buried himself to the hilt.

"Fuck!" You cried out into his mouth, your body feeling full. He moved into you, softly at first, letting you get used to the idea of him in you, of his large length. You clung on to him, breasts plastered to his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he continued to move within you.

"Baby, fuck..." He breathlessly moaned out, increasing the motion of his hips as he continued to move in you. He went fast and deep, suddenly taking you hard, the sweat covering your bodies, making him even more turned on. He pumped harder, hitting that one spot you so craved until you cried out in mere pleasure.

"Mark!" You cried out, your climax immense as you were surrounded by intense pleasure. He cried after you, spilling his juices within your small body as you sagged in his arms. You rested your cheek against his chest and lovingly placed a kiss on his shoulder. But upon looking at his face, you suddenly went shy. "Oh god…"

Mark looked at you, a small laugh coming from him. "Do I have to give you a big hickey on your neck that says you're mine?"

"But then everyone will know that we're dating." You whined, giving him an adorable pout. You shook your head, threw your arms around his neck and gave him a deep kiss. "It’s okay. Because I'm yours."

"Can we lay like this for a while?" You asked.

As if it was a cue of some sorts, Xiojun's voice could be heard outside of the front door as he informed Hendery on what had transpired. "They're doing hanky panky in the kitchen."

"How do you know?"

"I opened the door slightly and saw clothes everywhere."

"Should we bust the door open?" You heard Hendery chuckle.

In the heart of the moment, you and Mark scrambled from the kitchen counter, laughing as you both searched for your strewn clothes.

"I love you." Mark muttered as he kissed your forehead, after gathering clothes. "I really, really love you."

"I love you too, Mark." You wrapped your arms around him as lips met with his. "Now show me again why you love me~ But this time in your bed."

[jeanboyjean]

PUBLIC DECENCY - ft jean kirstein. nsfw.

Jean takes you to watch a new movie that's just come out. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) for you, the movie's boring so you have to find another way to entertain yourself. 

cw: established relationship. actually not public decency. handjob, blowjob. gn! reader.

an: help me i need to suck his dick so bad. that is all. wrote this in one go in what i can only explain as a moment of weakness so if it seems a bit unhinged that's why. another one for my fellow jean fuckers!!

wc: 2.5k words

Lights flashed on the screen in front of you, tense music blaring from the surround sound speakers as you warily watched the movie play out. Your boyfriend, Jean, sat next to you with his head in his hand as he leaned on the armrest, his eyes fixed in front of him. As per his request, the two of you had come to the movie theatre this evening to watch some new action film.

Despite it being past an hour of screen time already, you had no idea what was happening. There were far too many characters and so much going on with not enough context, that you were rapidly starting to lose interest. A fight scene was happening at the moment, for what reason you didn’t know, and you blinked in confusion as a body flew across the screen to hit a car. You jumped in your seat as a loud smash boomed around you. All the commotion was starting to make your head swim, the fast moving frames and sound effects overwhelming your senses. 

The cinema was surprisingly empty for a Friday night and you thought maybe that should have been a warning sign for what awaited you. The two of you were seated in the middle, a few rows from the back, and almost all of the seats around you were empty aside from a few here and there. You looked around yourself, trying to see if you could guage the reactions of the others experiencing the atrocity in front of you but it was impossible to tell from the distance. Jean shifted in his chair next to you, turning to catch your eye with a brow raised in question and you leaned in towards him, looping your arms around his bicep as you tugged him closer. His head dipped down as you spoke softly in his ear.

“What’s going on in the movie right now?”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I have no idea.” 

Your eyebrows drew together in a frown as you shifted back to peer at his face in confusion. “What do you mean you have no idea? You’re the one that wanted to watch this.” 

He chuckled softly, an arm coming around to pull you into his side. You happily sank into his embrace. “I’m sorry, I think I made a bad choice. This movie kinda sucks.” A hand rubbed your arm gently up and down. “Should we leave?” 

You shook your head. It was probably at least halfway through anyway, you might as well stay. “It’s fine, let’s just finish it since we’re here.” 

Jean placed a soft kiss on the top of your head before turning back to the screen. You snuggled into him, trying but failing to pay attention to the events in front of you. Your mind quickly started to wander as you sat there, staring blankly at the screen, heaving a deep sigh. Jean's aftershave filled your senses as you breathed in and the familiar scent stirred something in you as a curious thought flitted in your mind.

Almost instinctively, you slid a hand down to Jean’s leg and slowly trailed it up his thigh. His muscles tensed lightly under your touch but he said nothing, continuing to stare straight ahead. Your other hand remained wrapped around his arm as you continued to move upwards, applying a little more pressure before stilling right below his hip. Your fingers grazed his crotch and you swore you could feel just the slightest twitch. You looked up at Jean’s face and smiled in satisfaction when you saw his jaw clench in response. You hummed to yourself in thought. Maybe you would actually have some fun during the rest of this movie. 

With a new sense of purpose, your hand slid in between his legs and you cupped his crotch, giving it a light squeeze. His body jerked in response as he took in a sharp intake of air. His sharp eyes finally met yours and they narrowed at you with a flash of warning. A mischievous smile played on your lips as you winked back in challenge. You swiftly unzipped his pants but before you were able to reach inside, his hand came to grip your wrist, stopping you hastily. 

“We’re in public!” He hissed in warning, eyes darting around at the rows of seats surrounding you. 

You rolled your eyes at him, wriggling your way out of his grasp with a huff. You slipped your hand in his pants and held him over his underwear. His dick was already half hard and you smirked as you reached lower to cup his balls, knowing it would drive him crazy. 

“Shhh… There's barely anyone around us. You can keep watching the movie, I’m bored so I just want to play with something.” 

He made a face at you and put on a show of disapproval while shaking his head, but he was shifting in his seat to get more comfortable and spreading his legs to give you easier access. You let out a low hum as you tilted your head up to place a kiss on the underside of his jaw and his pulse skipped under your lips as his cock twitched in your hand at the same time. You slowly stroked him over his underwear, feeling his dick harden fully in no time.

When your fingers wrapped around him with the cotton material still preventing you from touching his skin, his body tensed and his hips bucked up slightly as if moving on their own accord. A quick glance at his face saw furrowed brows and gritted teeth as he tried to contain himself. You knew how much it was taking a toll on him... Jean claimed to hate it when you teased him, always complaining and urging you to get on with it, fighting with himself whenever he had to let you have control, even though you knew they were also the times he moaned the loudest and came the hardest. 

Deciding you should probably put him out of his misery, your fingers slid under his underwear to finally wrap around his hardened cock and you gave it a tight squeeze. In response, his eyes scrunched shut and a low moan escaped his lips. You smiled in delight and a teasing light glimmered behind your eyes. 

“Quiet, Jean,” you whispered in his ear. “We’re in public.” 

His eyes flicked over to you and he attempted a dark look before his eyelids were fluttering as you removed your hand. He followed the way you brought it to your lips and his eyes widened in surprise when you spat nastily on your palm. You grinned at him before reaching down and gripping his cock again, spreading the slick spit along his length. Immediately, his head fell against the back of his chair and his breath became laboured as his mouth hung open slightly in pleasure. You stroked him like this under his clothing, your hand gliding up and down, his dick twitching whenever your thumb brushed against his sensitive tip. 

Once you could feel his desperation building, you pulled his cock fully out of his underwear and admired the way it glistened in the dark lighting of the cinema, hard and proud. Jean had long since submitted himself to your mercy and just watched you with heavy lidded eyes as you licked your lips in anticipation. You shifted in your seat to face him and bent down over the armrest between you so that your face was level with his member. With one hand gripping him at his base, you licked a wet stripe up his length, feeling the veins and ridges along the hard surface. You ended with your lips wrapped around his tip and you sucked it tight as you swirled around with your tongue. 

He groaned above you, one hand falling to the top of your head and the other gripping the armrest on the other side. He nudged your head down urgently and his hips lifted in an attempt to thrust deeper in your mouth, but you were not about to let him do that just yet. Your mouth left him as you tilted your head up to shoot him a glare. You pushed his hips down firmly and shook your head in warning. Jean’s eyes were clouded with lust as he blinked down at you.

“Please. Your mouth, more, please,” He begged softly. Even in the darkness, you could see the flush on his cheeks, his chest rising and falling heavily as his arousal took over him. 

You relented, only because he had asked so nicely. Your head dipped down again, but this time when your lips enveloped him, they sank down lower until they met where your hand was holding him still at the base of his cock. He filled your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat as you swallowed around his length. Jean choked back a moan as you began bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks to suck tight around him. The movie continued to blare around you, masking most of your movements, but the slick sounds of your mouth sliding over him leaked in the quiet moments. Neither of you cared though - Jean had his eyes screwed shut and jaw hanging open in pleasure, and you were lost in the way he felt so hot and heavy on your tongue. 

The position you were in was limiting the amount of reach you had and you released him from your mouth with a pop, before climbing off your chair to get on your knees in front of him to give yourself better access. He sank down lower in his chair as you wriggled in between his legs and pulled his hips toward you. Eagerly, you began stroking him again with your hand as you leaned in to wrap your lips around his balls and tease him with your tongue. He was getting close, you could tell, precum beading from his swollen head and his cock jerking with your touch. 

When you took him in your mouth again, his hands fell to rest on your head as you bobbed up and down, sucking him in earnest. You moved to grip his thighs and relaxed your throat as much as possible as you let your nose hit the hair nestled at the base of his cock. With all of his length inside you, you could barely breathe but you could feel him throbbing in your throat and it made your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

Now that you were in this position, you reached up to place your hand on top of his and pushed down to send him a message. His eyes met yours in a heated gaze and he began to guide your head the way he liked to, choking you with his cock. His jaw was clenched tight and his eyes fixated on the way you swallowed around him, your eyes filling with tears that threatened to overflow. When he was near his peak, his heels dug into the ground and he held your head in place as he lifted his hips up to thrust into you. You gagged when his cock hit the back of your throat hard, but you continued to suck him tight, breathing through your nose as your eyes watered. He fucked into your mouth desperately and your fingers gripped his thighs tight, your nails digging into his skin through his pants.

“Fuckkkk,” he groaned under his breath. “I love you so much. You’re so good to me.” 

You blinked up at him with heavy lids and he thrust into your mouth one more time before stuttering to a stop. He came hard, his hips twitching while he held you in place and spilled down your throat. You stayed where you were as he pulsed into you, until his hands relaxed on your head and his body slumped back in his seat as all the tension left his body and he let the high wash over him. You swallowed as you released him from your mouth, making sure to suck him clean before wiping your lips and tucking him back into his clothes. 

As you zipped his pants back up, his hands hooked under your arms and you giggled as he lifted you to sit across his lap. His arms wrapped around your body and you cupped his cheeks, meeting his lips in a gentle kiss. He moved his lips slowly against yours and warmth blossomed in your chest at the tender way he held you. When you pulled away to catch your breath, he knocked his forehead against yours softly and looked at you with a small smile. 

“Why haven’t we done this before?” He asked, his eyes twinkling despite the low light.

“Because you’re always too scared we’ll get caught.” 

At your words, his eyes widened and he looked around frantically as if only just remembering that you were still technically in public. He let out a sigh of relief when he realised that no one seemed to be paying any attention. 

“Damn, I almost forgot. I guess you’re just that good.” 

You laughed as you dipped forward and kissed him again. He pulled you into him as he licked into your mouth and ran a hand up your thigh. Heat began building within you and you buried your hands into his hair, moaning softly into his mouth as you throbbed between your legs. You only stopped when you felt a tap on your shoulder, your eyes flying open as you pulled away from Jean and turned to look behind you. A man stood crouched next to you, shaking his head with a disgusted look. Jean’s hands moved to steady you as you scrambled to sit up straight, trying to look like you weren’t two seconds away from letting him fuck you in public. 

“You can’t do that here,” The man hissed in a low voice, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Sorry!” You squeaked, your cheeks warming in embarrassment. “We weren’t doing anything.” 

He continued to shake his head, rolling his eyes with a sigh. “Okay sure. That’s why you’re sitting in his lap.” 

Jean’s chest rumbled as he snickered behind you. You smacked his shoulder lightly in an attempt to quiet him but he just laughed as he raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“Sorry, sorry. It’s fine, we’ll go,” He said in between his chortling.

The man nodded as he watched you hurriedly move to leave, trying not to trip over your feet in the darkness as you exited your row. The two of you ducked your heads low as you scurried out of the cinema - you in self consciousness hoping no one was watching you, while Jean continued to choke back laughter. When you emerged into the bright corridor, you heaved a sigh of relief, slumping against the wall. Jean snickered as he slung an arm around your shoulder and you poked him in the side of his waist. 

“Why are you laughing? We got caught!” 

Jean wiped at his eyes as he held his side. “You should have seen your face! Now I know what people mean when they say deer in headlights. I can’t believe he called you out for sitting in my lap.” 

You pouted at him. “Whatever. Don’t pretend you weren’t shitting yourself too.” 

“Nah, I was too busy feeling pleased with myself." He pulled you along with his arm as he began walking to the exit. "Come on, let’s go home. There’s something I need to finish.”

He smirked at you, even giving you a cheeky wink to seal the deal. Despite it all, your thighs clenched as blood rushed between your legs. The memory of what you had just done flashed in your mind and you couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. Honestly, you didn’t know if you would even be able to wait until you got home. 

thx for reading!! as always, comments/reblogs are appreciated if u like this ♡♡♡

[angelicpoison12]

freeing Angel ღ ✧₊⁺

MFM/MFA, TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF, BONE CRUSHING ANGST

you want nothing more than to take Angel away from Valentino’s grasp. but you have to get through a few glued ties (and make some of your own) before restoring his dignity.

fluff, you make a deal with Alastor im sorry bro, a small argument, purpose avoidance, you kinda hurt Angel's feelings but its for the greater good i promise

— ❤︎︎ — 

there was always a perfect edge to your friendship with Angel. he never asked for anything less than what you could give him: a shoulder to cry on every once and a while, some fond memories to drown out the sorrows of his work, and maybe put up with some horrendous flirting.

but you didn't understand one thing. how could he continue to work for someone as ruthless, cruel, and cold like Valentino?

one night, you and Angel were laying in his bed, watching TV. you were curled up in his side, Fat Nuggets rolled on his back at Angel's feet. you were both in your cozy pajamas, and Angel was half asleep.

quietly, you asked, "Angel? are you still awake?" you watched as he let out a soft nod. you sighed, deciding that you might as well just get it out. ".. if Val is so terrible, why do you continue to work for him?" your question caught Angel off guard for a second. he was so used to bitching and moaning about Val for no reason; never giving context about his situation or the fucked-up relationship he had with his boss.

Angel swallowed, and he responded in a soft voice. "well, he's got me under contract, toots. there ain't much i can do."

your eyes widened at that. contract? like a deal? you looked at Angel, sitting up as you asked, "can't you just break it off?" "oh, i wish it was that easy, toots... no, i can't. unfortunately, i'm kinda stuck with him. i sold my soul, sugar." "but.. why?" "he promised me fame, a better life-he.." Angel sniffled, and you swore you could see his eyes grow glossy. "he promised me love."

you were quick to cup Angel's face, bringing him closer to you. you whispered, "Angel... that's not love. if his so-called 'love' made you feel the way you say it does, then Hell, i'd rather be hated." your words made Angel smile a little. he shrugged and said, "yeah, well, it's my fault anyways. you can't break off a contract, toots. so uh.. moral of the story-don't sell yer soul. you'll fuckin' regret it,"

deciding not to ask any more questions was the wise decision here. you didn't want to upset Angel any further, so you kept your mouth shut, and tried to fall asleep.

there had to be some way to get Angel his freedom back. there was no way he was stuck in Val's grasp forever, right? the thought alone was downright depressing. you vowed to yourself that you'd try and find a way to free him, even if it costed your own soul in the end.

— ❤︎︎ — 

the next morning after Charlie's exercise, you found yourself at Alastor's door. most of the time you avoided him, not wanting to accidentally upset him, or possibly something worse.

you knocked on the door, the heavy wood making soft echoes. you stood there, shaking before you heard the all-too familiar radio static call out, "come in, my dear!" slowly, you peaked your head in, looking around. there wasn't a bed in Alastor's room, just a deep red velvet loveseat couch, lots of books around, a desk with some radio equipment and what appeared to be old scripts, a coffee mug that read 'Oh Deer!', and some other miscellaneous items.

you saw Alastor. he was on the loveseat, reading a book, his cane by his leg. "come on in, dear! don't be shy, i won't bite you." Alastor said with a teasing voice. you smiled bashfully, coming in and closing the door behind your frame. you sat next to Alastor on the loveseat, making sure to still keep a distance since you knew he liked to refrain from physical contact if possible.

"now, what can i help you with, my dear?" Alastor asked, glancing at you with his usual yellow grin. you looked deadpan at him and said, "Alastor, can a contract be broken?" you heard some fizzle and pops in his voice, kind of mimicking a hum of thought. he tapped his finger on his chin before replying. "it depends, my dear. if there aren't any terms or agreements broken, then it's a little trickier to say whether or not it can be broken. why do you ask, my dear?" before you could open your mouth to respond, Alastor put his hand up, being a cocky son of a bitch and asking, "it's Angel, isn't it. you want to free him, don't you, my dear? now i must ask... why do you wish to go through such trouble for him? he's merely a friend."

Alastor's question made your jaw grow tight with anger. you took in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. ".. yes, it's Angel. and i want to free him because i care about him. is that a good enough reason?" Alastor hummed again, his eyes lazy as he met your gaze. all he did was shrug and say, "i suppose it is." "great." "now, i would have to look at Angel's contract to know whether or not if it can be broken." "so how are you going to do that?" "i'll need your help."

Alastor's hand glowed a soft neon green. he then looked at you and asked in a sinistar voice, "let's make a deal, Y/N."

your eyes widened. quietly, you said in a near whisper, "you.. you want my soul, Al? but why?" Alastor chuckled, the static gone from his throat. "you're a pretty thing, dear. you have innocence and charm. say, once the contract is broken, you'll get your soul back. this is just in case if any... hm. if any 'funny business' strikes. understood?"

you thought about it for a second. i mean, it didn't seem too bad, right? but Angel's words echoed in your mind. "so uh.. moral of the story-don't sell yer soul. you'll fuckin' regret it," yet you still took Alastor's hand. "it's a deal."

stitches of green flooded Alastor's face, his smile almost wicked with how wide it was. a sea of neon green flashed across the room, and you swore you could hear screams of those who had wronged the Radio Demon from the past.

you nearly fell off of the loveseat, gasping and shaking. you glanced down, seeing glowing green chains connected to a collar around your neck. you quivered, glancing up at Alastor as you swallowed. you tried to calm yourself, your mind telling you how this was merely temporary. you'd be free once Angel was free, right?

right?

— ❤︎︎ — 

you thought the hardest part of this whole ordeal would be getting inside Valentino's club and getting access to the contract. in reality, the worst part was having to avoid Angel.

your movie nights with him evaporated like water, and whenever you saw each other in the bar after work, you'd flee like a stray cat. he tried to talk to you, only to be reduced to shitty small talk that left you both feeling empty. you couldn't go on like this, but Alastor promised you that it would be worth it.

eventually, you found yourself outside the big doors of Valentino's club. you looked around nervously, trying not to seem suspicious as you stepped inside.

you sighed as you caught a glance of the environment. there was hazy red smoke everywhere, sweaty bodies pressed together in lustful dances, but your eyes caught the moth man himself. he was sitting in a luxurious leather couch, smoking a cigarette, two imp girls sat at his sides.

quickly, you tried to scurry out of anyone's vision, but you saw Angel on the stage, and it made you stop to lose your breath. he looked so beautiful on the stage, and you wished to stay and see his performance. but you knew that you had work to do.

moving in a haste, you managed to sneak to Valentino's office, seizing the contract. you tried to rip the paper, only for your attempts to be futile. you growled, attempting to bite the contract, your teeth stinging. that wouldn't work either. you knew you had to be fast, and smart about this. you looked and scrambled, nearly tearing apart Valentino's office. you knew there had to be something here that could break the contract, right?

there was no fine print on the contract. only Valentino's ownership at the top, and Angel's name at the bottom. Anthony. his name was Anthony. fuck, you felt a tug at your heart and belly when you saw that. your eyes grew cloudy, but you blinked them away, not wanting to lose hope.

then you saw a bright red pen.

you grabbed the pen, making a large X over Angel's name, and the ink seeped into the golden paper, a heap of red smoke flowing out of the paper. you shrieked and threw the pen down, running out of the office, only to feel a chain at your neck.

this chain was red.

you choked and gasped, eyes wide. you were stuck in the red smoke, but it wasn't coming from the paper. "you fuckin' bitch.. thought you could escape my grasp, no?" you heard a deep, Latino voice chuckle. the chain whirled you around, and you were face-to-face with red stained teeth, a gold tooth glittering back at your wide, fearful eyes.

Valentino's brow quirked in amusement. "oh? you're not Angel.. hm, what are you doing here, little one? lost?" he asked, the chain releasing from your neck, allowing you to breathe. he didn't seem to see the ruined contract. god, his vision must've been so shit. using your most innocent, nonchalant voice, you said, "i was just looking for Angel, actually. i'm his friend." Valentino looked down at you, contemplating whether or not if you were telling the truth. all he did was say, "he's in his dressing room. it should be room 420, okay?" Valentino said, pressing a wet, red-soaked kiss to your cheek, making you grimace. you were quick to get away. when his office door was shut, you swore you could hear him shrieking in a mix of dismay and anger.

you knocked on Angel's door, rapid and without a pace. as soon as he opened the door, you grabbed him by the chest, dragging him out. "what-hey! what're you-!?" Angel squeaked, but you shushed him with a kiss. you felt him fight for a second, but the moment he realized it was you, he was kissing back like a starved man. his hands were all over you, your fists in his hair as you felt yourself lose control in his lips and fluff.

pulling away with a huff, your hands were clutched in his chest that was covered by his pink robe, his fingers in your hair. you managed to gasp out, "c'mon.. lets get you out of here." "but schnookums, i'm workin-" "not anymore." "but i-" "just shut up and let me explain when we're back at the hotel, okay?" Angel nodded, letting you lead the way.

— ❤︎︎ — 

"you need to explain what the fuck is goin' on right now, toots. you're scarin' me, and you're definitely gonna get me a beatin'." Angel's brash words made you wince a little. you sighed, feeling guilty. you were both in your room, sitting up, legs crossed in your bed. your eyes were soft as you looked at Angel, cupping his face. you hadn't even realized you were crying until his thumb reached to brush away the tears on your cheeks.

"i.. i'm so fucking sorry, Angel.. i should've told you what was going on." you admitted, sniffling. "shh, shh, toots.. whateva's going on, ya know you can tell me about it, right? i won't tell no one, i promise."

you swallowed, chuckling dryly before you warned, "you won't believe me." "try me, toots." you looked Angel in his eyes, brows raised as if questioning him. well, what was the worst thing he could do, right?

you brushed some hair out of his face, rubbing your thumb along his jawline as you said, "i freed you."

Angel stood up suddenly, upset as he said, "that ain't funny, toots. you tryna pull my dick or somethin'?" Angel asked, his tone laced with irritation, and a little bit of venom if you looked close enough. "Angel, i'm not lying-!" "bullshit! Val said that contract can't be broken-" "Angel! listen to me!" you nearly cried, your hands gripping his shoulders to look at you. both of your bodies were burning with distrust. after you both shared some deep breaths, you repeated, "i freed you. i ruined the contract with red ink.. you're free, Anthony."

hearing his real name, and not the one he used as a facade onstage, was what broke Angel. he began to quietly sob, his head falling into your shoulder. all you did was hold him close, wanting to make him feel safe in this moment.

you could still feel Alastor's invisible chain around your neck, but you decided, fuck it, it was worth it.

— ❤︎︎ — 

[itsnever-lupus]

If you told me "The New Norm" was made by leftists/socialists who were parodying the stereotypical hyper-conservative Right, I'd believe you.

Literally the most annoying character in the show is the main one- fat, old, American white male who bitterly complains that "nothing is the way it used to be."

The nonbinary character- supposed to be indicating "wokeness" with their dyed hair, constantly wearing a face mask and being openly pro-trans healthcare who uses they/them pronouns is probably the MOST tolerant, surprisingly. The creators try to frame it as them being the "annoying" one, despite the fact that every time a deregatory term is used against them they shrug it off and seem to be very understanding of differences in political views. They don't go around "policing everything" as the stereotype would suggest, they just. Exist?

And then the main male character would - who would've guessed - complain for MINUTES straight, monologuing without letting anyone get a word in about how "woke Left is ruining the country," basically.

.. while the aforementioned "woke" character kind of stands there confused, like "what the fuck are you on about. I literally just came in here and you don't even know my name and you're already complaining on principle. I don't know what I'm supposed to do to make you happy, honestly." They're supposed to be the hypervigilant "pronoun police" and such but they genuinely seem. Neutral, for the most part, even while insulted and referred to as "less-than" in various contexts.

All in all, the pilot flew over the intended Right audience and mainly actually caught the attention of leftist-socialist queers like myself. I almost want it to continue, genuinely to see how the nonbinary character develops. The caricature of "woke" [fursuits and "speaking in barks", pride pins, rainbow flags, etc] is so RIDICULOUSLY exaggerated it's genuinely hillarious in a fucked up way, because. Nobody in real life acts like that. Nobody. You're fighting air, brother! Those problems don't exist!

Aaand that's my two cents.

[emotionallychargedtowel]

What's different about Hatano, part 2

(Part 1 is here.)

The second thing about Hatano that isn’t like other characters who’ve chased after Mob is the fact that he has a unique relationship with…well, let’s say Mob’s equally unique experience of reality. So first, a little background on that. 

Mob’s version of reality

Most people in Mob’s world don’t experience it the way he does. It’s not just that he’s one of the few who realizes they’re all living in BL World, though that’s a big part of it. (The only other person who does, as far as we know, is Mayama, the mangaka who has some degree of control over Mob’s story. Though, interestingly, he actually didn’t realize he lived in a BL manga world until Mob told him in season 1.) 

In most of his relationships, Mob is completely inauthentic. His priority is remaining a side character, and sincerely connecting with others not only doesn’t serve that goal, it has a lot of potential to undermine it. He does seem to care about his family somewhat, particularly Ayato. But that’s about it. 

Except that he has one other relationship, of a sort: his relationship with us, his audience. It’s kind of strange, when you think about it. Mob’s whole thing is being a side character. And yet, he narrates his own story to us in a way that’s unmistakably protagonist-like. Maybe he justifies it through his emphasis on advising us on how to evade story traps like him. He may not have anyone else who shares his awareness of how BL World operates, but offering advice on how it works and how to avoid L with a B implies that maybe one of these days, someone else will embrace side character status like him. Maybe someday he won’t be alone. 

For now, his voiceover comments are a big part of his personality, and they’re very distinct. Sometimes Mob goes so far as to overtly break the fourth wall, like in the first episode of season 3, both when he brags about escaping the situation with Kikuchi and boasts that he’s BL-proof (above), and later in that episode, when he asks us if we’ve guessed yet why he’s exercising (below). (And of course, every single time “Bubble Mob” appears in the corner of the screen, he does nothing but directly address the audience.)

The rest of the time, he does this in a more subtle way. His voiceover commentary isn’t like a typical voiceover in a show or movie that’s less self-aware. If we watch a something that uses voiceovers in a typical way, the person speaking doesn’t acknowledge who they’re speaking to, or even that they're speaking to anyone. In most stories, unless some kind of context is used to explain who is being addressed (e.g. a frame story), calling attention to the fact that the voiceover implies that someone is being spoken to would undermine the realism of the story. Mob never acknowledges that he’s the protagonist of his own TV series, and in fact doesn’t seem to be aware of it. (Well, except when he does things like speculate about whether there will be another season.) But he constantly acknowledges the viewer through his advice and narration. He may not know how or why, but he knows there’s someone out there listening to him. 

So Mob goes through his world with this important knowledge that practically no one else shares, pretending to have friendships and so forth but never forming any sort of authentic bond with anyone (with the possible exception of Ayato), and the closest thing he has to a real friend who he can be honest with is the audience. 

And the other characters he interacts with don’t seem to notice any of this, even when he shows outward signs of how he’s experiencing this world. Sometimes he makes his observations out loud instead of in a voiceover, but no one seems to bat an eye. He regularly says and does things in front of Ayato that strike him as strange, but when Mob shrugs them off, Ayato does too. 

Hatano’s relationship to Mob’s experience

Most of the time, Hatano seems to be like the other characters in Mob’s world. Despite his keen interest in Mob, he usually doesn’t seem to see how he’s different from other people. Except that occasionally, he does! Every so often, he sees into Mob’s reality in a way that other characters can’t. 

The first time we see this happen, he hasn’t even met Mob since the interaction they had when they were children. At the end of episode 2, Mob’s voiceover tells us, “What I didn’t know at the time was that a destined age-gap love was looming just around the corner.” Hatano stands in the foreground watching a blissfully ignorant Mob walk away in the background. Then “Bubble Mob” appears in his little green circle in the lower left corner of the screen to talk about how more will be revealed in the next episode. That’s when something weird happens. Hatano turns his head and looks right at Bubble Mob, who is seriously disconcerted by this. “Why are you looking at me?” he asks. Then he hastily wraps up the episode, as if he’s eager to do so in order to escape from Hatano. 

This is the most overt example of Hatano being able to see things other non-Mob characters don’t, but it isn’t the last. 

The next time happens in episode 3, when Mob is desperately trying to think of ways to put Hatano off. “In order to squash a flag that was raised in the past,” he thinks in a voiceover, “it might work if I tell him I’m a different person from this guy he remembers.” Immediately, before Mob has said a single word out loud, Hatano says, “I’ve always liked you. I could never mistake you for someone else.” It’s as if he just heard Mob’s voiceover. He clearly doesn’t hear it all the time, unless he’s incredibly good at pretending otherwise. But it almost seems like for Hatano, the boundary between Mob’s reality (the version of reality that we experience as viewers) and the reality inhabited by Hatano and the rest of the people in BL World occasionally becomes more permeable. 

The third time happens in the other direction–instead of Hatano seeing what things are like for Mob, Mob sees something through Hatano’s eyes. Specifically, he experiences a daydream of Hatano’s. 

It isn’t completely unprecedented for Mob to see something from someone else’s mind as if he’s seeing it himself–but it is unprecedented for someone with Hatano’s role in Mob’s life. The type of thing he sees through Hatano is also unique. 

The one other person whose eyes Mob sometimes sees through is Ayato. When Ayato tells a story, not only is the viewer able to see a flashback of him having the experience he’s recounting, but often, it’s clear that Mob can see it too, in a very literal sense. We see a perfect example of this when Mob asks Ayato what kind of guy Hatano is and he tells the story of what happened when a girl confessed to Hatano at school. We know that Mob actually sees this flashback because he identifies the specific type of flower that surrounds Hatano (the same way other BL main character types that he encounters have some kind of accompanying burst of flowers). Mob sees Hatano’s face ringed with gerbera daisies, which he’s able to identify despite Ayato saying nothing about them (and not seeming to perceive them at all). Mob’s face is even lit by a mysterious light as he comments on the gerberas, as if Hatano’s “sparkling aura” has been conveyed through the story into Mob’s bedroom. 

So it’s not completely unheard-of for Mob to be able to see what someone else is picturing. But in Ayato’s case, he has only seen flashbacks connected to stories Ayato tells. (I’m not counting fantasies about Ayato that are clearly just Mob’s imagination, which Ayato is completely unaware of.) That makes Hatano the first person besides Ayato whose eyes Mob sees through, for starters. More specifically, he’s the first of Mob’s suitors to have that effect on him. And it’s also noteworthy that the narrative of Hatano’s that Mob sees 1) isn’t narrated–he’s not picturing it because Hatano is telling him a story, he’s just spontaneously inside of it without warning, and 2) isn’t a memory, but a scary fantasy–a daydream about something he’s worried about. Specifically, Mob finds himself inside of a scenario from Hatano’s mind in which Mob is arrested for “deceiving a minor” due to their relationship. Hatano goes on to talk about how he heard something on TV that led him to believe that people wouldn’t accept their relationship if they dated, but the fantasy clearly swallowed Mob up independently of that. Hatano only comments about the TV thing after the fantasy has ended, and he’s just talking about social disapproval, not Mob getting arrested. Nothing he says here would lead Mob to picture the jail daydream, and anyway, the daydream happens before he even raises the topic.

The fact that Mob found himself inside of this fantasy is remarkable enough that he’s clearly thrown off by it, commenting “Hang on, was that Hatano’s daydream just now?” He doesn’t dwell on it, but he gets that it’s weird. 

There’s something else about this fantasy scene that I only noticed after seeing it a ridiculous number of times for the fansub project. I’m not certain that it’s significant, but I think it’s worth mentioning. Mob mentions in the scene that he’s a “mobu,” an anonymous side character. Specifically, he asks the guards for a trial and then, more specifically, “a trial worthy of a side character”—basically, the kind of trial that would befit a “mobu.” Now, you could justify this in a few ways. Maybe Hatano’s fantasy is just a setting that Mob is dropped into, and he says what he would say if he were actually thrust into that situation. We don’t know if Hatano is even aware of what he says. But this is Hatano’s fantasy. It seems like the things the police officers/prison guards say to Mob come from Hatano’s mind. Maybe the things Mob says do too. If so, it suggests that Hatano knows about Mob’s “mobu” status. Again, it’s hard to say how to interpret this, but it’s a possibility. 

A brief digression about characters who engage in direct address

In the next part of my post I'm going to be comparing Mob to another character who sometimes breaks the fourth wall, but first I want to situate Mob in the pantheon of characters who use direct address for a second. I'm not going to try to do an overview of this whole topic. This post is going to be long enough as it is, and plenty has been written before on this subject. But I want to stop and think for a second about what fourth wall-breakers tend to be like and why they do what they do.

Direct-addressers are almost always funny, often sardonically. This takes different forms. Sometimes you get Garfield, other times you get Deadpool, other times Clarissa Darling. Sometimes they’re douchebags, like the Woody Allen character in Annie Hall. Sometimes they’re actual sociopaths, like Patrick Bateman in American Psycho. They’re almost always at least a little bit cut off from their world, as if they have one foot in the audience’s world and one in their own and this gives them the perspective they need to make trenchant comments on the people around them. It can be as simple as the fact that the people around them are a bit absurd, or as stark as the fact that they believe themselves to exist on a different moral plane from everyone else. But it seems pretty much universal that there's some kind of difference between them the the people around them.

Mob is certainly cut off from his social world. Most of the time, this is simply a result of his trying to avoid falling in L with a B. But he can also be a creep. He constantly spies on his peers, manipulates them, and lies to them. For example, in season 3, he causes two friends to fall in love as a sort of experiment, then gloats in the distance while cackling to himself. Though that last part isn't so remarkable for him, since he’s always laughing at everyone behind their backs. 

One big subcategory of fourth wall-breakers is, well, smug buttholes. Ferris Bueller is the archetypal example. Parker Lewis was created to be the off-brand Ferris Bueller. Zack Morris is the absolute bottom of the barrel in this class. Basically, these dudes (and they are always dudes, in my experience) seem to talk to the audience because they feel so superior to everyone around them—even their supposed friends—that when they want to talk about what they really think and feel, only an unseen adoring public will do. 

Mob is hardly the opposite of this. He has a real smug streak and he can definitely be a dick. But he's more anxious and more alienated than the typical smug butthole type, and he has a kind of low-key but profound ennui just below the surface. In other words, he's a bit like a really stressed out, subtly despair-filled Ferris Bueller.

Another fourth wall-breaker who found someone who noticed

The first time I saw Hatano look at Bubble Mob, it made me think of another example of a character who habitually broke the fourth wall, then encountered another character who, on some level, noticed her doing this. I’m thinking of Fleabag and the (Hot) Priest. 

Directly addressing the audience is Fleabag's raison d'être. In the first season of Fleabag, she does it continually, sometimes at times that would shock or offend the other characters if they were aware of it (including while she's having sex). None of the people around her notice this.

Then, in the second season, something different happens. Fleabag meets the Priest, starts to bond with him, and then he starts to do something that takes her completely by surprise: he notices when she's addressing the audience.

During one of their first times hanging out alone, she addresses the audience like she normally does, and he shocks her by noticing this and asking her about it. “What was that?” he asks. “Where’d you—where’d you just go? You went somewhere.” When she tells him “nowhere,” he accepts it and backs off.

In another scene, when she does it again, he once again comments on it. “That thing you’re doing,” he says, “It’s like you disappear.”

When Phoebe Waller-Bridge, the creator, writer, and star of Fleabag, was asked about the Priest’s ability to sense when Fleabag is breaking the fourth wall at a BAFTA event, she said that the Priest can tell what Fleabag is doing because of his relationship with God. She said that Fleabag "has a relationship with the camera the whole way through and it was interesting to have somebody who has a similar thing. He's mirrored 'cause he has God. And she's witnessed by the camera the whole way through…I just felt like it would be a really good way to mirror each other's journeys."

Respectfully, I don’t buy this explanation. It may be what Waller-Bridge was thinking about when she wrote season 2, but it doesn’t resonate at all with my experience of the series. I vastly prefer the explanation given by Kathryn VanArendonk in her piece “Fleabag Breaks the Fourth Wall and Then Breaks Our Hearts,” written for Vulture. 

Fleabag’s sly, secretive, sometimes resentful tendency to break the fourth-wall of her own story is an escape hatch. She dissociates from her own life whenever things get to be too much….The Priest feels her leave him, even though he can’t quite see that she’s leaving him so she can speak to us….But when he notices Fleabag talking to us, he’s barging into our secret relationship with her, pointing at exactly the place she assumed no one could see — pointing at us, her distancing strategy, her audience who can’t ever speak back to her. That false intimacy she shared with us? Suddenly it’s real, and it’s not between Fleabag and her silent viewers. It’s between Fleabag and the one person who can still see her whenever she tries to take a step away.

This is a profound kind of engagement with Fleabag’s attachment to her “secret camera friend” (Waller-Bridge’s term for the audience Fleabag addresses), much more profound than what we, as Mob’s secret friends, ever see from Hatano. But it does tell us something about what the stakes are in this kind of situation. 

While VanArendonk analyzes Fleabag and the Priest, she ends up saying some things that could easily apply to Mob. 

It’s tempting to think of Fleabag’s compulsive habit of looking to the viewer as a form of intimacy.…But that sense of intimacy, however effective it may be for the viewer, is only ever one-sided….Her intimacy with us is also a way of distancing herself from anyone who could actually speak back to her. The scene where Fleabag sees a therapist played by Fiona Shaw underlines that idea very directly: The therapist asks Fleabag who she confides in, who her friends are, and Fleabag turns to us once again with a knowing, happy smile. We are her friends, because we are the recipients of her private disclosures. That scene is thrilling and crushing at the same time. It’s so flattering to be her confidant, and so sad. Her closest relationship is with a presence she can neither see nor hear.

But Mob isn’t Fleabag

Mob’s situation is very different from Fleabag’s in most respects. Her situation is realistic; his is fantastical. Her history is traumatic; the worst thing that has happened to Mob is the realization that he lives in a fictional universe. (Though to be fair, if you give that enough thought, it’s fairly horrifying.) He isn’t avoiding engaging with the people in his world because of psychological turmoil or alienation of the sort Fleabag deals with…well, not the psychological turmoil part, at least. 

There are two kinds of distance that Mob puts between himself and other people. Often, he simply avoids relating to others. This is mostly due to his calculated assessment of the risks involved. Sometimes he simply gives people a wide berth and sometimes he only avoids certain types of interactions with them, but either way, he’s not engaging because he can see that there are certain risks involved. This is very different from what separates Fleabag from those around her, both in type and in magnitude.

Except when he kind of is

At the same time, the fact that he’s realized that he lives in this contrived sort of universe and that he has to watch everyone around him allow themselves to be buffeted about by it without noticing it, much less attempting to fight it, does have an effect. I’m not trying to dig too deeply into the implications of realizing you live in a fictional world. If you were to go deep enough, it would have some pretty disturbing existential implications that might be more fitting for a Philip K. Dick novel than a BL parody. But that’s not the story being told here. Still, the emotional distance Mob maintains between himself and the people around him is clearly caused by his alienation from his world and their lack of awareness about it. How can he get close to anyone who is so far from understanding his daily experience? How could he even respect them enough to relate to them authentically at all? So Mob’s inability to authentically bond with others does have some of that existential dimension to it. And in that respect, his alienation bears some resemblance to Fleabag's.

Whatever the cause, VanArendonk’s statement above applies as thoroughly to Mob as it does to Fleabag. Like her, “[his] closest relationship is with a presence [he] can neither see nor hear.” And by the same token, if someone was able to see him clearly enough that they noticed the ways he disconnects from the world, as the Priest sees Fleabag, that would represent a kind of closeness that would mean something, that might even be enough to make relating to a person in his world more worthwhile than always prioritizing his “secret camera friend.”

Hatano isn't the Priest—but they have some things in common

As I wrote above, Hatano's ability to notice Mob's fourth wall-breaking and his tendency to act on it aren't nearly as profound as what we see the Priest doing with Fleabag. Nevertheless, that more concentrated example of the phenomenon does tell us something about what it means, even in smaller doses.

It means that a person who notices fourth wall-breaking is attuned to the fourth wall-breaker to an extent that others aren’t. Maybe they’re just more attentive or perceptive when it comes to that character. Or maybe they’re also alienated from their world in some way, and that puts them on the same wavelength as the other person. If, as Waller-Bridge says, the Priest’s relationship with God has something to do with it in his case, it’s a possibility that someone like Hatano could prove, on further investigation, to have something or someone outside of himself that he’s somehow in dialogue with.

In any case, it seems unequivocally true that such a person is poised to relate to the fourth wall-breaker in a more meaningful way than the other characters they typically encounter. After all, having some understanding of how someone sees the world is a prerequisite for really relating to them, much less having feelings for them in a way that actually means something.

Mostly, this tells us something about how Hatano's feelings for Mob are different from the feelings most of Mob's suitors have for him. But this might point to the possibility that Mob's feelings toward Hatano differ as well (though not necessarily in the way Hatano would like). Mob seems to treat people's feelings toward him with the most contempt when they're unfounded, seemingly random. After all, as he says in the opening theme, "this Boy's Love is too absurd." It's hard to respect someone whose feelings are so ridiculous, when they have so little basis in anything. Kikuchi seemed to touch his heart in part because he was quietly observant, noticing things about Mob and basing his feelings on actual information about him instead of pouncing on him on some thin pretense the way most of his pursuers do. If Hatano also shows that he sees Mob in a real way, a way that no one else has before, it has the potential to make a difference in how Mob sees him, too.

Next up, part 3.

Thanks to @my-rose-tinted-glasses for helping me out with gifs and by being a sympathetic sounding board.

[daenysx]

my first daryl shot and i really wanna know what you think, please share your opinions with me!! this takes place in the CDC. hope you like it, requests are open!!

my masterlist

blame the alcohol

daryl dixon tries not to fall for you but you are there to wreck his plans with an empty wine glass in your hand.

he wants to save the image in front of him and stare at it for hours.

you are standing there, unaware of his presence. you are only wearing a shirt which is extra big for you and a pair of socks reaching your knees. your slightly wet hair frames your pretty face and you are holding a book in your hand, there is a wine glass on the table next to you.

daryl dixon loves watching you.

he is standing by the doorframe with a bottle in his hand. he is supposed to be resting but it feels impossible. there are things that keep his mind alive and the alcohol he consumes is not enough to shut it off.

here you are, looking clean and relaxed. you use the same shampoo and soaps with everyone, your little survival team that finally makes it to CDC, but he thinks you smell different. your scent is different and he is not dreaming about it, right? he wants to take a deep breath to fill his senses with you and it's perfectly real.

you are reading a book, he doesn't know if you like it. he is sure even if you don't like the context you like the act of reading. you told him that in his tent, the days feel like ages now but truly it wasn't that long ago. you have a passion for reading. you'd read anything you find, that he's sure about.

your wine glass is empty. he should approach you and offer you more wine, right? that's what he wants but he isn't sure if you want his company. actually there isn't a reason for him to think otherwise, he knows you enjoy spending time with him but he can't help his thoughts. this life isn't made for love stories and a man like daryl dixon can't afford to let himself fall for you.

then you turn to his side, finally noticing him as if you've felt his desperation. there is that smile again. your eyes sparkle and he can see it perfectly clear on your clean face. he doesn't even want to admit it to himself but he loves seeing you smile. it's like watching the sunrise, shiny and mesmerising.

"why are you standing there, dixon? come closer."

why does his last name sound so beautiful when it comes out of your lips? he comes closer to you with slow steps.

"are you drunk already? unbelievable, you surprise me."

he smiles. "nah, i ain't drunk."

you leave the book back to its place, take your empty glass and go to the couch across the wall. you point the bottle in his hand, "can i have some of that?"

he nods quickly, fills your glass, and sits next to you on the couch. you two share a few minutes of silence, sipping your drinks and staring at the wall. he wants to hear your voice, anything you tell him even if you think they are stupid, he wants to hear it. there are little moments between you and him. when it gets too much in his head, he finds a release with them.

"c'mon, tell me somethin'."

you raise an eyebrow. "like what?"

he shrugs, takes a sip of wine. "anythin'."

you curve your lips slightly, think of an answer. it feels like the right time for a deep conversation with the opportunity to blame it on alcohol if you say something you regret later. not to deep but you feel like you need to be the brave one.

"this apocalypse...sometimes i feel like-like i'm happy it happened you know? not happy, happy is not the right word to say but- just glad. for one reason."

he has a look on his face, questioning and curious. you have to explain what you mean. you have to start somewhere.

"we'd never know each other if it weren't for the apocalypse."

he doesn't know what to say. after he lost merle, he planned to be alone and alive in this new life and now you are here, wrecking all his plans with your sweet confessions and smiles. he shouldn't get attached for his own sake but then you look at him with big, teary eyes and he is gone.

"you ain't gonna cry for this sunshine."

you try to smile. "i'm not crying but- the possibility of never knowing you is terrible and- i feel like an awful person for saying that i'm grateful for the zombies somehow."

he chuckles softly. then he puts the bottle on the ground and brings his hand to your face. his movements aren't the most confident ones, he is hesitant but that doesn't stop him from brushing that one teardrop away from your face.

"ya can't ever be an awful person. i know what ya mean, okay? you're right. ya shouldn't ever cry for- fucks sake ya shouldn't cry for anythin'. you're too pretty for that."

he never fails to put a smile on your face. he smiles too, when he sees the little wrinkles on the corners of your mouth. he doesn't regret saying too much, if it's necessary to talk too much to make you smile for him, daryl dixon would turn into a fucking chatterbox.

"thank you, daryl. for everything. i know i'm not really suited for this kind of life but i'm trying...i really do."

his eyes are about to turn into little hearts with sparkles. fuck it. you can't possibly be that sweet, he thinks. he can't even believe himself for using the word sweet for someone but there you are, his sweet girl.

"you're a fast learner. you're fine and 'm with you."

you press a soft kiss to his cheek and put your head on his shoulder. he wishes to keep that promise until the end of everything. he doesn't even know if he'll be alive tomorrow but he can blame the alcohol for the bravery and your beautiful face for the romantic feelings, right? right.

[chalkrevelations]

Ohhhh, my god. Yeah, I have only myself to blame for the way Last Twilight played me in regards to the MorkDay relationship. Because the Night & Day relationship was right there as foreshadowing. And I realize that I've harped repeatedly on the way the narrative framed the accident that damaged Day's vision, but now I realize that it provides a (unintentional?) parallel to the trainwreck of Mork and Day's relationship as it actually plays out vs. the way the narrative treats it.

Day never, not once, accepts any culpability in the accident that damaged his vision, even though he was the one driving the car. None of the other characters challenge his framing that the accident was Night's fault. The narrative, itself, doesn't challenge his framing that the accident was Night's fault. Yes, his reckless driving is shown to be in response to an action of Night's, but not once is Day made to take ownership of and accept responsibility for his own actions and how he responds, which includes driving with his head practically under the dashboard, at night, with other cars on the road. Nobody made Day do that except Day, himself. Significantly, we never hear anything about anyone in the other vehicle or how they may have been injured (or killed?), and I have to wonder how much of that is down to Day's privileged socioeconomic status. (If it had been Mork driving that car, how likely is it that he would have ended up ... well. In jail?)

Neither does Day accept any responsibility for the damage to his relationship with Mork - or the emotional damage he deals to Mork, himself - when he unilaterally breaks things off after figuring out Mork lied about the job opportunity in Hawaii. None of the other characters challenge his framing that Mork has committed the cardinal sin of pitying Day. The narrative, itself, doesn't challenge his framing that Mork has committed the cardinal sin of pitying Day - in fact, it doubles down by making Mork apologize for it in the final episode. Yes, Day's response to Mork lying about the job is in character for him, but Day is never made to take ownership of and accept responsibility for how he responds, including 1) jumping to conclusions about Mork's reasons or 2) withdrawing emotional support from his boyfriend in the wake of Mork's admission of ongoing trauma. Given context clues we get prior to Day jumping to his conclusions, it's clear that Mork had unresolved trauma from his sister's death. But Day mows him down for supposedly pitying Day as surely as if he'd hit him with a car, shuts down any explanation Mork tries to give and withdraws any hope of a mutually supportive relationship by refusing to do the least bit of emotional labor on Mork's behalf, instead banishing him from Day's life. We then get an upbeat montage of Day living his best life without Mork, but significantly, we see nothing about what Mork is going through or dealing with during this same time period.

Day treats both of these men in his life - men who are in some of the closest relationships he can have: a brother, a lover - terribly, while shrugging off his own part in the physical and emotional injuries he blames them for. He never apologizes to either of them for hurting them by lashing out. Instead, he magnanimously forgives both of them for how they've hurt him and expects the relationships to pick up from there as if everything is fine. And indeed, in neither case does the narrative seem to think that he needs to do any work to make up for how he treats them.

Which also leads me to: Maybe in some ways, the accident stands in for the way that Day - and his mother - hold it against Night for not being the supportive big brother they think he ought to have been. But Mork's storyline shows us that it never would have mattered how supportive a big brother Night was, because Mork was repeatedly, exhaustively supportive of Day, and all it took was one misstep for Day to kick Mork to the curb and literally block him out of his life for three years until Mork, himself, came back and pushed the issue while accepting full blame onto himself. Sure, Day wrote that editor's note in the book, but he also doted on that gd fish that Night got him, while at the same time being the most heinous asshole he could possibly be both to and about Night. So if he's going to treat Mork the way he did, why should I think he would treat Night any differently than he did the minute Night made a single mistake, no matter if Night had been (in his eyes) perfect in the past?

I think I'm supposed to believe that Day has learned and grown during his time with a disability - I guess that's one thing I'm supposed to take away from his little speech at the beginning of the finale and maybe from him helping that dude across the street in the surprise gotcha in the last part of the ep? But if I look at what the series actually shows me of how he treats the people in his life, I have no proof that he's not just the same self-centered asshole he started out as - the self-centered asshole he admits to being at one point. Which would be fine - no disabled person is required to be a saint, purified and exalted into inspiration porn by their disability. It's just that 1) the show seems to be trying to sell me on the idea that he's not the same self-centered asshole he started out as, and 2) the show seems to be trying to sell me on the idea that any relationship Mork has with him isn't going to be toxically imbalanced.

And I'm not buying.

[decepti-thots]

a lot more ink has seemingly been spilled about drift's addiction in the context of fandom framings of it than the actual canon presentation of it. which i do find quite odd, to be honest.

i guess the main thing is probably that it's sort of headscratching as to why Roberts elected to retcon it in, when it's really not necessary (drift already had a depressing backstory that would give him an excuse to wind up at ratchet's clinic; notably, MTMTE literally never references that comic) and the comic itself does basically nothing with it. of course, there's always the chance there were plans to do so that got dropped as drift ping-ponged around the narrative as a result of constant changes in the plans for him. (drift being the character it's always been assumed mtmte more got 'saddled' with than a first choice.)

my guess has personally always been that it's to give some kind of contrast with Tarn and that those characters were intended to be foils before plans changed, which i've talked about multiple times before. (similarly, tarn's addiction barely ever coming up makes more sense in this context.) shrug. that's really all i have.

anyway, it's not exactly an… over graceful or highly thought out portrayal, but i do like that in this scene drift is extremely matter of fact about telling everyone and seems broadly unembarrassed about it. having that stand in opposition to how heavily he tries to deflect from being an ex-decepticon at least makes that an interesting character note as to what drift does and does not think he should feel bad about! it's pretty much never going to come up again after this scene, i don't think, so that winds up being my main takeaway.

[luvrodite]

WHERE YOU LEAD JASON TODD

↳ roommate!jason + gilmore girls

“Hey have you-what are you watching?”

You look up from where you’re nestled under your bedsheets and all thoughts of what he was going to ask promptly empty out of Jason’s head. He’s paused, leaning against your doorframe. This is a common occurrence, the wood has borne his weight so many times he wonders if he hasn’t left a dent in the frame.

He likes the routine the both of you have, and that for all you argue with him, you don’t seem to mind too much when he comes in to talk to you. If he had to pick a favourite spot in the apartment, Jason thinks he’d probably choose this, here. Standing in your doorway, the smell of the candles you’d burned the night before lingering in the air and the clutter of trinkets lining your desk.

Your laptop lays atop your sheets, and Jason leans closer to get a look at what’s on your screen.

“I’m watching my show,” you say and he notes the weariness lining your features.

A pang of sympathy strikes through him. He knows the week has been long, and the shadows under your eyes are deeper than they usually appear. He’s given you a wide berth these last few days, not wanting to piss you off any more than you already have been.

“Is that new?” He asks curiously. “Haven’t seen you watch that before.”

You make a face at him, slightly incredulous. “Jason, yes, you have. You literally saw me watching it last week, when you came home from work, remember?”

He squints. The faces on your screen do look vaguely familiar. You sigh.

“Forget about it. What were you saying?”

He grimaces. “Ah, I’ve forgotten now. Your show distracted me.”

You shake your head. When he lingers in the doorway, you look at him funny. “Do you…want to watch?”

Jason shrugs, making his way over. He’s sufficiently curious now, and you move over on your bed to make space for him. Briefly he wonders why the both of you don’t just watch it in the living room, but when he settles onto your mattress and the smell of your laundry detergent hits his nose, he doesn’t mind so much. Your bed is soft, and your room warm against the autumn chill.

The multitude of pillows on your bed make him snicker as he adjusts them, thinking of the various pillow forts he’d coerced his brother into making when they’d been younger. The tv show you’re watching is decidedly a lot tamer than the horror movies they’d stayed up all night watching, always ending with Dick and him creeping into Bruce’s room in the middle of the night, but he finds himself enjoying it all the same.

“So, what’s going on?” He asks and you pause it, looking troubled.

“Maybe we should watch the pilot,” you say. “You aren’t going to get everything that’s going on even if I explain it to you.”

He looks at you flatly. “Seriously? I can do fine on my own with context clues if you’re too lazy to explain it.”

You squawk at him indignantly, swatting his arm. “I am not lazy, you just need to be fully immersed!”

“Whatever, put the pilot on,” he grumbles and you nod, navigating through the website to start the show from the beginning.

And he really doesn’t think he’s going to enjoy it too much–they’re so quippy, it reminds him of Tim and Steph but the sun sinks in the sky and he’s curled up against you, watching mother and daughter exchange witty jokes, enraptured.

You lean against his side, commenting every so often on the nuances of Gilmore Girls, giggling when he scoffs at the characters, muttering his opinions to you in between the lines.

“This Luke guy’s the only sane one here,” he says and you snort. He looks down at you, grinning. “What?”

“Nothing,” you laugh, pressing your fingers to your mouth to hide your smile. He nudges you. “It’s just–I knew you’d say that. He’s so you.”

“He’s so grumpy,” Jason protests and you raise your eyebrows pointedly. His mouth drops open. "You think I'm grumpy?"

"You're not exactly all smiles," you argue, sitting up properly to look at him. He's still reclined against the pillows and for a moment he thinks he sees something flash in your eyes, faltering for the briefest moment before you continue. "You've always got something smart to say."

He laughs. "That's because you make it too easy."

You roll your eyes, and sit back, curling up under the blankets. Jason adjusts your laptop where it had been jostled. "Whatever, shut up and watch the show."

You fall asleep against him to the sounds of Emily and Lorelai arguing, and Jason thinks that when the next weekend comes around, he might have to negotiate with you so that he can continue watching it.

thank u for this request mage!! i hope you don't mind, but i thought it fit in well in the roommate au <3