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carmenized-onions · 3 months

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Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you, Amish?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

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

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

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

“I just like making my own lunch.”

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

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This fucking guy.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fak.”

“Carm?”

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

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

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

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

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

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.”

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

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

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

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

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

“You're the baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Your hair is fucked.”

“And the food?”

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

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.”

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye aye, Rich.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin!”

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

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She had to leave early.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

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

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s how it starts.”

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

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

“How long you been stable, again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

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

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

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

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

“What?”

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

“Fuck you mean what?”

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

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

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

“You said she failed him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

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

Richie just nods, pensive. “M’sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“Same team.”

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

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

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

“Six hours. Same team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“First time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re multiplying?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Can you stay after close?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods, “Can you do that?”

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

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

“Insane, Uncle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I believe in you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish you did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“Mikey—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not?”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you, Bear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

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

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not negotiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Part

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

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caplanbuckybarnes · 12 days

Text

Smoke & Regret

Summary: you always hated how Logan dismissed you.

Word Count: 839

Warnings: Angst, smoking,a break up

Read on Ao3

The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes, the smoke curling lazily in the dim light of the room. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Logan sit at the edge of the bed, the flickering ember of his cigarette casting faint shadows across his rough, worn features.

“You know I hate that you smoke.”

Your voice was quiet, but the weight behind your words was unmistakable. Logan didn’t look at you at first, just brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The soft crackle of burning tobacco filled the silence between you, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d pretend he didn’t hear you. Again.

After a long exhale, the smoke escaping his lips in slow, deliberate tendrils, Logan finally glanced over at you, his dark eyes unreadable.

“You’ve told me,” he muttered, his voice as gruff as ever, but there was an edge to it tonight, something raw just beneath the surface. He flicked the ash into the tray by his side, not bothering to stand or move toward you.

A sharp pang of frustration cut through you, but it wasn’t new. You’d had this argument before, over and over. The smoking was just a symptom of everything else. Of his distance. Of his inability to let anyone in, even when you were right there, just a few feet away, wanting nothing more than to be close to him.

But he wouldn’t let you.

He never did.

“Then why do you keep doing it?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the hurt bled through. “You know it bothers me, Logan. You know I—"

He cut you off with a sharp look. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You could feel your heart sink. It always went like this—Logan with his walls, and you standing there, trying to find a way in. You should’ve known by now. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself be understood, not fully. His past was littered with too much pain, too many ghosts that he carried like scars across his soul. And every time you got close, every time you thought you could break through, he pushed you back.

Like tonight.

“I want you to care,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They sounded pathetic, even to your own ears. “I want you to care about what it’s doing to you. To us.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought maybe you’d struck something in him. But when he finally spoke, his words were cold, detached.

“I care.” He put out the cigarette, the sizzle of the ember dying against the metal tray loud in the quiet room. “But I’m not gonna change who I am. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You had known, deep down, that this was how it would go. That Logan would never be the kind of man who would change. He was stubborn, set in his ways, and part of you had accepted that a long time ago.

But another part of you had always hoped.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you wiped at your eyes, embarrassed by the tears you didn’t want him to see. “Right. Of course not. You’d rather keep doing this—keep pushing me away until there’s nothing left.”

His gaze finally softened, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

“Y/N…” he started, his voice low, almost pleading, but you shook your head. You didn’t want to hear his excuses, didn’t want to hear how he was damaged, how he wasn’t capable of what you were asking of him. You’d heard it all before.

“I can’t do this, Logan.” Your voice cracked, the weight of the truth finally spilling out. “I can’t keep pretending that this—us—is going to work if you won’t meet me halfway.”

Logan stood then, his broad shoulders tense, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place—regret, maybe, or sadness, or something deeper, something he would never say out loud. He stepped toward you, closing the gap between you, and for a moment, you thought he might reach out, might finally take that step.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood there, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, smell the lingering smoke on his clothes. But the distance between you was more than physical—it was something neither of you could bridge.

“I’m not good for you,” he said quietly, the words a knife to your chest. “You deserve better.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

The silence stretched out, thick and unbearable. You took one last look at him, at the man you’d loved for too long, the man who couldn’t love you back the way you needed.

Then you turned and walked away, leaving Logan alone in the quiet, the smell of cigarette smoke still hanging in the air like the ghosts of all the things left unsaid.

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #logan howlett x y/n #wolverine x y/n

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evolnoomym · 23 days

Text

Make Daddy Proud 🦂

Stepdad!Joel Miller x f!reader

Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

Summary: You don’t necessarily like your Mothers new beefy Husband, he tries and tries. To no avail, you just won’t warm up to him. When his patience reaches an end things finally get interesting.

Rating: 18+ mature content mdni!!!!

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: no use of y/n, female reader, Moon is not a name necessarily but more a nickname, age-gap, ages are unspecified, cheating, infidelity, alcohol consumption, smoking, reader is mean, dubcon, Daddy Kink, reader has a pussy, sex toy, wet humping (?) 😅, cum, squirting, Sunny appearance, reader kinda shames Joel,

If I missed anything please let me know 🙏🏻

Authors note: this is for @beefrobeefcal ‘s Married Joel Sits On You Challenge. I hope you enjoy Beef, I love you 🦂🤎😏😏😏

Shoutout to @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics for the dividers 🤎

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so if you come across mistakes it might be due to that. I’m totally here for constructive criticism or feedback on how to improve. I appreciate reblogs, comments and likes greatly 🫶🏻

Your Mother started dating Joel when you were 17, within a year they decided that the two of you would be moving into Joel’s house. Their relationship had an astonishing pace, it made you sick, you should’ve felt happy for her but you couldn’t bring yourself to get used to the idea of having a stepdad again.

Admittedly he was much nicer than the previous one. Joel was really trying to make it easier on you, but he realized quickly that you were not gonna just eat out of his hand like your mother did.

One time over dinner he decided to jokingly offer that you could call him Dad and you were not amused at all.

“You know Moon ya don’t have to call me Joel, could just call me Dad, huh? How bout that.” He gave you a happy and warm smile. He looked genuinely excited.

“No fucking way, Joel, thank you but you are not my Dad and you’ll never be. You are just you.” The response came out in a harsh and cold way, to clearly let him know that you weren’t up for it.

The rest of the dinner was filled by an uncomfortable silence and Joel never tried asking you again.

A couple months later, he caught you smoking out on the patio. He had planned to drink one of his beers in secret. He kept them hidden in his wood carving room, since your mother disapproved of the bitter sparkly liquid.

As soon as he slid the door open he got hit by the smell of burning tobacco. You were leaning on the railing, staring up at the sky, taking slow drags of the glimmering cigarette, clouds of smoke surrounded you and Joel couldn’t help himself from taking in your bend over form. The curve of your ass, your thighs and all the way down to your bare feet. Joel would never admit it but your distanced act pulled him in more and more.

You knew he was right behind you, staring, you could feel his eyes tracing you up and down. Perhaps you arched your back a little more than necessary to show off for him. Give him a show. Have something you could hold above his head if need be.

After he’d gotten closer he stopped right next to you and started quietly sipping his beer. At some point he held out his beer towards you and in exchange you offered him a cigarette. You both knew that this would be your shared little secret, with many more to come, big secrets.

Joel thought he made some progress that night, but you continued to treat him just like before.

Then the day came where Joel decided to get down on one knee and asked your mother to marry him, right in front of you.

You didn’t think it would be possible to dislike him even more. Why would he want to marry your mother? Why did he have to weasel his way into your life? Why did he have to look so good? Why was all of this happening?

The wedding was quickly planned, nothing too fancy, just the closest people invited, which sadly included you too.

On all the wedding-photos that were taken you looked disgusted and appalled by the reality of your situation. Your mother tried to reprimand you for pulling all these faces but you were not gonna pretend to enjoy any bit of the show they put on.

Joel obviously recognized some changes in your behavior after the wedding, but instead of getting better, it got worse. You didn’t even try to hide your disdain anymore. Purposely bumping into him, ignoring when he spoke to you and if looks could’ve kill he’d be dead long ago.

But there’s something else in the way you glared at him, a glimmer of something undetectable and it scared him to not know what went through your head. You could’ve been plotting his downfall and unlike the rest of the family, Joel didn’t wanna make the mistake of underestimating you.

Marriage had been good to Joel. His mental health and financial stability had improved, and he seemed over all like a happier person. The only drawback seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline. Something you took advantage of, resorting to a childish approach of shaming his beefy form. Calling him out for his large portions, laughing loudly when you could hear him from the master bedroom complaining about his clothes not fitting properly anymore. He could feel your eyes tracking his every move, he felt like prey being watched before getting attacked, all of it happening in his own home.

Joel decided he wanted to make one last attempt to persuade you to accept his presence at least somewhat. You didn’t have to be his Bestfriend, but at least get along with him.

He had organized a spa weekend get away for your mother, so the two of you could spend some uninterrupted bonding time together. Maybe without your Mother you’d feel more comfortable opening up to him.

As usual you started the day by scowling at every move he made, even when you sat on the passenger side of Joel’s car while he drove you to the local aquarium you stared holes into the side of his head.

Even though you were afraid of deep waters he learned quickly that you loved sharks and have always wanted to go to an aquarium. Your mother however never really cared much for that wish, so Joel thought this is how he’d get you on his side.

Instead of having a pleasant conversation with you, he was punished with icy silence. He pathetically trailed behind you in the 2 hours it took to see everything the aquarium had to offer. You didn’t even thank him afterwards but he tried to chalk it up to you maybe having a bad night.

Joel hoped that perhaps him taking you to Kiki’s Nail’s, a very highly respected nail salon, would make you happy but more than a little smile was not in it.

Kiki generously offered that he could sit next to you, to watch what she does on your nails, but you quickly declined.

She also mistook you for his wife, which had you cackling loudly, purposefully embarrassing Joel and implying that he could never land a woman like you.

He got more and more upset, especially seeing you interact so excitedly and animatedly with Kiki. He didn’t understand what he had to do so he could get the same enthusiasm for himself. It pissed him off quite frankly.

When you stood next to him at the cash register you didn’t even blink an eye at 140$ your manicure cost Joel. You even went as far as to laugh at him for getting choked up by the amount of money he had to spend.

At least you seemed to really love the design Kiki did. A little victory he counted for himself.

When you got home, he told you to settle on the couch and relax, all while he was in the kitchen preparing his famous Miller tacos. Your mother told him behind your back that you liked them very much, but of course you’d never admit it to his face.

Even though Joel knew you probably just acted as if you didn’t enjoy them, the lackluster response soured his mood further. It hit rock bottom when you left him to deal with the dishes and ignored the fact he bought your favorite movie to watch with you.

After he had gotten done with cleaning up, he decided to indulge on some of his hidden whiskey. He pours himself a glass and sits down on the couch. Joel feels beyond frustrated by everything that went wrong today.

He spends 30 mins just slowly sipping on his whiskey, all while trying to figure out what to do next. The alcohol in his system makes the ever present Texas heat appear much stronger, so without thinking he pulls his sleeping shirt over his head.

Now only clad in his cotton pajama shorts and with alcohol cursing through his system, Joel impulsively decides he might have to take the route of having a serious talk with you about the ever pending attitude.

Joel stomps up the stairs, thinking you would hear it which makes him not even bother to knock, no, he practically throws himself against the door.

He should’ve expected to be greeted by immediate screaming.

“Joel what the hell?? Get the fuck out of my room!!”

“Noooo…no you shut up lil missy, ‘ve had enough of ya pissy attitude.”

“Get out,” And when he doesn’t react you continue “Are you deaf, old man, do I need to spell it out?? Fuck off.”

If Joel would’ve been less drunk he might have caught the panicked and out of breath way in which you spoke.

He starts shaking his head as he approaches your bedside.

“You know I’ve had enough of you, I tried all damn day to make ya happy. Ya didn’t show me an ounce of respect,” he comes to a stop beside your bed “ what is your goddamn problem, huh?”

You could say something to de-escalate the situation but that would be so unlike you.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

In Joel’s head a switch flips, within a split second he swings his leg over you and as he sits down on your hips the healthy swell of his tummy rubs up against you.

A shiver runs up your spine and you let out a sigh.

“W..wha- what are you doing Joel?”

He looks feral, like an animal ready to pounce on you any moment.

“Teaching ya a much needed lesson, sweet girl.”

His big warm, calloused hands engulf your wrists and pin them to the mattress beside your head.

Out of the corner of his eyes Joel sees something purple, he looks towards your nightstand and there it is. A purple silicone cock shaped vibrator, it looks glossy, covered in slick.

You can see the wheels turning in his head and when he seems to have come to some sorta conclusion his features light up.

His head turns back to you.

“Oh babygirl, ya naughty lil thing. You’ve been playin’ with yourself? Been in a bad mood all day long cuz that needy little pussy needed some attention,huh?”

Instead of answering your eyes wander down his bare chest.

“Where’s your shirt Joel?”

“Ya got a problem, baby?”

Your cheeks are heating up and you start nibbling on your lower lip while still staring.

“Ya like what you see sweet girl?”

He lets go of one wrist and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

You nod.

“Nah, use your voice babygirl. Come on ya know what I want to hear.”

“Yes Daddy.”

He grunts deeply.

“Atta Girl.”

Now both his hands slip beneath your lower back and he sits up while pulling you with him.

You go from being pinned beneath him, to sitting on top of his lower gut.

Your hands are splayed on his chest, probing yourself up.

His hands go to your hips, instantly squeezing and kneading.

“Oh baby, she’s leaking, dripping all over me. That lil pussy is so sloppy.”

With that his hands momentarily slip lower to pull his shorts down, at least so much that his cock can be freed. One of his hands goes back to your hips, while the other comes up to your mouth.

“Spit.”

And you do. Letting a decent amount drop into the palm of his hand and then it disappears behind you. At the squelching noises you're able to detach that he is touching himself.

“Start rubbing that cunt on me. Make yourself come. Use me sweetheart.”

He instructs, while setting a rhythm with the hand on your hip.

The slick noises that his hand wrapped around his length produce combined with your wet pussy fill your bedroom.

“Yes baby, ya doin’ so good for me. Finally being a good girl.”

You feel his thumb soothingly circling your hipbone.

“I was already close, I’m gonna come soon, Daddy.” You sound deliciously whiny.

Music to Joel’s ears.

It takes not much longer to make Joel catch up with you. You can tell he’s getting close by the way his hands grips your hip tightly, he will most likely leave marks.

“Baby you gotta lift up for me. Quick!”

You swiftly lift yourself up and watch in awe how he paints his tummy with white creamy ropes of cum.

“Good god, baby,” he writhes beneath you, “settle back down darlin’.”

When you lower yourself back down onto him you moan at the incredible sensation of his spend being spread up and down his hairy belly by your lips. It stimulates your engorged clit perfectly.

You are whimpering furiously.

“Da..Da- Daddy, so..so good. I’m gonna come, it feels so different, ughh.”

“Yes baby, be a good girl an’ come on me. Come on Daddy’s tummy.”

It takes only a couple more seconds before you fall over the edge with a high pitched scream, you feel yourself leaking more than ever before, hips stuttering in his iron grip.

You flop forward into Joel’s neck, burying yourself there and inhaling his comforting scent.

“Sweet girl ya made Daddy very happy, didn’t know ya could squirt, my princess is full of surprises, ain’t she?”

His cheek leans against yours to get your attention but to no avail, all energy was spend.

The soft snoring is all indication Joel needed.

He gently turned you on your back, got up, retrieved a washcloth and carefully cleaned you up. The last thing he does is tuck you in and leave a kiss on your forehead.

Hours later you are laying on your stomach in bed while holding the phone up to your ear.

“Sunny you won’t fucking believe what happened yesterday.”

Sunny’s manic giggling tells you she already has a pretty good idea of what could’ve happened.

Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI, thank you 🙏🏻

Tags: @aurorawritestoescape @joelmillerisapunk @milla-frenchy @the-mandawhor1an @rivnedell @iamasaddie @toxicanonymity @ace-turned-confused @strang3lov3 @pedropeach @tonysopranosrobe @moonlitbirdie @joelstummy @joelsdagger @joelslegalwhre @joelsgreys @pedge-page @littlemisspascal @fhatbhabiee @punkshort @macfrog @thundermartini @mrsmando @xdaddysprincessxx @mountainsandmayhem @syd-djarin @msjarvis @miss-oranje-disco-dancer

#joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller Fic #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller smut #joel miller sat on me 2024 #beefy Joel miller #belly #the tumtum is appreciated #Mina’s writing #My writing

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blueparadis · 1 year

Text

LEMONADE + SHIU KONG // f!reader ( she's a sniper), smoking, mention of murder and violence, implicit smut, semi-public ( happens in a car ), little tension between them, rivals to fvck buddies dynamics, he is such a tease here. 1.3 (w.c)

special thanks to @poohbea for beta-reading. without her, i really wouldn't have posted this. i had something in mind and this is entirely different. so i said better luck next time to myself and found the courage to post this. | back to nav. | also tagging @yuujispinkhair

“You’re not nearly as inconspicuous as you believe yourself to be.” Kong mutters off-handedly under his breath, reaching for the latch of your belt. His minty tobacco-laced breath paired with that familiar musky cologne threatens to send your nerves into a frenzy. He’s too close for someone who claims to ‘just wanted to undo your seatbelt’. He had no reason to but he did it anyway, probably because you were asking too many questions. He could have easily pressed one of those buttons on the driver’s side door, the one that unlocks all seat belts at once. The car is fancy enough to have those kinds of luxury features anyway, but you can’t help the racing of your heart when his fingers brush your skin. It’s only when he sits back in his own seat do you register his remark. Did he just scold you? The possibility alone has you licking your bottom lip nervously.

It’s not as though he never has, but given your history with him, he rarely comments on your professionalism. He has been your handler for almost a year now and has yet to actually correct or complain about the way you do your job. He’s proud of your skills, he has to be, otherwise, he wouldn’t be hiring you for every sniper-kill case he gets.

“I heard you were back in town,” he starts, tapping on his cigarette packet before taking one between his lips. “But I couldn't contact you until I got the green light. That, and I’ve been too damn busy with the bounty offers that keep coming up.” He digs into his breast pocket to fish out a lighter, the flame flicking to life as his thumb rolls over the spark wheel. You look at him visibly confused, something he acknowledges with an amused huff. “Were you really so busy that you couldn't read the briefing I sent you?” He is definitely scolding you, but for what exactly? Trying to stay neutral in the face of his crude teasing, you let out a small breath, choosing to keep his gaze despite the nagging need to look away. He’s changed a bit. There’s worry in his eyes, more than usual, eyebrows creased as he continues. “Ah! I can't let you slip up now — ”

“Why am I here?” You interject with a frown.

“What?” He has the audacity to look at you surprised, as if he wasn’t the one to call you here again.

“This is the third time this month you’ve had me meet you… and in case you haven’t noticed, I have a bit of a busy schedule.” Kong lets you speak for longer than ten seconds for the first time in a very long time, his bad habit of interrupting taking the backseat for once. When he doesn’t answer you, you click your tongue, irritation evident in the furrow of your brow. “Why am I here, Kong-san—?”

“Shiu.” He corrects. Guess you spoke too soon. “And you still didn't answer my question. Did you or did you not—”

“I did.” You respond sourly. “And it told me a whole lot of nothing. Which is why I'll ask you again. Why am I here, Shiu?” Despite your irritation, the glaring fact of his contributions to your career as a sniper sits heavy on your shoulders as you sit in weighted silence. He knows it too, and never fails to bring it up every time you try to walk away, try to tell him you don’t need his help. He’s pushed you farther than anyone else ever has. Certainly, you owe it to him, but his ego is already big enough without the offer of such a confession, and you would rather put a bullet in your skull than admit that.

The air inside the car grows thick with smoke as he takes drag after drag of his cigarette, not that you minded, you’re a smoker yourself, but just to spite him you opened the window by your side. “Isn’t it obvious?” Kong soon discards the butt out of his own window, studying you all the while, observing the mix of question and frustration that creases your forehead as your frown deepens. His lips tug up in one corner ever so slightly, too slight for anyone else to spot, but being around him as often as you have, you knew it was coming. “I’ve missed you.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. What a horrible man… he’s toying with you.

“Hilarious,” you mutter, offering him a sarcastic chuckle. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t look away, that small smile growing at your skepticism. The realization has your heart beating in your ears, and suddenly finding it difficult to keep his gaze.

“Want me to prove it to you?” He dips his head slightly, the leather of his seat squeaking in protest as he leans closer.

“No.” Your reply was instantaneous but you do not move, his hand reaching to play with the necklace resting against your collarbone, the very someone he gifted you after your first successful case. “Aren't we supposed to be doing a job here?”

“You tell me. Haven't you read the briefing?” Again with the same question. He is far too calm in this situation, fingers caressing the hammering pulse that lies just below the surface of your skin. “You weren’t lying to me were you—?”

“This is going nowhere.” You huff, finally breaking the intense staring contest he had trapped you in, finding the courage to withdraw from his touch momentarily.

“It could if…” he guides you back to him, grasping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, gaze dipping to your lips. “If you wanted.”

You bite your lip lowering your head to hide your merriment. “Like the last time?” You ask with a knowing smile. If you wanted. Yeah. Sure. As if he didn’t. Because during the ‘last time’ in question, things were entirely different. You two weren’t out for a job. In fact, you were in a situation similar to this one, in his car, engaging in your usual back and forth. It’s unclear exactly what came over you that day, but those sly eyes and that cocky smile had you seeing your handler as less of a mentor and more of the man he was. The conversation devolved into his lips against yours, his hands against your hips as he encouraged you from your seat onto his lap. Thunder rumbled the heavens and rain battered against the windshield, the perfect mask for inevitable heavy breaths and throaty moans. Your skin tingled beneath his touch, his lips, his teeth, the press of his thigh between your legs that had electricity crackling up the base of your spine. His name fogged the windows, each syllable working its way through the tresses of your mind till that was all you could utter, all that truly mattered. He reveled in that, in the way you gave yourself to him almost entirely. How your body grew hot with every caress, every thrust, every kiss. What did you even call this feeling? Neither of you knew, but it was clear that either didn’t want it to stop. By the end of it, his presence spanned your body, inside and out.

Shiu laughs at your subtle accusation. It has the kind of warmth that reminds you of cozy mornings during winter. There is a pregnant pause after he says. “Yeah.” Bobbing his head in a ‘yes’. You shake your head slowly, an amused breath leaving your nose as your nerves buzz with memories past.

You sigh, assessing him with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what exactly he’s hiding beneath that elaborately organized talk of his. But the man is a vault, hiding behind dark eyes that threaten to reel you in again. It has you playing with your tongue, curling it against the insides of your mouth before smacking your lips. “Was there really any job for me to begin with?” You retort.

Shiu Kong smiles, his carefully crafted demeanor crumbling in the face of the woman he’s slowly beginning to fall for. “There wasn’t.” He says bashfully.

—

@angelshub @public-safety-network @underratedcharactercorner

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canthelpit0 · 5 months

Text

Enemies (With Benefits) PT3

Pairing: Cold!Chris x Reader

Word count: 3.9k +

Summary: Chris and reader have always been enemies ever since they’ve known each other. neither knew why they had this burning feeling in their gut. So one day they decide to fuck it out. Until, eventually doing it regularly

Warnings: language, smut, mentions of weed, (implied) RichKid!Reader, jealous!Chris, pet names (cherry), choking, humiliation, heavy degradation, sub!Chris, dom!Reader, I think that’s all.

(A/N: I got this idea from this request. Tysm for the idea & inspiration. Hope this is good.)

PT1 PT2 PT3 PT4 FINAL

I haven’t talked to Chris ever since that party.

wich wouldn’t be too shocking, since we hate each other. but I’ve been ignoring him fully. I wasn’t even responding to his mocking or arguing with him.. just…

The entire situation of us, two people who hate each other so much, and have for so long, hooking up, is extremely toxic.

And I’m self aware, I know that.

It just never bothered me before... But he was treating me like shit. And I’m done with it.

It’s been a week now, and I don’t think he cares that much honestly. At first he went on like normal making witty remarks trying to start arguments and disagreements, but since I didn’t respond he started to do it less and less.

It feels so refreshing not to have a headache everyday.

Only con is, that we share most classes. So i have to see his face all the time. Tho I just ignore him.

At first I saw him walking a round with charlotte, and honestly I don’t know why she is still talking to him after almost hooking up.

I don’t know what he was trying to achieve with that. But if the point was to make me jealous he is so bad at it.

I’ve been talking to Ethan a lot though.

And like I thought, he’s a nice guy, and he always shares his weed.

Even though I have enough friends, most of them are ‘lunchbox friends’. Well except for Matt and Nick, but I can’t really talk to them often considering I’m trying to avoid their brother.

I feel like most of my friends are fake. Wich they are.

We’ll talk and have fun in school, but if I walk past them at the mall they will act like they’ve never seen me in their entire life.

Ethan though. Ethan is nice. His skater friends not so much. Well I guess they’re just critical. After all I’m not any type of alternative at all, and I frankly, don’t know how to skate.

But at least they respect me. Probably because I’m wealthy but ih well.

Ethan and I haven’t done anything.

Other than kiss.

I walk out of history class, a class I share with Ethan. We walk down the hallway side to side.

When we get to my locker- wich is only two away from Chris’ -I unlock it to put my books in it.

All this time Ethan had been complaining about how his next class would be math and whatnot. I had noticed that Ethan was skipping less and less classes now. I never realized how many classes we shared because he was always skipping. But now he wasn’t. And the lack of tobacco in his system was making him itchy and I could tell.

Once you got to know him he actually got quite talkative.

I look over my shoulder to look at Ethan but see Chris in the corner of my eye.

Chris…

Chris.

Without thinking I grab the collar of Ethan’s sweatshirt roughly crashing my lips onto his.

Ethan, having not expected it, doesn’t do anything for a moment, before he kisses back.

Pushing me against the lockers behind me roughly. His tongue finds its way into my mouth as we start to make out.

In the middle of the hall.

My arms wrap around his neck holding him close.

He was kissing me like i was the only source of oxygen. And it felt good. I could tell he liked kissing me, and he wasn’t bad at it.

“Gonna suck face in the hallways now too?”

I pull away slightly. My breath was coming out in short and harsh pants.

I ignore the voice. Chris’ voice.

…Chris

Instead I stare back into Ethan’s eyes. I try to focus on the way his hands feel on my waist as he holds me against the lockers.

His grip isn’t too tight, but it was firm. His forehead pressed against mine as I stare back into his dark eyes.

“Disgusting.”

I look over at him at the disgusted tone. I scoff. My eyes lock onto Chris’ and it feels like electricity shoots up my spine.

Ethan looks a lot like Chris, but he doesn’t have the blue eyes.

The blue eyes that I-

I pause all the thoughts leaving my brain as I hear Chris let out an irritated huff.

And suddenly the feeling of Ethan’s hands on my clothed skin feels too hot. Even tho he unironically resembles Chris a lot, he isn’t Chris.

And god when did my standard become: Chris.

I tare my eyes away from Chris’ gaze. My eyes locking back onto Ethan’s dark eyes.

While Chris’ seem cold and icy, Ethan’s are warm and welcoming. But I don’t want to be welcome and the warmth seems too hot.

It feels like going out in a hoodie on the hottest summer day.

-suffocating

“Fuck off Chris. You’re not any better”

I say to Chris, while staring back at Ethan. But before I can hear Chris reply the bell rings.

I let out a breath. Out of the corner of my eyes I see Chris slam his locker harshly and leave. And once he does I leave a peck on Ethan’s lips.

I slide out of his grip chuckling.

“Imma go now pretty boy, I’ll see you later” I smile at Ethan.

I quickly take out my stuff for my English class and speed walk past him.

★ ★

I’m late to my class but I can’t help but not care.

I share this class with none of them.

Not Ethan, not Chris, not charlotte.

Wich was a relief. Because I don’t know what that was. Ethan has never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.

Chris had.

So why am I comparing them.

Why do I feel like the lack of just simple bickering with Chris is giving me withdrawal? Why does his glare burn through my soul? Why does it feel wrong being near Ethan when Chris was there? And why the tell did it feel like Ethan’s touch burned?

Why did I want Ethan to be Chris?

Well no let me rephrase that.

Why did I want Chris to be nice to me.

He’s always been rude and mean. I knew what I was getting into. And I liked it, and it felt great. So why am I missing the attitude.

Am I that much of an attention whore?

My eyes trail around the room. I take in the whiteboard none of the words written on it register in my head. I look over the students, mostly only seeing the back of their heads, since I sat all the way in the back

I’ve never felt so loved, alone and hated at the same time.

I know Ethen likes me, and it feels like I’m using him for escapism. To distract myself. I’m leading him on..

I feel so alone. Literally the only people I would usually tell, are the brothers of the problem.

And I’ve felt hatred so intense from Chris. And I know he hates me, and I know that’ll never change

★ ★

He days seem to pass so fast, yet so slow. And at this point I don’t know what I’m doing.

I stick to Ethan. Sometimes I’ll make out with him other times I’ll just stay close to him. Especially when Chris is around.

And I can see that he is getting more and more pissed off.

I’ve been wearing more revealing clothes. Atleast as revealing as it can get with the dress code and all. Mocking the fact that Chris can’t do anything about it.

I was hanging out at home. Alone since my siblings were once again at a sleepover. It wasn’t like they were always at one. And I feel like they’re too young to party and I trust them.

I trust that they aren’t lying to me.

Anyway, since they’re only one year apart they share some friends. So they both went to a sleepover birthday party from one of them.

I’m sitting on the couch, for once enjoying the pice and quiet. I have a movie playing, but I’m drowning more in my own thoughts than watching the movie.

I pause when I suddenly hear the doorbell ring.

I think that maybe it could be my siblings? No neither can drive yet.

Maybe it’s a package. Did I order something? But no it’s midnight they wouldn’t still be delivering orders at midnight..

I get up anyway trading over to the door.

I mean if it’s a killer and I go out this way…. Oh well.

My eyes meet Chris’ as soon as I open the door.

I go to slam the door in his face, but he catches it roughly throwing it open.

“Cherry, please” he huffs. He walks in his sharp eyes trained on me. Chris closes the front door behind him.

“Chris get out” I sigh. I purse my lips glaring right back at him.

If he stays i don’t know for how much longer I can control myself. I feel like I’m having withdrawal symptoms. I miss the way he hates me.

“Cherry, listen” he snaps slightly. I raise an eye cockily. I shift on my feet and cross my arms. My glare doesn’t let up.

But Chris is looking at me different. He doesn’t glare, he looks at me with… desperation?

“What?” I snap back harshly.

“Cherry, please? Literally give me anything?”

Oh, so he is as desperate as he looks.

“Give you what?” I play dumb. My arms stay crossed. I keep looking back at him, his pathetic state only serving to piss me off more.

He can’t even drive, how the fuck did he get here. Nobody knows were fucking so he probably didn’t ask Matt. But Ubers are expensive at this time.

“You know what I mean. Cherry, I’ll literally get on my knees right now and beg.” He says that slightly jokingly. He doesn’t actually think he’ll have to go that far, but if he needs to he will.

“So, get on your knees than, Chris” I mock back, thinking that he wouldn’t actually do it.

But before I can blink he’s going down on his knees right in front of me.

I raise my eyebrow staring down at him.

He dramatically puts his hands together making a begging motion. “Please, please, please cherry??”

I look down at him. He looks so cute when his eyes don’t look like they want to bore through me.

He actually looks desperate and needy right now.

I know I said I wouldn’t hook up with him, and I’ve been doing good at ignoring him for almost a whole month. But god he looks so cute, so… god

I thread my fingers through his messy long hair. His wavy brown hair. And I suddenly pull him up. He winces at the harsh treatment, but he lowkey deserves it for being an ass.

I hate how he stands just a little bit taller next to me.

I crash my lips on his and it feels like fire works go off. I’ve kissed Ethan so many times these past few weeks but it never felt this good.

My arms wrap around his neck. My fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. Chris’ hands instinctively go to my waist. He holds me flush against him and I feel so comfortable under his touch.

I pull off of the kiss scoffing. My hand wraps around his neck harshly. I pull him down to my eye level while slightly choking him, and he just lets me.

“Hm? Did you not get your dick sucked by someone else?” I mock him, my tone is harsh and condescending.

“Did she not do it as good as I did?”

“Don’t flatter yourself” he grumbles under his breath. He has the audacity to roll his eyes at me.

My grip on his neck tightens and he lets out a sharp breath, one that almost sounds like a moan.

“And yet you still came to my house, got on your knees and begged for me?”

He falls silent at the harsh words. He purses his lip staring back at me with what looks like shame in his eyes.

I move him harshly, changing the place where we stand so I’m close to the door. I harshly squeeze his neck before letting go.

“Go to the living room, I’ll be right there” I nod to the living room behind him. Chris eagerly nods before going to the living room.

I sprint up the stairs and with in a minute I’m back again.

“You’re so fucking pathetic you know that?” I glare at him while towering over his sitting figure.

I go to slowly straddle his lap. His back is pressed against the back of the couch. He looks up at me with ever so pleading eyes. Looking at me like he was desperate, wich he was.

“Such a pathetic bitch. Going to your enemies house and begging to be fucked” I say harshly. My grip goes back to his neck as I choke him slightly. Not enough to actually choke him, but enough to make him lightheaded.

“Sorry, sorry” he closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again.

His eyes meet mine and he looks purely submissive now. It’s funny to me how he is so needy. Maybe I need to ignore him and make him submissive more often, because I like this sight.

I pull him closer by his neck kissing him again. His hands ghost over my sides not daring to actually touch.

I pull away abruptly, listening to his whine.

“Undress.” I says simply standing in front of him.

While I watch him undress I turn off the TV fully. The movie had been paused, but I hadn’t paid attention to it anyway.

He does as I say. He slips off all of his clothing. He’s left fully nude in front of me for me to look at.

He squirms under my harsh gaze. But he is turned on. It’s obvious by his rock hard dick. It’s already red and swollen, leaking pre cum, looking for some release.

I pull out the vibrator from my pj pants pockets. I had gotten it from upstairs. Chris never let me use it on him, unless he was being really submissive.

And since he was, I might as well have fun.

I press it to his tip gently, not turning it on anything yet. I look back at him. I capture his mouth in a kiss. And then turn the vibrator on. He actually flinches at the sudden stimulation.

The kiss is messy, mainly because Chris can’t focus. But The vibrator is literally on the lowest level.

I pull away from the kiss listening to Chris whines and moans. He keeps his hands at his sides. He knows better than to try to get it away. But he looks like he’s itching to just push it away, overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure.

“You look so stupid right now” I chuckle.

I put the vibrator on the secound lowest level. But that alone is high enough for Chris to physically hold himself back from flinching. His moans and whines turn into breathless whimpers.

“Answer.” I scoff. And before I knew it I slap him across the face harshly. The clap echos through the room.

I was letting my pent up enger out, but Chris was enjoying it. As soon as I slap him, his mouth falls open in a silent moan.

Chris didn’t seem like the type. But he had a raging degradation kink.

The sting of the slap traveled right to his dick. His length was twitching in my hand. He was sinking further and further into the couch. He was enjoying this.

“I know-“ he breathes out. But I cut him off by turning the vibrator on higher.

His body practically jolts forward in pleasure. He tries not to come right then and there.

His hand grabs my wrist, the one that was holding the vibrator. “I’m close-“

“I don’t care Chris. If you come now you’ll have to go through the rest overstimulated.” I shrug. Then I abruptly turn the vibrator to its highest setting

He tries to curl his body in on himself but I push him back. And within seconds hes coming all over himself.

I keep the vibrator situated on his tip. I watch how he stays rock hard. His dick starts twitching as his whines get louder and needier.

He weekly pushes my hand off. But after A moment I take it off fully.

While he heaves for breath, I start to undress. I straddle him. When he feels me sink down on his tip his hands go to my waist out of instinct.

I sigh at the feeling. We haven’t fucked in what feels like ages. The stretch hurts. But still I purposefully clench around him to make it even tighter.

His eyes are clenched shut. He’s a moaning mess.

“Chris open your fucking eyes” I slap him again. His eyes flutter open.

“You look so cute all submissive” I taunt. I’m only half way down and I’m struggling. But he doesn’t need to know.

Before he can whine in answer I ram myself down. I wince at the feeling. But Chris’ moans are louder.

I start to gently bounce on him. But he is growing overstimulated quick.

I keep on doing that, my glare focused on Chris. Chris’ eyes shut tightly for a moment. He breaths harshly.

His eye meet mine again. He looks purely submissive. His head tilted down slightly, mouth slightly agape.

“Handsome boy, all needy to get fucked like this hm?” I wait for him to answer but he just whines and moans in response to my movements.

“Can you talk baby?” I ask, huffing. I grab his face, slightly squishing his cheek together with one hand. “Hm? You like getting fucked like this?”

He gasps when I speed up the pace. He blinks a few times, halfheartedly throwing back his head.

Another slap echos through the living room. His head is turned to the side his eyes wide. His mouth is agape as he tries to hold it together. “I told you to fucking talk Chris”

One of his hands goes to his cheek. He grits his teeth trying to formulate words.

But before he can, my hand goes to his neck gently squeezing as I start to ride him harder.

“So good- fuck-“ he breaths out harshly.

His eyes are half lidded. The rough treatment only serves to turn him on even more.

“Yeah, you like that?” I scoff. My hand snakes from his throat to his neck. I pull him in for a sloppy kiss. He can barely focus on anything, every sense in him overwhelmed.

I pull away from the kiss. My hands both move to his shoulders, To use as leverage to ride him harder.

Chris throws back his head, his eyes shutting. He only gets increasingly louder. My movements get harsher and more relentless.

I take one of his hands from my waits and position it at my clit. “Rub it” I demand. And as soon as I do he starts to rub it vigorously.

I clench around him, feeling my release wash over me. Chris’ hand on my hip gets harsher and harsher. I keep moving though, until I feel him twitch.

I quickly pull off an hover over him.

I sit down on his thighs, then start to jerk him off harshly. I put the vibrator back to his tip and turn it on.

Chris’ body harshly jerks forward. I put a hand on his chest and push him back.

And within a few seconds Chris is coming all over himself again.

We both pant as I stare at him. I keep sitting on his thighs as I watch him for a moment.

I lean down and leave a peck on his forehead. I pull him into me. My arms wrap around his neck, putting his face into the crook of my neck.

I pull away from him and slowly get up off of him. I pull on my panties, and pj pants again. As well as my top. Quickly getting dressed again.

I really don’t want to, but he needs to go. As much as I missed him, I made it a point to not hook up with him.

And now that I have, I might as well treat him like he treats me.

“You have to leave.”

He pause looking at me questioningly, It’s like he hadn’t expected me to tell him that. Like he expected us to just hang out and cuddle or something.

Which is not going to happen.

“What?” He questions, his tone sounding blunt, almost harsh.

“Christopher, I want you to leave” I say more sternly. I overpronounce every word to make sure his stupid brain understands it.

“Why” he scoffs frustrated. He stares at me like I’m crazy. Like I’m crazy for telling him to leave when leaving is literally all he ever does.

“Christoper.” I grit out my tone more harsh and serious.

I can’t help the loud scoff that I let out. I walk to the nearest bathroom. I grab a towel halfheartedly dampening it.

I walk back to the living room, where Chris sits mildly stunned. I throw the damp towel on him watching as he awkwardly cleans himself.

“What’s up with you” he sasses me. His gaze is judging.

“I hate you, Chris. I always will.” My words are harsh. And the more I talk the more I can see him narrow his eyes at me in anger, growing more upset by the second.

“Just because we fuck, doesn’t mean I like you. You’re a shitty person.” I take in a deep breath. I feel like I could say worse than that.

“I hate you, and you should leave.” I purse my lips. I watch his expression shift. His jaw clenches, and I can see that he looks like he is about to blow up on me.

The withdrawal symptoms of not fucking me were too much, but now he feels the rage. He remembers why he hated me so much. I can literally feel the hatred and anger radiating off of him.

His already sharp jawline only seems accentuated by the way he clenches it. He swallows his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Chris’ eyes narrow at me, but he just gets up and puts his clothes back on. He looked furious.

I hate him, so why would I let him stay, why would I forgive him. He got the Sex he wanted, so why was he so pissy about leaving?

Now fully dressed he walks closer to me, not touching me.

“What’s wrong with you?” He scoffs. His mood was now definitely sour.

“That’s how you always treat me Chris. Now leave” I snap back at him, getting just as angry as him.

“Okay cherry, have it that way” he gives me a halfhearted sarcastic nod. He then brushes past me to the door, opening it, before a loud slam echoes through the house.

I had sworn to not hook up with him anymore. And if I did that I’d treat him like he treats me. But why do I feel so shitty now?

Can’t a girl have sex and then he all giddy and want to cuddle?

Yes but Chris’ presence irks me. It’s disgusting. He is disgusting.

Masterlist

A/N: requests are always open. pls give me ideas on how to continue this <3 comment if u wanna be on the taglist

‼️please don’t copy my work/idea‼️

Taglist: @muwapsturniolo , @sturnad , @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 , @evie-sturns , @me09love , @fratbrochrisgf , @spideylovin , @chrissgirlsstuff , @stunza , @whicked-hazlatwhore , @sturniooolos

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euphoriaslux · 6 months

Text

a gloomy december morning

word count: 1196

warnings: suggestive sexual content, very slight jealousy, mentions of smoking and drinking. vincent being a dreamboat

a/n: i have never written before but i watched anatomy of a fall and knew what i had to do. i am so scared and think this is garbage but i hope u guys like it :))

vincent is fast asleep, a true rarity for your household. he’s naked, bar the thin linen blanket draped over his hips that his mother tossed in a bag when you two first moved into this home. you brush your fingers through his silver hair, shifting to give him a soft peck on his forehead. he shifts but ultimately stays in the same position.

smiling, you gently move your duvet off of your body, shivering at the lost warmth. you scan your shared bedroom, littered with strewn clothes, empty wine bottles and folders filled with documents and find a chair with an old tee shirt on it that hits just above your underwear.

you made a mental note to at least try to clean the house sometime soon, but you just couldn’t leave your vincent alone now that you finally had him for more than two hours at a time. after a year of only seeing him at night, or when you could visit his office during your lunch break, or over facetime in the early hours of the morning, something as simple as waking up with him felt sacred. you didn’t know how much of this you had.

you brace as you push the door close as quietly as possible, hissing as your feet hit the cold tile of the linoleum of your kitchen floor. it still smells vaguely of the cake you two shared last night, picking at pieces of tiramisu between gulps of white wine and sneaky kisses even though no one was watching. you grab some ground coffee and start to heat up your stovetop espresso maker, which you got at the insistence of your very stubborn husband.

“love, can’t we just get an instant coffee maker? it will be so much faster” you ask from behind your laptop, tucked into your velvet sofa as the december rain gently pattered onto your roof.

vincent chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the drawer.

“you have not had a real cappuccino if it comes from a machine, chérie,” he says as he rummages through the kitchen drawers while swearing under his breath.

you rise from the couch with a soft sigh, shutting your laptop and placing it on the glass table in front of you and grabbing vincent’s lighter that’s pressed in between the couch cushions. his head whips around when he hears you click the lighter, and your cheeks widen as you walk over to him. vincent smiles back, his cigarette loosely hanging between his lips and his hair slightly disheveled from his search. he leans down ever so slightly, looking into your eyes as the flame lights the cigarette, taking a long drag before leaning against the kitchen counter.

“the coffee is more, how do you say bien équilibrée in english, darling?”

“well rounded,” you toss the lighter behind him, crossing your arms over your chest. he hums, nodding as he breathes out wafts of smoke.

“the coffee is more well-rounded,” the word sounds a little funny coming out of his mouth as if you could see his brain forming each letter in real-time. you can’t help but giggle, reaching behind him to open the kitchen window.

“i’m sure it is”

before you can fully stand up again his hand is on your lower back, softly bringing your body against his. he smells like tobacco and the slightly too minty toothpaste you buy from the convenience store down the road. he looks so beautiful in the dim winter light.

“tu me fais confiance, n'est-ce pas? (you trust me, don’t you?)” he asks, pressing his fingers into your side. he moves to hover just above your neck, and you can’t help but melt into his touch as he nibbles ever so gently on your neck, just below your ear. your eyes flutter closed and you feel the warmth pool in your lower stomach.

“vincent-”

“ you do, right?” he cuts you off as his hand wanders to the front of your body, playing with the waistband of your panties. his fingers ghost just above your cunt, and you sigh.

“of course, my love. always.”

you whine from the loss of contact as he steps away from you, taking a drag with a slight smile on his face.

“bon,” he says, his free hand caressing the side of your face.

“so we’ll go get our moka pot - not machine - tonight”.

you grin at the memory as you pour two shots of espresso into vincent’s favorite mug, along with a splash of whole milk, and turn on the burner to make another for yourself. you rock on your feet as you think of what to make for breakfast - maybe eggs? but vincent forgot to run to the farmers market, maybe jam on toast. there might be some leftover brioche-

you jump when you feel a pair of hands wrap around your chest smiling as you feel your husbands face nuzzle into your shoulder, pressing a few faint kisses on your skin while his hair tickles your neck.

“i thought you’d sleep for a few more hours honey,” you say, turning around to hand him his cup of coffee and laughing as his eyes brighten. he takes a sip, closing his eyes as he drinks.

“couldn’t sleep,” he says after a few moments, opening his eyes to stare into yours. his voice is deeper than normal, and you can tell he just woke up because there’s still a gravelly edge to it.

“i sleep poorly without you, honey.”

you raise your eyebrows as you let your fingers graze his chest and down his stomach.

“that’s a good one, do you tell all your girlfriends that?”

he rolls his eyes, taking a big sip before setting his mug on the counter.

“i’m being serious. i swear, every time it would get late and i’d try to sleep on sandra’s couch, i just couldn’t.”

your body goes rigid at the sound of her name but you try and ignore it, tracing circles onto his stomach. your mouth feels a little drier than it was a few minutes before.

vincent notices, of course he does. there’s nothing you could do that would get past him, the stellar lawyer.

“don’t be like that,” he whispers, cupping your hand in his face. you try to keep your gaze down but he tilts your head up.

you roll your eyes.

“every day while i was gone, all i wanted was to be home with you. you were all i could think about. you are all i ever think about.”

you feel lightheaded at his words, wrapping your arms around his neck as you kiss him deeply, sighing as your hand wanders down to the waistband of his boxers. you feel him smile into the kiss, putting out the cigarette so he has both hands free to touch you.

“take me to bed?”

you feel vincent’s stomach tense as your hand dips into his boxers. he gives you a soft kiss on the side of your face.

“how can i say no when you ask so nicely”.

#vincent renzi #vincent renzi x reader #vincent renzi fanfiction #swann arlaud #swann arlaud x reader #swann arlaud fanfiction #anatomy of a fall #anatomie d’une chute #anatomy of a fall fanfiction

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hellfire--cult · 6 months

Text

– 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 📏

Eddie Munson x Tall!F!Reader

wc: 3k

warnings: fluff, absolute fluff, high school (character +18), insecurity about height, bullying, eddie munson being the cutest fluff of hair there is.

You definitely know your height, and you are reminded of it everyday. And then you find out that a certain metalhead seems obsessed with you.

a/n: just a small thought i had the yesterday night and i just wrote it. haven't seen many tall!reader fics out there.

reblog if you enjoyed

STANDING ON TIPTOES AS A THIRD TALENT

You know. You are aware.

You are aware of how painful the stretch was when growing up.

You are aware of how many times people ask for your help to reach things for them.

You are aware of how you don’t comply with those stereotypical feminine looks.

You are aware of how guys don’t see you as an option because their masculinity is crushed by you being a few inches taller than them.

You are aware of how tall you are.

“If only we could get you on the basketball team.” Carver stood in front of you with his hands inside of his jersey, looking up at you. You never stopped walking, why would you? He kept walking backwards as he waited for a response.

“Why Carver? Though you are right, I bet I would do a better job in winning an actual game.” You could see Andy and Chase holding back their laughter but shaking it off as Jason turned to shoot a glare at them and then back at you, finally stopping because you are just tired of him following like a puppy. You will just listen to what he has to say and he’ll leave you alone.

“A little cocky, aren’t you?”

“No, but you for sure have one.” And he was confused by your response for a second, so you moved around him and continued walking. You heard him calling out your name with a curse after the idiot figured out your insult. You rolled your eyes as you opened your locker, looking inside to find a picture of Robin and you, a smile forming on your lips, trying to remember if you had band practice today or not.

You turned your head to look at some freshmen girls talking, whispering to one another as they looked at you and kept walking. Yeah… you are aware of how tall you are.

But you don’t need these people to remind you of it everyday.

You look back into your locker and start browsing, looking for your Spanish book, only to get pushed on the back, making you slam yourself onto the lockers. Your anger fuels as you take the book out and slam shut the locker door, turning around to face whoever pushed you in such a manner.

“Who the fuck–”

And not exactly eye to eye, still having to tilt your head down slightly, very so, and there stood a mop of dark curls. The whiff of tobacco and worn denim filled your nostrils as deep brown eyes collided with yours.

“Sh–Shit um–” You never spoke to Eddie Munson before. You shared some classes together, and you were surprised when you heard the news that he was finally graduating. You don’t really care for him graduating two years later because you yourself got held back a year. So, you two would be leaving high school hell together in a few months.

“You need anything?” You ask and the guy has yet to talk to you. You look behind him to see two of his friends snickering at one another. Oh. “Look, if this is a dare of ‘Talk with the tallest freak in Hawkins High’ thing, you already won, I talked to you.”

You turned, not really letting him speak as you walked forward to your Spanish class. It wasn’t the first time something like this happened to you. Guys jokingly asking you out, girls not bothering to lift their heads to look up at you, except for Robin. That girl decided to stick to your hip in fifth grade and she never let go.

Not that you would let go of her either. She knows too much.

Shit, you still don’t remember if you had band or not. You groan loudly as you sit at the very back of the classroom, knowing that you would just cover the view for anyone else who sits behind you.

After class you head to your locker to put your Spanish book back inside, only to see a note waiting for you on the side. You grabbed it and saw that it was Robin, telling you she had something to tell you and to meet her in the woods at the back of the school. You furrowed your brows at that but shrugged, closing the locker door and heading towards the woods.

Your long legs help to get to places even faster, so in just five minutes you had leaves crunching beneath your feet. You assumed she either meant the picnic table or the fallen trunk that’s more towards the parking lot. Closest to the building though? The picnic table… but the figure sitting on the table wasn’t Robin.

You heard him mumble as if practicing something, his mop of curls bobbing a bit as he said a few things only to then call himself ‘stupid’ and start over again. You rolled your eyes as you finally reached him, your arms over your chest.

“I knew you were crazy Munson, but not to the extent of talking to yourself.” You saw him jump up with a shriek, flailing his limbs around as he fell to the ground but quickly regaining himself as he turned to face you, wiping the leaves away. You held in the giggle, because– damn he is cute.

“Yeah well, um– I do worse than that sweetheart, trust me.” You raised your eyebrow at the nickname, feeling your cheeks heating up just slightly, but you shook your head and looked around.

“Have you seen Robin? She told me to meet her here.” And at your words, Eddie chuckled nervously while rubbing his cheek, trying to avert his gaze from you.

“Yeah um– Buckley didn’t put that note in your locker… I kinda– It was me.” You saw him put his hands behind him like a small child ready to get scolded, and to be honest, you were angry that he tricked you but–

“Why?”

“I uh– You kind of misunderstood something a few hours ago? I know I bumped into you and I didn’t really want to talk to you–” You raised your eyebrows at that in surprised offense.

“Excuse me?” He winced as he put his hand in a fist and hit his forehead a few times while shaking his head.

“Sorry, sorry– That is not what I meant! I definitely wanted to talk to you– talk to you, I mean, I wanted to talk to you for a long while, and I still do and well, we are talking now–” The boy was rambling and your confusion was growing the more he talked, so you took a few steps forward, waving your hands in front of you to get him to calm down.

“Hey, slow down Munson, jesus. You’re gonna have a stroke.” He looked up at you and nodded, taking a deep breath in and then letting out a nervous chuckle as he started pacing around with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Okay, I get it, you apologized, everything’s fine.”

“No, no, um… My friends, they tried to help me talk to you but you make me kind of nervous, so.” Ah, it wasn’t the first time you heard that.

“Yeah, my height sort of does that.” You shift in your place as you see him put a stop to his pacing, looking back at you with confused eyes.

“What?”

“Well, people tell me my height intimidates them, so… they’re nervous to talk to me. Did you need anything in particular?” You tilted your head at him and Eddie was still frowning and then started taking steps towards you, the tip of your sneakers touching with one another as his eyes looked up at yours. He was just a few inches shorter than you, you had a perfect view of his fringe.

“Well uh… You intimidate me yes… but not exactly because of your height darling.” You frowned as confusion plastered all over your features, looking at the metalhead that was still looking at you as if waiting for you to put a puzzle together in your head.

“Um… my incredible skills in Spanish intimidate you?” And Eddie smiled, and that honestly made your heart jump slightly because after all, Eddie Munson is not a bad-looking guy. He is the complete opposite of that, his own beauty to be described. Maybe it was his personality that also helped him become more charming. Either way, he was making your cheeks burn from how handsome he looked at this very moment as he stuttered with dimpled cheeks.

“No um… You intimidate me because– I think you are extremely, absolutely, and incredibly… beautiful.”

You blinked a few times, not really sure if you heard the guy right. Did he say you’re beautiful? That you intimidate him because of… beauty and not your height? And there’s also the fact that Eddie Munson is the one saying all of this when you can hardly count the times you spoke with the guy.

“Is this… a prank Munson?” You softly ask and he just groans, shaking his head like crazy.

“No, no. I promise it’s not– I–” He took a deep breath in as he scratched the back of his head, grabbing your hands and guiding you to sit down on one of the benches. You were confused but also, you were feeling your heartbeat beating like crazy against your chest, and you waited for him to start talking but he just kept pacing.

“Eddie–”

“Okay! So, the reason why my friends were behind me today and did the whole misunderstanding thing happen, which I get it, I can see how it–”

“Munson!” You were getting a little impatient now because you could now see he was nervous, but your own nervousness was making you a little bit cranky.

“Right! Sorry! My friends were fed up with me… Um–” You noticed a twinge of blush on his cheeks as he sighed, looking up at the sky. “I am not good with this, I normally like– have a casual conversation at the hideout, and then it happens it’s just–”

“The Hideout?” You don’t know where he is going anymore but he looks down at you and shakes his head once more.

“Nevermind. Like I was saying… my friends were fed up with me just– talking about you, all the time.” Okay, what? The shock must have been evident on your face because Eddie rounded the table, sitting on the bench in front of you now, putting his hands on the table, and rubbing his fingers together. “Say something? I am a nervous wreck over here, sweets.”

Something? What can you possibly say? You were never in this position at all. You aren’t the kind of person to get confessions like they do in movies. You don’t even know what to say, or do, your inexperience showing off in big amounts as you, yourself, start to become flustered.

“Um– I… I don’t– Why? Or what exactly do you say about me?” And he grabs a chunk of his hair in order to hide his face as he sways a little from side to side.

“Well… apart from how beautiful you look everyday… Everytime you put Jason or one of those guys in their place I just– I just boast about you… So I guess that when I heard the insult you threw at Jason today, I may have fangirled a bit and Gareth got fed up…” He winced a bit at the explanation but you felt your whole chest melt away at his words.

Your fingertips were sweaty, as you looked at him, and… fuck he turned from a guy to a man in just one instant. He was one year older than you and the fact he is stuttering so much despite his age in order to talk to you… was endearing. Cupid definitely passed by and shot an arrow through your chest just now.

“Um… can I ask um… why did you never talk to me? I mean… I think we talked like– what, six times in total?” You gave him a nervous giggle and he straightened up and cleared his throat as he looked at you.

“Didn’t you hear the part where… you intimidate me, sweetheart?” You frown at his words so he sighs and continues. “I don’t normally approach people with– my feelings. But um… we are graduating, and since we don’t talk I don’t know what your plans are later on, and– I just know that if I miss this chance I’m going to regret it my whole life.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at him, and it helped a small smile form on his own lips as he looked at you.

“Your whole life? That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?” You smiled at him, biting onto your bottom lip now, feeling your belly turning slowly and nervously. He licked his lips and played with one of his rings as he talked to you.

“Not at all drastic, you are a catch, and I should be held back another year if I don’t shoot my shot with you right now.”

And he sounded so certain. So honest. There was not a single ounce of joke in his tone or playfulness. There was obvious flirtiness and endearment. But you still had to ask, because you don’t want to dive into something that he might not have thought of before.

“Um… You know I am a little bit taller than you… right Eds?” You ask and he tilts his head, a smirk forming on his lips as his cheeks tint red.

“You know, I am extremely good at standing on my tiptoes, it’s like my third talent.” You couldn’t help but laugh at his joke, yet you knew you were completely flushed by it. He cleared his throat and you looked back up at him. “So?”

“So?” You tilted your head as he leaned forward on the table, towards you, resting on his forearms and elbows.

“Do I get to shoot my shot here?”

Yeah… cupid definitely shot an arrow through your chest just now.

“Seriously, if you ditch me one more time–”

“I didn’t ditch you Robs, you decided to not come with us.” You were putting your books back into your locker as Robin leaned against the other lockers while looking at you.

“Well yeah! I don’t want to third wheel!” You roll your eyes at your best friend, catching a wild mop of curls walking through the crowd in the hallway. You smile widely as Eddie approaches you, his arms coming to wrap around your waist.

“Hey beautiful.” You giggle at how energetic he is today and you raise your hands to cradle his face and lean down, tilting his head a bit to place a kiss on his lips.

“Hi Eds.” He smiles and you feel him growing taller, coming almost eye-to-eye level with you, almost, and receiving another soft kiss on the lips before he returns to his original height.

“Tiptoes growing stronger each day.” He smiles at you only for him to be shoved into you and before you can hit the lockers, the hand on your lower back pulls you into him, while the other slams into the lockers, forbidding you from colliding against them.

“HEY!” Robin yelled and you looked up to see Jason laughing behind Eddie with a horrified look on his face.

“Oops, sorry. Didn’t see you there Munson.” Your eye twitched as you looked at him, only to then tilt your head.

“You know Jason, if you want a threesome that badly you just have to ask. No need to act so interesting and shit.” At your words, he stops laughing, anger plastered on his features now as he stares at you while Eddie turns around.

“Excuse me?” You rolled your eyes at him and pointed at Eddie.

“You messed with him, you messed with me, and now you want to butt into our relationship. Sorry though, we don’t do poly.” You smile at him as you look at him, up and down and scrunch up your nose. “Not that you’re even our type.”

People that were walking by snickered at your words and Jason only squinted at you and looked at Eddie who was holding a snort in, his hand covering his mouth.

“Freaks do belong together.” And you roll your eyes at that and wave Jason away.

“And assholes son of bitches do too, that’s the reason Chrissy dumped you. Scram.” You could see Jason taking a step towards you and Eddie’s playful mood immediately soured, stepping in front of you with a menacing smile towards the Jock.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Jason scoffed at Eddie’s threat and shook his head.

“What you gonna do, curse me?” Eddie gave him a fake smile and leaned close so that he could hear, his smile falling.

“I’ve been playing good all year Carver so that I could graduate, and honestly, I would throw that opportunity away for her. Don’t fucking test me.” And you could see Jason deliberating the words Eddie spoke. He took a step back and gave you one last look before huffing and walking away.

“Holy shit, never seen Carver back away that easily in my life.” Robin smiled and you were biting your lip as your heart thumped in your chest like crazy. Eddie turned around with a huge dimpled smile and then you could see the playful glint in his eyes.

“Have I ever told you how much it turns me on how you call those assholes out?” And Robin groaned in disgust and quickly rushed away. You laughed at him, as he came closer to you again, letting you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Yeah, you did.” You bit your lip as you looked down at him, feeling your heart beat loudly for your boyfriend who was looking at you as if hung the stars in the sky. “What you said…”

“Meant every word.”

“I was going to say that it turned me on but–” You were taken by surprise when he immediately nibbled your neck which he had easy access to, and a giggle escaped your lips.

“Don’t tempt me sweetheart.”

end

#for my tall girlies out there #i hope you like it #if not im sorry if i didnt get it right #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fics #eddie munson x y/n #fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson ficlet

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sunshineting · 2 years

Text

this is my first ever fic 🥹 so um yeah

plug!eren x nerdy!chubby!reader

word count- 1686

summary- you're a stressed college kid that just needs to relax

MINORS DNI please‼️‼️

“Oh jeez… I hope he makes this easy,” you muttered to yourself. You were stressed. Stressed as hell. Studying for midterms was whooping your ass and all you needed was a little green to help you relax. Your friend, Sasha, had given you the number to her on-campus plug. She gave you the slight warning that he was a bit intense, but reliable. You finally grew some balls and texted the ominous number.

‘Is this Eren?’ You were always nervous talking to plugs. Your slightly timid nature always made them think you were a narc or something. Nope. Just good old social anxiety. Your phone’s ding took you by surprise; he responded fast. He simply responded with a question mark.

‘Sorry. Sasha gave me your number. I was hoping to buy from you’

After a few more text exchanges, you had agreed to meet him at his apartment to pick up.

“Apartment 913… where the hell…?” On your third time circling his complex, you finally found it. Three quick knocks on the door later, you were face to face with a man’s collarbone. You look up and are met with intense, deep green eyes.

Oh no, he’s hot. You push your glasses back up your nose and introduce yourself.

“H-hi, I’m Y/N. I was texting you earlier?”

A sly grin creeps onto Eren’s face.

“Wassup?” He flicks his head to gesture for you to follow him inside. His apartment smelled like weed and the musk of generic ‘male’ scented candles. There were LED strip lights just about everywhere, giving the place a blue tint. Adding to the blue tint was a huge fish tank with all types of exotic and expensive looking fish. Following his lead, you took a seat on the couch. You didn’t want to make yourself too comfortable, so you sat on the edge.

“You could get comfortable, lil mama. I don’t bite,” Eren says with a smirk. You barely moved. Between him being a plug and him being hot, your awkwardness levels were through the roof.

“So whatchu tryna get? A gram, a three five, a zip? You look like you like edibles,” Eren lists off his products.

“You think I like edibles cuz I’m chubby?” You mumble. He chuckles.

“Nah, I just can’t imagine your lil innocent ass smoking.” A small pout forms on your face as you let out a ‘hmph’.

“How much is a three five? I have cash,” you say, trying to get back to business. He tells you it’s twenty, but only because you’re cute. You felt heat rush to your face at the compliment. After your transaction, Eren offers to smoke you out.

“Oh, you don’t have to. I just bought some.”

“You’re turning down free weed?” He deadpans. You purse your lips.

“…no.”

Watching Eren handle weed was unreasonably sexy. The way his big hands gently packed the blunt was mesmerizing. He’d put his long hair into a bun just prior to the process. Hell, even that was sexy. The t-shirt he wore exposed each flex of his muscles as he expertly tied his locks up. You just about combusted when he was licking the backwood. The flicks of his tongue on the paper sent electricity straight to your clit. Were you imagining it, or was he purposely licking it as lewdly as possible? You felt wetness pool in your panties.

“I never really smoke blunts,” you confess.

“Oh? What do you use then?”

“It’s this little glass bowl I got in high school. It’s small but it gets the job done.” You smile. You could feel yourself getting more comfortable bit by bit. Eren sparked up the blunt and took a long hit. He exhaled smoothly and passed it to you. You took a small pull and the sour smoke filled your mouth. You tried to fully inhale, but the sourness of the tobacco and the strength of the smoke was too much. Choking and coughing, you hand the damned thing back to Eren. Yep, there was a reason you stuck to your bowl. Despite not getting too much, you were just starting to feel the relaxing effects.

“C’mere” Eren waved for you to come closer to him. Your inhibitions were lowered and you didn’t give yourself time to overthink. You scooched closer to him, but he pulled you impossibly closer. He had you pressed up against him; his warmth igniting every cell in your body.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly. You didn’t even have time to think, you just obeyed. Eren took a smaller hit than his last and pulled your face directly in front of his. Your lips were just barely touching when he blew his smoke into your awaiting mouth.

“Th-thank you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. You were trying your damnedest not to moan. It’s been so long since you’d been fucked. Your vibrator was nothing compared to the real thing and holy shit was Eren real. Eren glances down at your lips and licks his own. He was unbelievably hard. From the moment he saw you at his door, he knew he had to have you. Call it a corruption kink or whatever, but he just wanted to ruin that innocent look you had.

“You want more?”

“Mmhm,” you whimper. You squeeze your legs together just to get any type of relief for your swollen clit. Your little pussy is weeping, clenching around nothing as he blows more smoke in your mouth. You continue this until most of the way through the blunt, then you tap out. You were very much high and the cottonmouth was setting in.

“Could I have some water please?” You ask your host. As he stands, you see a very obvious print in his basketball shorts. While he gets the water, you take the time to stare at his fish tank.

“It’s like Finding Nemo in this bitch,” you breathe out. Time was feeling wonky as Eren returned with your water. It felt like forever and only a moment all at the same time.

“Thank you!” You say before your first sip.

“So polite… What a good girl. Are you always this sweet?” Eren asks. You nod.

“Yeah? You wanna be my good girl?” He questions as a hand begins to rub your thigh.

“Mmhm” you let out a breathy moan. With that, Eren picks you up and pulls you onto his lap as if you weigh nothing. His big hands grip both sides of your waist as he grinds you onto him. Your loose dress has been pulled up and pools around your thighs. Even clothed, you can feel his hard length pressing up against you.

“Let’s take this off,” he guides as he pulls off your cardigan. The removal of your cardigan causes the thin straps of your dress to fall off your shoulders. You felt like a mess and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. Eren decides to finally kiss you and pulls your mouth to his. He was devouring you. Immediately he fills mouth with his tongue. It was the sexiest, sloppiest kiss you’d ever had. Your needy little cunt is aching for relief. It’s practically hurting. Your full tits were pressed up against his chest and he could feel your nipples poking him. Eren uses one hand to start rubbing your clit through your panties. You’re so grateful for the relief, it feels like you’re melting into him.

“Damn lil mama you got a super soaker down there. That’s all for me?” Eren chuckles. You only give a whimper in response. You were so embarrassed at how easily you’re folding for this man.

“You want me to fuck this little pussy? Hm?” He groans.

“Mmhm,” you nod and whimper.

“Use your words”

“Please fuck me! Please, please I need it,” you beg. Eren could feel the precum leaking from his tip. His dick was so hard it hurt. You stand for a bit to discard your dress, leaving you only in your teddy bear print panties. He’d taken this time to remove his own clothes and you could finally see the huge cock that you’d been grinding on. Holy shit, he’s big. His cock is thick and pretty, with the tip a dark rosy pink. Your mouth began to water. You want to suck it, but Eren has other plans.

“Come sit on this dick, pretty.”

You quickly oblige. Eren revels in how warm and soft your thick thighs are. As you sink down on him, both of you are surprised. Him, at how tight and wet you are. And you, at how fucking deep he’s going. You can feel every inch and the delicious stretch of him filling you up. He’s so thick, your walls have him in a chokehold.

“Fuck, it’s so big,” you moan. Eren can’t even think of a cocky response. All his concentration is going toward not cumming. It was bad enough the two of you didn’t use a condom but the last thing y’all needed was a pregnancy scare.

You start riding him, bouncing up and down trying to maintain a good rhythm. With one hand gripping your waist, he takes the other and rubs circles on your clit. The extra stimulation has you falling apart. You can feel your orgasm building higher and higher. Eren feels your walls tighten ever more and can tell you’re just about to go over the edge.

“Cum for me. Give it all to me. Cum on this cock, baby,” he damn near growls in your ear. The permission to cum finally sends you over the edge; wave after wave of sweet release relaxing your tense muscles. Feeling your squishy walls flutter from cumming sends Eren over the edge, too. He lifts you off his cock just as ropes of thick cum spurts out of him. You’d left a ring of cream around the base of his shaft. As you sit back on his lap, Eren says, “Don’t get your weed from anybody else ever again, you hear me? Next time you need anything – weed or dick – you hit me up. I’m serious.”

#aot smut #eren x reader #eren jaeger #eren x y/n #eren jaeger smut #eren yaeger #eren jaeger x reader #attack on titan #eren yaeger smut #attack on titan smut #plug!eren #plug!eren x chubby!reader #kait's writes

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the-californicationist · 8 months

Note

Ok but imagine price being a dockworker and coming to the bar the reader is a server at after long days. Smelling like the salt on salt, chest hair peeking thru his shirt. She knows his exact order down to how much froth he wants on his beer and he just melts into his chair once he sees her on shift but their asses won’t even kiss yet (they wanna fuck diiiirty in between all the barrels out back tho)

Thank you so much for the ask!! I wish I got more of these <3 I love impromptu writings!! ^_^

MDNI

Somehow, you knew it was him by the sound of your door. The way that it creaked and popped, and the force with which it knocked the tinkling little bell at the top - all of these noises were the same, or at least they should have been, no matter who was coming or going from your bar. The way the metal bolt clicked out of the frame, the way the warped wood of the threshold whined and bent, the way that one pane of glass shuddered in the top left corner... it shouldn't have sounded different when he walked in. But, it did.

He sat in his seat, objectively the worst one in your bar. It was out of the line of sight from the television, and it was down at the fruit-filled service end, far from the keg taps. It was where you ran credit cards and kept your phone to take breaks, and you flattered yourself that the reason he sat there was to spend time with you.

John Price was a piece of work, that was for sure. He would come by right before close and linger. It was nice to have someone walk you to your car, especially on cold nights, since you were so close to the docks. He'd ride his old Triumph over from his work as a shipping and receiving foreman in the harbor, and he'd smell like sweat and the salt from the sea. His clothes would reek of tobacco from those fat cigars he'd always smoke, and you knew his beard would smell like it, too.

You wondered what it felt like, his beard. You wondered if it was as soft as it looked. You wondered what he would say if you asked him to give you a ride back to his place on that old, worn-out bike and lay you on his bed so he could kiss you from behind that beard all night. You wondered, over and over when you lay in your own sheets alone, what it would feel like for him to drag that rough-shaven chin over the swell of your breast. How would it feel on the insides of your thighs? Would it hurt you?

"You want the usual?" You asked him, trying your best to concentrate on shining the glass in your hand and not about having his body between your legs.

He smiled up at you and nodded,

"Sure, love. The usual."

As you poured his lager, keeping a little extra foam at the top, just how he liked it, you caught yourself staring again.

It was cold out, so he was in a thick coat, but he never had his collar buttoned up. There was always a bit of his chest on view for you through the drab plaid shirts he wore. He had a cut tonight, and you could see it soaking through the white of his undershirt.

"You okay, John?" You set his beer down and motioned to his gash.

"Oh," he chuckled warmly, "Yeah. Just got a little too close to the off-loader crane and paid for it. No harm, really."

"Let me clean it up for you. C'mon," you opened the bar's side door and lifted it so he could duck underneath, taking his beer with him and following you upstairs to your office.

Your barback would take care of the two other patrons you had. It was a Tuesday after midnight. You could close without any harm done.

As John wandered into your space, he noticed your makeshift cot in the corner.

"Surely you're not sleepin' at work, love?"

You laughed a little nervously,

"Don't tell the health inspector on me. Have a seat in that chair. Lemme get the first-aid kit."

He sat. Your heart pounded in your throat. As you dug around for the kit, you felt your nerves fraying. Maybe you liked John a little more than you thought.

"Here. Alright, can you show me the cut?"

You knelt in front of him so you could be in line with the wound. You tried to clean it, but his clothes were getting wet.

"Oh, sorry. Uh -"

"Here, love," he shucked his jacket off and peeled his shirt off from his back, leaving it around his arms, pinned in the sleeves, "That better?"

You nodded, feeling your breath catch in your throat.

He was huge. It was almost monstrous, the way his body bulged out around his bones, enormous snapping muscles rolling around his shoulders and neck, making him look like an animal. He was covered in soft, brown fur, and as you went to touch him, you made a grave mistake.

You hesitated.

Ever observant, you knew he caught you stumbling over him, frozen in place like a scared doe. But, mercifully, he said nothing, and allowed you to get to work.

Clean. Dry. Salve. Bandage. Smooth the edges. Make an excuse to do it again, once more to seal it down.

"There, all done. You have been a very brave patient," you smiled up at him and went to box up the supplies back in their little tin.

"You know," he purred, "Brave patients usually get some sort of prize."

You laughed softly,

"Fresh out of lollies and peppermints, I'm afraid."

"Sure there isn't anything else you'd offer me to suck on, love?"

His voice was low, dark, and deep. It crawled to you on its belly from the bottom of the sea, from the pressures and the cold, black hell of the fathoms of the water, lapping at the sides of your boat, threatening to sink you. He looked at you like a tiger shark studies a diver, with a chilling curiosity from the mighty to the fragile, wondering what you taste like and deciding if he'll bite.

John's arms were still bound by his clothes. If you wanted to flee, you would've had plenty of head-start. But, you didn't. You were moving outside of your own volition. It was as if you were dreaming, watching yourself be piloted by an unknown force. You stared him down and stood, stepping right between his knees, forcing him to look up at you and wait for your reply.

You peeled off your white tee shirt, revealing your bare breasts to him. Going bra-less meant usually meant more tips, but tonight you weren't concerned about the money. You wanted him to praise you. You wanted to call his bluff. You wanted him to fuck you on the stack of kegs in the corner of your office and let the sharp metal rims dig into your belly as he stuffed his cock into you from behind.

His shirts were gone from his arms in a second, and he leaned forward just enough to put his face to your breast, letting you feel the heat of his breath on your skin, sighing into you. John held your eyes captive in his the whole time, as if he may look away and break the spell. Then, he watched you watch him take your nipple into his mouth, suckling on it as gently as he possibly could, as gently as anyone had ever done.

You trembled, letting go of a breath you'd been holding, looking down at him as he sucked your flesh between his wet lips. You were right about the smell of the tobacco.

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #cod #john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain john price smut #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #ask me anything #careful what you ask for #because my answer is usually smut

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heathermason6060 · 5 days

Text

Daryl Dixon x f!Reader: Together Apart Ch. 6

(Hes sitting next to you in this pic :D)

Warnings/Mentions: History of abuse, neglect, strong language, mentions of character death, alcohol and drug abuse, ptsd, shared trauma, reader is cold, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slowburn, angst, SMUT Summary: You search for Daryl after Negan's lineup. You didn't understand the trauma he went through, and eventually you decide enough is enough, and you leave. Notes: The last chapter! Somewhat proofread. Filled with tensions overflowing and then some sex. I had a lot of fun writing this and want to thank @louifaith again for allowing me to write out her idea. It's also pretty long because I didn't want to break it into two chapters, it didn't really make sense that way. Longish read, but longish smut at the end if you're just here for sex and want to skip ahead.

When you found out he left on some halfcocked revenge mission, you were pissed. And then you learned nearly everyone else had gone too, you were pissed and confused.

The rare presence of the others had become more common than the familiar presence of Daryl. He was gone more often than not now, either out with Aaron or off with Rick. Even when he was home, he was never really there. He didn't laugh at your crude insults about others anymore, he didn't want to spend all day with you out hunting in the woods. It looked like was also making an effort to smoke less, often declining your outstretched cigarette. He was the one who got you to smoke once. You used to hate it, but eventually associated the smell of tobacco with him, and you grew to love it.

You couldn't read him like a book like you once did. He'd become overly serious, distant, and uncharacteristically concerned with the well-being of others.

You had half a mind to just leave. The only reason you hadn't left months ago was Daryl, but the way he was treating you felt like a slap in the face. It hurt. For the first time in so long you hurt. You felt utterly and completely alone, leading you to once again close yourself off from the others, spending all your time hunting or scavenging for substances in the city that could make you feel better. You scored an unopened bottle of painkillers, something you once hated, and drowned your sorrows with a stuffed nose and a foul post nasal drip.

The savior issue never really seemed like a big deal to you when it first arose. Some asshole raiders trying to make a point, you didn't give a shit. Rick and Daryl would handle it like they always did.

You took a deep drag from your cigarette as you watched the front gates being opened, two heavy duffle bags over each of your shoulders. You’d come to terms with it, you were leaving, and that was it. You weren't some obedient housewife that didn’t mind the absence of Daryl, you were his best friend and you couldn’t put up with the dramatic emotions anymore. You were fully prepared for the conversations that would ensue, a list of reasons you should stay, maybe some light pleading, so when you saw what came from those gates you froze.

The muscles in your jaw throbbed as you listened to Rick's pitiful attempt at retelling you what happened, his eyes red and puffy, his hair wet and matted to his forehead. He couldn't, so he gave up, and drug his feet into the house, moving in a way that closely resembled the dead. Carl followed, and you realized Maggie was missing too. Your heart dropped.

“What the fuck is wrong with him? What happened?” You gaped, looking from face to face, searching desperately for an answer, only to be met with the ghosts of their former selves. You spotted Aaron and realized he was almost never out without Daryl, and your confusion snapped violently to panic. Michonne was really the only one who wasn't too shocked to speak. She told you everything in great detail, her words cold and harsh as she made her anger towards your insensitive behavior well known. Each word she spoke felt like a curse, spitting at you with such venom you'd never had directed towards you before. You deserved it.

You weren't a good person like them. The deaths of Glenn and Abraham didn't make you cry, go through all the stages of grief and have a mental crisis, in the moment she told you they just felt like problems you’d deal with later, you didn’t have the time. Not when you still had no idea where Daryl was.

Despite not being a good person, you reacted to the news in a way that was very impressive by your standards. You didn't scream at anyone, or punch Gabriel in the face, you just threw your already packed bags in the car and set off.

You chain-smoked an entire pack of cigarettes the first hour of searching. You never did find the saviors home, even though you didn't stop searching to sleep the first few days. You found the location of the massacre, a few shredded pieces of clothing and blood stained dirt. You were brought to furious tears at the thought of the scenario where you were in Daryl's position, and him yours. Your first assumption was that he would've already tracked you down by then, him and his one man army breaking you out and taking you far away from the entire state. Then the second, and more daunting assumption, would he even look? Would he be too busy taking care of Rick and the others, the task of rescuing you put on a back burner?

You told yourself maybe you were just impulsive and stupid, maybe Daryl in that scenario was just being smart and careful, you were just a guns blazing idiot who didn't think far into the future.

It felt like you'd been out there for weeks, living off a diet of cigarettes and various illegal substances. You nearly stuck a knife in the face of a woman who was unlucky enough to walk into the same store you were in.

“No, please, don't.” She sniveled pathetically, her hands raised to the sides of her head in surrender. “I don't have anything. Please. I can take you to my camp, we've got food and water and medicine-”

“Dude, shut up. Just thought you were a walker. Goddamn.” You sheathed your knife and stood back, the tip of your tongue held between your teeth in thought. “But I'm hungry as fuck!”

She took you back to her camp, which was extremely impressive. And just in time, too, your stomach growled noisily and you felt the small waves of hunger nausea begin.

“Put your gun away, please.” She pleaded in a hush whisper as you stood in front of the wooden gates.

You looked to her with furrowed eyebrows, your cheeks hollowed out as you pulled on your twentieth cigarette that day. You really needed to cut back. “No.” You muttered around the cigarette, eventually sighing and slinging your rifle over your shoulder with a dramatic eye roll.

The sight of Rick and Maggie chatting outside with a small group of others felt like you'd been slapped in the face. They looked just as stunned as you were, pausing their conversation. You stood there for about ten solid seconds before the silence finally broke.

Rick opened his mouth to speak but you raised your hand, stopping him. “Don't have time. Just gonna eat and leave.”

“Daryl's here.” The sound of Maggie's harsh voice halted your route to the front of the mansion. You couldn't hide the look on your face, an intense ‘this better not be a lie’ mix of anger and disbelief. She pointed up to your previous destination with raised eyebrows and you took off.

He almost punched you in the face when you jumped him. He was still wet from a shower, littered in various sized bandages and bruises, wearing a fresh set of clothes. He smelled like laundry detergent and cheap flowery shampoos.

“Holy shit I thought they killed you. Holy shit. Mother fucker.” You babbled into his chest as he squeezed you so hard your back cracked.

It felt indescribable being in his arms again. It also felt incredibly different. You'd hugged him hundreds of times but something about this particular hug stood out. It was desperate and deep, you didn’t worry about coming off as soft or being too much. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of his shirt around his biceps, your face buried into his chest, and his hands were all over you. He couldn't decide where to touch you, your arms, your face, your hair, your back, they would move from place to place as he cemented into his mind that you were really there, there in his arms, holding and petting him like you'd always done before. His mind flashed with images of him back in that cell and his throat tightened, the slightest whisper of a whimper sounding in the back of his mouth. He held you tighter and kissed the top of your head, rocking you in his arms for a few silent moments as you pulled yourself together.

“Where the hell you been? Rick said ya left with all your shit.” His voice was tight, the way it would get when he would try not to cry, along with raising in pitch a little.

You looked up and smiled softly, seeing him through a sheen of wet tears. “Doesn't matter.” You hummed as you stroked his cheek. “Really. It doesn’t. I've been looking for you, only reason I'm here is because some bitch thought I was robbing her and told me about this place. Couldn't keep looking if I was starving.” You buried your face back in the fabric of his shirt and sighed deeply.

“Told ya, I ain't leavin'. I ain't dyin’ neither.” His warm words in that deep rumble resulted in your racing heart finally slowing its pace.

“What happened? Are you okay?” You pulled back from his chest to look up at his face. He looked miserable, it broke your heart. He looked away from your gaze, unable to keep eye contact, which was something he never struggled with before when it came to you. “Daryl?”

His head immediately dropped and his forehead collided with your shoulder. Your heart banged against your ribcage and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, stroking the back of his neck and kissing the side of his head while he stifled his soft sobs.

“Let's leave. C'mon.” You parted from him, only to be pulled back by his grip on your wrist.

“Y’jus’ got here.” Daryl furrowed his brows, his eyes wet with tears that he quickly blinked away.

“Yeah, to eat so I could keep looking for you. I've found you, so let's go.”

“Go where?”

You gritted your teeth as his grip on you loosened. “Anywhere else, I don't care.” You said through clenched teeth, your gaze intensifying. “We're done with this shit. Not our problem anymore. Let's go. I'm not letting these people get you hurt again. Never, Daryl.”

Daryl had never been the reason you cried, at least, that's what he thought. So when you started cracking at his rejection, his heart shattered. Every bone in his body yearned for him to hold you, bring you back into his arms and make the pain stop. It hurt even more to see that you weren't just upset, you were pissed, disgusted at the fact that you were showing such weakness in front of the same person who made you cry.

“I gotta. ‘Jus need to do this.” He attempted to comfort you after your rage at your perceived betrayal faded into tears of defeat. “M’doin’ it for us. Ya gotta trust me on this.”

There was a small glimmer of hope then, and you allowed yourself to feel it. You were desperate to believe him, and desperate to believe everything would turn out alright. Rick and everyone else would deal with Negan, you'd scratch that burning itch for revenge, and everything would be okay.

Rick did deal with it, that much came true. At the cost of his son's life, he defeated the saviors.

You were more than willing to fight. You’d been dying for a purpose, and being a soldier in the war against Negan was exactly what you needed. You looked like a cheesy action movie protagonist with two long arm guns on your back and two pistols in each hand. You used more ammo that day than you had in your entire life. God. You wished Merle had been there to see you and Daryl.

You didn't get the revenge you so desperately craved. You absolutely lost it when Negan was defeated. After Daryl decided against killing Dwight, you lunged at the man like a rabid fox, fully prepared to end his life with just your teeth and hands, only to end up clawing and wriggling in Daryl's grasp. You could've gotten over that eventually, it would take a really long time, sure, Dwight was a brainwashed cult member and did what he did because he was told to. And he'd get his, even if you had to restrain yourself. Fine. It’s fine.

But Rick sparing Negan?

No. Your reaction to that earned you the reputation of the group's feral animal. You shared the same reaction as Maggie, but unlike her giving up after a while of being held back, you ended up earning a matching set of rope bracelets and anklets.

“You'll have to kill me.” Your throat burned as Daryl tossed you in the back of a blue Toyota camry. He nearly had to force Dwight into the passenger seat at gunpoint, the terror in the backseat scaring him more than the thought of death.

Your spit was red and thick as it smacked onto Dwight's battered face, blending with the blood that made him unrecognizable. He was barely able to get to his feet after Daryl's threat of death if he was to return, blindly picking up the car keys in the mess of blood spattered leaves.

The relationship between you and Maggie quickly became a deep friendship as you plotted to kill Negan. Neither of you were allowed to see him in his cell without someone to stand guard, but Maggie even moreso. With enough time you were able to get down there alone, gun in hand, only to be stopped by Michonne, who had apparently come for the same reason.

“I haven't seen you much before. What's your name.” Negan's eyes followed you as you paced back and forth in front of his cell, seething from the fact that Michonne wouldn't let you kill him yet. She had her own unknown motives, which didn't really matter to you, but all this talking was driving you insane.

“You don't need to know my name.” You muttered, cutting your eyes at the man. “You look so much smaller than I remembered you looking in that field.”

He winced at your words, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Oh, sweetheart. That hurts. Actually, I've been told I'm pretty impressive.”

He watched you as you continued pacing, your hands sweaty and your eyes wild with rage, confusion, and confliction. A smirk spread on his face. “Look at you. Like a lion in a cage. Well, I’m the one in the cage, but. Coulda used a psycho bitch like you. If you were on my side that day, phew!”

You pulled your gun from your waistband and pulled the trigger. Negan raised hands and jumped. Your heart dropped when you were met with an empty click. You inhaled sharply through your nose and pulled out the clip, which was completely empty.

Daryl. He dragged you out of the basement, thankful he’d unloaded your guns the night before. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what you were planning. He didn't care that you were pissed, Rick wanted Negan alive, so that's what he was going to stay, even if he did want the prick dead.

It didn't take long for you to pick up on Daryl's trauma. He was good at hiding it from others, nothing much had changed aside from him being quieter. But once your selfish rage had settled you noticed small differences. He slept closer to you at night, no longer on the other side of the mattress, and his nightmares became more violent. He'd thrash in his sleep, tossing and turning and sweating, you found yourself waking him up more times than you could count. Each time he'd get real quiet, maybe from shame, and walk outside to smoke a cigarette. You'd follow him each time and sit quietly on the porch steps, not caring that he didn't offer you a hit. He looked like he needed all he could get.

You saw him crying with Carol once. His head dipped down and his forehead pressed against her shoulder. If it had been long ago you would've felt hot at the sight, assuming he obviously must've felt closer to her since he hadn't cried like that with you since his capture, but you weren't as shallow and selfish as you once were. Your heart ached for him, wishing he would open up and tell you what happened, you could comfort him too, you wished you could tell him that.

“Wanna go hunting?” You asked one day, picking up your new hunting rifle, a Savage model 99 that you'd replaced your broken bow with. Daryl shrugged from his spot on the chair beside your bedroom table, not looking up from his work. He was almost always making new bolts in his free time then. He had a pile of twenty-two sitting next to him.

“Come on, I'm craving venison.”

He inhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging.

“Seriously, we haven't hung out in forever man.”

“Hang out?” He said it like you asked him for a ‘playdate’. “What're ya, twelve?”

“No, I'm an adult who misses you, jackass.” You muttered, kicking one of his boots across the floor closer to him. “You've made two hundred arrows in the past week man. I think you can take a break. Yeah, don't look at me like that. I've counted.”

It was when you were alone in the woods that he broke down. You hadn't even asked, he just told you after you took down a buck. He didn't cry at first, he gave a vague retelling, it was only when he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders from behind that he cried. His head hung low as his chest shook with quiet sobs, his hands laying idle and nervous in his lap, his eyes looking down at the stump he sat on. You rested your head in the crook of his neck and held him for a while, your fingers occasionally giving his biceps a reassuring squeeze if his breathing grew too ragged.

“I'll kill him. I promise. I'll find a way.”

When you were fifteen you skipped school for the first time. Your freshman year, Daryl's too. It was one of the only times you hung out that wasn't just the right time, right place. He was the one who talked you into it, since the two of you shared a history class. He brought cigarettes and a wild assortment of drugs, no doubt nabbed from Merle.

“We should do this more.” Daryl had said as you walked the power line trails in the woods behind the school. He shrugged when you looked at him, his gaze falling to the grass in front of him. “Hang out, I mean.”

“Yeah, we should.” You flashed a rare smile, earning one from him as well, the purple skin around his eye wrinkling.

You never did. You were too busy with school work and getting beat on by your withdrawing mother. Daryl wasn't really busy, in fact, he was alone most of his teenage years. Always alone out in the woods. Sometimes he'd miss school for a week, living in his father's tent deep in the forest, spending his time learning to live on his own. His father never noticed, not until the school called and he got one of the worst beatings he'd ever gotten. You saw him at school a few days after that, one of his last days before he dropped out.

He looked awful. Busted lips, bruises all over his arms, light purple handprints on his neck, and deep purple blotches around his eyes and jaw. The school called the police, but nothing ever happened. Daryl told them it was from a fight with some kid, and they happily accepted that answer, eager to miss out on the paperwork.

“We should just leave.” You said after he pulled the cigarette back away from your lips to take a drag of his own.

“I would.” He muttered as he held the smoke in his lungs, watching the kids in the far off soccer field chasing the ball. His legs dangled off the edge of the school roof, occasionally swinging a bit.

“I would too.” You wouldn't. Not until you got your brother back. You looked at him, feeling an unfamiliar twist in your heart when you saw the way he flinched under your sudden gaze. “I'd kill him if I could.”

You truly meant it. Even though Daryl was barely an acquaintance at that point, you would have killed his father if you got the chance. Daryl didn't mean much to you to be brutally honest, you didn't care to form a deep friendship with anyone, but you shared the bond of trauma from parental abuse and that was deeper than any normal friendship. He could leave, never see you again, and you wouldn't be upset, but if you ever had to witness his father touch him it would shatter your soul.

You promised yourself you'd kill anyone who ever hurt him after that. You almost murdered Andrea when you found out she shot him. You risked being eaten alive by walkers just to make sure the Governor was really dead. You beat Dwight until Daryl dragged you off, if he hadn't done that you would've killed him.

Things got a lot worse after the day of your failed assassination attempt. Daryl was never home anymore, either at Hilltop or Ezekiel's kingdom. You had reached the point of considering leaving again. The emotional rollercoaster you were going through was taking a heavy toll on your already fucked mental health.

He could see the effect his absence had on you, and it made him feel like shit. There wasn’t much he could do, he had so many responsibilities and he would never ask you to come with him and Rick every time they packed up and went on long trips every five seconds. It felt selfish to him, he didn’t know that you’d be more than happy to accompany him.

His hands on your tense shoulders as you sat on the edge of your bed did wonders to loosen you up. You set your gun down beside you and looked up to him, forcing a smile.

“C'mon sweetheart. Wanna show you somethin’.”

He took you on a long walk in the woods to a secluded pond that once belonged to a fisherman, obvious by the raggedy dock and small wooden shack filled with all sorts of fishing tools. There was still homemade canned fish in his cupboards.

“Gonna stay here for a few days. Jus’ you an’ me.”

You watched him over your can of trout, chewing slowly. “Really?”

Daryl shrugged and stabbed his fork into his own can. “Yeah. Ya need it.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We need it.”

Your heart swelled with warm joy, a smile spread on your face and you tried your best to contain the satisfaction his gift had given you. You missed your best friend more than anyone you’d ever missed before after your baby brother. You’d come to terms with the more than likely possibility that he was dead, and so were your parents. It took a long time and many different weeks spent searching when you were back in Georgia.

You had a fantastic time with him. You fished all morning, talked all afternoon, and ate your fill of fresh and canned fish. It wasn't long before you set up your bedrolls in the middle of the shack and blew out your candles. It felt amazing to sleep next to him again, you couldn't properly put into words how much you missed him. The feeling of his large warm body next to yours as you fell asleep had you thinking that it was all worth it. He was making an effort to spend time with you again, and with that effort came the sparks of hope, hope that you were getting your best friend back.

You woke up the first night spent with him in the fishing shack to see moonlight seeping through the holes in the tin roof. You rubbed your blurry eyes and sat up, propping yourself up with an elbow on the floor.

“Daryl?” You murmured sleepily as your eyes came to focus in the dim light. His bedroll was still beside yours, albeit empty. You waited a few minutes before walking outside, assuming he just had to go piss or something.

Ten minutes passed before you walked back into the shack, now carrying a small candle to light the room, cursing when the wax dripped down your knuckles. The amber glow illuminated his bedroll, bringing attention to a small white square. You leaned down and picked up the piece of paper, squinting in effort to read his handwriting.

The pain in your chest was deep and dark. Growing up you had grown used to being disappointed by your parents and people around you. It never surprised you. Even now you didn’t expect much from people, but Daryl was that exception. So when you read his little apology, claiming Rick called on him through his walkie to request his help in the Kingdom, you decided you’d had enough.

He had been in the Kingdom for about two weeks until you heard from Rick that they were back.

“We're leaving.” You seethed the moment you stepped into your new shared bedroom with Daryl. It was upstairs in one of the apartments in Alexandria, no longer the basement in Rick's house. You had a nice king sized bed, lots of dressers and shelves, a big ass tv, and even a gaming console that once belonged to Carl. Daryl had only slept in that bed three times since you moved in months ago.

He sighed your name and stood from his seat at the table, setting down the disassembled gun he'd been cleaning. “No we ain't. Cut that shit out.”

“I can't be here anymore. I can't. I can't.” You began hyperventilating as you ripped the dresser drawer fully out, falling to your knees and quickly grabbing the clothes that spilled out.

“Stop.” When you didn't comply he made you stop, grabbing your wrists and forcing you to look at him. He spoke in that serious tone that felt like a stab to the chest, his eyes burning holes into yours. “I'm not leavin'.”

You froze at his words. Your mouth opened and your lips trembled, your breath catching in your throat. The words never came to you. You just stared at him with wide eyes and a horrified look of disbelief.

Daryl didn't speak either. He stood his ground, maintaining a firm gaze, his grip on your wrists slowly loosening.

It hurt. And that made you angry.

“Who even are you anymore?” You hissed, tearing your hands away from him and shooting up on your feet. “I never see you anymore, you're cold, distant.” He got to his feet, accepting each blow of your words with this calm face that turned your anger into lividness.

“You promised me you'd never leave me. You promised you'd always be the one thing Daryl, the one thing that wouldn't change, wouldn't leave, wouldn't hurt me, I kept my promise!” Your finger hammered against your own chest in reference. “You say you're never leaving but you already left! I can see it in your eyes, don't look at me like you have no idea what I'm talking about.” Your face burned. “I can see it. The pity, the disdain. The only reason you haven't just kicked me out is cause you feel like you're obligated to me now, or maybe you're scared I'm some loose canon and I'll burn this fucking house down-”

Daryl had heard enough, he lurched forward until he was inches away from you, his nostrils flared due to his increasingly heavy breathing. “You're fuckin’ delusional!” He spat. “You don't think this is hard on me too? Don't think I'd rather be out there livin’ in some cabin with you? That shit ain't happenin’, these people are family. I ain't leavin' ‘em neither. Shit don't mean I don't care ‘bout ya anymore. We ain't in Atlanta, ‘ts not like that anymore. Ain't just me you ‘n Merle.”

“We should've just left. We should've just left.” You repeated in a breathy whisper, your glazed over eyes locked on his chest.

“Yeah? Well, we didn't, now we can't. Now I won't.” The purposeful enunciation of the last word was the straw that broke the camel's back, and he immediately regretted it as soon as your eyes squeezed shut. “G’damnit.”

“Fine.” Your breath was shaky, and you resumed packing.

He found it impossible to stop you, impossible to move. In reality all it would take from him was a simple request for you to stay, but he couldn't even manage that. It felt like watching a fire you started get out of control, he knew he still had the power to stop it, but he was too stunned to move.

You zipped up the same second duffle bag you'd packed with the same intention on leaving, just as you'd done before. This time though, it wasn't the same. It felt too final. You knew it would be the last time. Daryl did too, and he still didn’t stop you.

You’d set up camp deep in the woods down a dirt road that led to a pond. You slept in your car with your campfire a few feet away, a pot of wild carrots and rabbit simmering over the coals. It smelt amazing due to your stolen beef bouillon cubes, but you didn’t really have the motivation to eat. You flicked away the first cigarette of your last pack and stared into the red hot coals, watching them ebb and glow until the flash of something large and dark caught your eye.

You stared in disbelief as you watched his figure move through the thick trees, making his way over to your little camp beside the car you'd stolen from Alexandria. He had a heavy bag with him.

He plopped his bag down next to your fire and sat down, helping himself to a bowl of your stew. He said nothing, not even looking up at you as he finished your supper.

“The hell are you doing here?”

He looked up at you and sucked the grease from his fingertips, the empty bowl now discarded at his side. You had no idea how he’d managed to get his fingers coated in rabbit fat, it was fucking soup and he used a spoon. “Ts’it look like?”

You couldn't move, your feet glued to the debris of the forest floor. Your mind spun with questions. If he was actually willing to leave with you, leave all those people behind, why had he shut you out? Why had he changed? What changed?

“I don't want you here. It's an obvious act of charity.” You finally spoke, watching as he lit a wrinkled cigarette. “You told me yourself-”

“Will ya shut up?” He squinted up at you through the burn of smoke. “Jus’ walked six damn days to find ya. M’not leavin'.”

You sat on the opposite side of the fire in silence. He scooted around to sit next to you, and held his cigarette up to your lips. You took a weak pull and sighed. After a while of not speaking, you broke the silence.

“You're so different. Changed so much”

He nodded at your words, his head tilted down to stare at the leaves between his legs. “Had to.”

“Why?” The question burst from your lips so quickly that it surprised you.

“You.” He took a deep pull off his cigarette and blew it out the opposite side of his mouth to avoid blowing it directly in your face. “This ain't the kind of life you deserve. Tryin’ to get that for ya. That little house ya dreamed of living in, one with a screened in porch for plants ‘n shit. Life that ya ain't spendin’ hungry, cold, scared.”

He paused for a moment, taking another long drag. “Wanted me to be better too. The kinda man to pick ya flowers, take ya on dates, all that stupid shit.” He flicked the spent cigarette into the fire and leaned back against your car door.

If it was possible, you were feeling every emotion all at once, in such a rapid and disorienting fashion that it looped back around and made you too shocked to feel.

He delved deeper, explaining that he felt you deserved better than who he once was, Merle’s echo, a loud and angry asshole, then turned into a cold and traumatized shell, never allowing himself to feel vulnerable with you again. When he finally broke out of it and realized exactly what he wanted, he worked on himself in a determined attempt to be the man you dreamed of marrying as a kid.He worked on your surroundings as well, making sure to eliminate any possible threat in every colony that had even the slightest chance of risking your livelihood. But more importantly, he wanted to be yours. The type of husband you described when you were thirteen years old, cleaning the blood from his swollen ear one of the nights he slept on your back porch.

“I'm not gonna be like my mom.” You had said firmly, tossing away the bloody tissue paper. “I'm gonna get a good husband and I'm not gonna mess it all up like she did.”

“A good husband?” He questioned curiously, wincing as you dabbed his ear with rubbing alcohol.

“Yeah, like…. He'll take me on dates, open doors for me, buy me cool stuff, uh….” You trailed off in thought. “He's gonna build me a house too. With a screen porch that I can put a hundred plants in, and he won't be allowed to smoke in it. Oh, he won't smoke, actually. Or drink, or do drugs. He'll never hit me or yell at me like my mom did to my dad, and to me. He'll be handsome too. And smart.”

You were brought to the present with a jolt as Daryl’s hand touched your knee, making you jump. You didn't notice your eyes had started watering and you quickly went to discreetly dab them dry.

“Guess I fucked up. M’sorry. Was a real piece of shit.”

“No,” your voice broke as you stopped him, grabbing his hand on your knee and giving it a squeeze. “Complete opposite of a piece of shit. I had the wrong idea, I should be the one apologizing.”

“Tsh. Nah.” Daryl waved you off and shook his head. “Should’a told ya. Wasn't thinkin' right.”

The two of you sat in thoughtful silence until the embers began to grow dim. The forest was thick, so even though the sun was visible as it sank lower and lower, it soon became too dark to see properly.

“My…” you broke the silence, searching for the right word. “Aspirations have changed since then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Several seconds of silence.

“How'so?”

“Well, I don't care if he smokes, or does drugs, or curses or can't take me out on a date. He doesn't have to build me a house, but that's still an option.” Daryl snorted, and you went on. “But he does have to own a crossbow, ride a motorcycle without a helmet even though I tell him to, and he definitely needs this,” your finger tapped on the skull tattoo on the back of his hand before sliding up his arm to stroke a line down his back, “and these tattoos. And this.” You touched the mole over his upper lip. “And he definitely has to slur all his words together because of his accent.”

“That's all, huh?” He joked softly, watching you draw your hand away from his face. “Y’got some low standards for a husband.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. He also has to go back to his family, because that's where he belongs.” There was a quick flash of hurt on his face, his lips parting and his eyes narrowing, so you continued. “And because that's where my dream house is going to be built.”

In all your years knowing Daryl Dixon, you'd never been sexually intimate. You'd never had sex, flirtation only being reserved for playful teasing banter, you'd never really kissed, aside from that one night at the Greene farm. You'd laid with each other multiple times, more often than not sleeping curled up together in the woods or on the floor of some house. Despite never being sexually intimate there was an unspoken mutual understanding of your relationship, you were together, but not in the traditional standard sense. Neither of you ever had interest in a relationship with anyone, that was simply out of the question. Why have a partner when your best friend is everything you need?

He became your partner at some point, maybe that's why it caused so much anguish to the both of you when you left. But it was only that night that you solidified it. And the next morning, and in the back of the car on your way back, and on the hood of the car, and after your shower back home, and after dinner, on your bed, on the floor, a second time after that, right before bed, and again the moment you woke up.

It started with a kiss, which just so happened to be his second ever kiss, the first being you in the back of Dale’s RV. You wouldn't have ever guessed, the way he kissed with so much passion and vigor felt akin to a man kissing the same pair of lips he'd kissed his entire life. And you would have never guessed he was a virgin.

Each touch was as if he was handling precious glassware. He never took off any of your clothes, he'd just gently tug at your shirt until you got the hint and undressed yourself.

At some point you moved to the back of the car, he laid you down and closed the door behind him. Your soft pants and gasps quickly led to the windows fogging over, and by the end of it there were beads of precipitation dribbling down the glass.

He led graciously. His fingers were gentle but firm against your clit through your panties, working hard and with determination to give you the orgasm you deserved. He obeyed your requests for ‘circles, ah, softer, to the left, more’, and before long he was a master in the art of making you come.

Daryl wanted to give you oral, but you quickly pulled him back up, shaking your head as you gasped for air. “N-no, please. You. Need you.”

It was shocking that he didn't feel embarrassed when he came early. You'd reached down to stroke his cock, only getting in a few strokes before he pulled away with a strangled gasp, spilling his hot cum on your bare stomach. He didn't have time to feel embarrassed because only seconds later you were taking him in your desperate mouth, giving it your all to make him hard again.

He didn't take long. After stiffening in your mouth he eased your head away, maneuvering you on your back in such an effortless way that it made you look like you weighed nothing. Due to your wetness and unimaginable arousal it didn't hurt at all when he finally pushed in after rubbing his cock all over your desperate slick flesh.

You cried out anyway. Your jaw dropped and your eyes rolled back, clutching at his bare shoulders when you felt his pelvis fully connect with you.

“F-fuck.” You groaned as your eyes rolled back, digging your fingers deeper into his skin.

He let out a moan then, a light and vulnerable sound. You could feel him shaking on top of you as he fought not to finish again. It broke your heart, knowing he wanted to have sex with you so badly, to please you like you had him.

You stayed as still as humanly possible while you waited for him to move.

Daryl’s breath slowed and he moved, finally. He fucked you slow at first, slow and deep thrusts that managed to bury his dick further and further inside you each time. With each thrust he let out either a shaky whimper or a deep grunt, and soon he was picking up the pace, fucking a moan out of you each time he drove his throbbing cock back inside.

When his hand connected with the warm skin of your torso you whimpered, tossing your head back against the car seat. His hands stroked your sides, rough and dirty fingers scraping against your nipples and breasts. He gave one a firm squeeze, eliciting a sharp moan from you, one that he eagerly swallowed down with his hungry mouth, kissing you deeply and feverishly. He was breathing heavy through his nose, hot puffs of air sending waves of heat across your upper lip and cheeks.

A rough slam of his pelvis against yours sent the tip of his cock so deep it was almost painful, your gasp choked in your tight throat, your thighs squeezing the life out of his torso. He groaned at how responsive you were, his hot wet lips sliding down your face to start kissing your neck.

Daryl was quiet in the sense that he didn't say much. He groaned and whimpered, sure, but he hadn’t said a word since entering you. Which was totally fine by you, but you were a sucker for dirty talk. It was one of your favorite parts of sex.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” You whined, hoping to get a response. He just grunted, a possible returned compliment, his head not moving from the crook of your neck.

A noticeable increase in his pacing had all thoughts vanishing from your mind in a puff of smoke. You could feel the side of his jaw clenching against your neck, the skin hot and prickly with stubble, the friction eventually becoming uncomfortable. As if he could read your mind he raised his head and looked down at you, the tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth, looking like a man in deep, oh, deep, concentration.

“Fu-uh-uck-” You babbled, your heavy eyelids shutting against the brutal force of his thrusts. You grabbed onto his biceps again and held on for dear life, giving them a squeeze each time he gave a really deep thrust.

“That’s it.” Your heart jumped in your chest at the sound of his voice, it was gravely and sounded from the base of his throat. You felt your lower stomach do that delicious flip sensation, your clit throbbing in response to his voice.

“Mmm’god.”

“I know. I know.” He breathed, taking a second to readjust himself between your legs before going back to his artistic thrusting. He was grinding against you then, barely pulling out, using the full weight of his hips to force himself as deep as possible while he ground into you. You couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, it was a miracle that a virgin could fuck like that. He was a savant at something he’d never done before. You came hard around his throbbing dick, your walls clenching down so hard that it ripped his orgasm straight out of his body.

You gasped, your fingers tightening around his flexed biceps as your orgasm shook through you in violent waves. You moved your hips on your own, grinding up and against his pelvis to draw your pleasure out for as long as possible.

Daryl wasn't expecting it, he just came. His jaw dropped and he held onto the nearest body part, which just so happened to be your neck. He didn’t choke you, which came as a slight dismissible disappointment, he just held onto you with his large hands as he finished. It was so sudden and unexpected that he couldn’t control the sounds he made, better for you, he let out this beautiful high moan that sent flashes of Daryl in Atlanta behind your closed eyes. His body shuttered and jerked as every single rope of his cum flooded your insides, coating your vice like walls like spilled paint.

You didn’t give him time to recuperate. You squirmed under him, swapping your positions, and took his softening cock in your mouth. He groaned under you, grabbing you by your hair to pull you away, only to shudder when he felt his cock growing hard again. You smirked against the tip as he gently pulled you back down.

Halfway through he tugged you off of him, the two of you switching spots once again. You whined when you felt his lips connect with your puffy clit, your mind swirling as he used the flexed tip of his tongue to drift between your slick folds.

“Oh god, daryl.” You panted and ran your fingers through your sweaty hair to push it back over your head. You were either extremely sensitive due to the two orgasms, or he was an extremely skilled pussy eater. Either way you came fast, clenching your thighs around his head to clamp his mouth tight against you. He didn’t ease up as you came, his tongue and lips pulling tricks you didn’t think possible, drawing out your orgasm longer than any time previously.

He slid up between your legs, planting kisses from your wet mess up your stomach to your chest. He suddenly bit down on one of your nipples, gentle at first, but the moan that came from your lips had him tightening his teeth.

You were under the impression that he would ease you down from your high with light kisses and soft touches, but apparently, he had other plans. His cock plunged back into you before you had any idea what was happening, and he quickly set a fast and intense pace. His hands slipped around both of your wrists and pulled, using the leverage to both fuck you deeper and keep you firmly in place.

If you could’ve seen the state you were in, you’d be a red hot embarrassed bitch. Your mouth was hanging open, your eyes fluttering between open and closed, sounds coming from your throat that envied any moan and whine to ever come out of a woman's mouth. Your hair kept falling back in your face each time his hips slammed into yours, no matter how many times you hastily pushed it away or tucked it behind your ears. You looked at him for as long as you could, but you were too stimulated, it was too hot, he was too beautiful, you had to let them fall shut as you came again.

As cliche as it sounds, your final orgasm, for that night at least, was world shattering. You didn’t care how loud you were or what types of faces you were making. Your body was completely out of your control, your brain on pause as it struggled to deal with the flood of dopamine and oxytocin.

Daryl wasn’t looking any better, he’d ran miles before and came out looking more put together. He huffed as he came inside you yet again, his dick twitching with each spurt of cum. He braced himself on his elbows on either side of your body, his head drooping down as he managed a few sloppy thrusts. He muttered something then, something you were too fucked up to make out through his thick and slurred accent.

When he finally drew his red and tender dick out of you his heart seemed to skip a beat. The two loads spilled out the second he withdrew, trickling down your folds and over the swollen head of his dick. That was a sight he’d remember till the day he died.

You fought to catch your breath after he all but collapsed on top of you. It was pure bliss for a few moments, and then it was too hot and too close. Before you could say anything he lifted himself off of you, still waging his own war against his lungs.

“Getting old there, huh?” You teased, sliding up into a sitting position after grabbing your panties. Yeah, he's old, it's not the fact you just did the same amount of exercise as swimming across the atlantic ocean.

“Shut up.” He breathed as he wiped his damp hair from his face.

After a few moments of silence, apart from the sounds of your breathing, you dressed yourselves and began loading all your shit into your car.

“You really walked six days? No bike, no car?” You questioned as he plopped down into the driver's seat, the flame of his lighter illuminating his face. The smell of cigarette smoke had you leaning over and he pressed the filter against your lips.

“No bike.”

“That’s kind of stupid.”

“Huh. Rich.” He smirked around the cigarette at you before glancing over his shoulder to watch the dirt road as he reversed.

“Yeah, true.”

Your life wasn’t magically fixed after that night, and neither was Daryls, but it did get a lot easier. You zipped up your coat but your shoes were still full of snow, that kind of better. A lot of shit happened, you had your arguments, but no fights. After RIck died you ran off together looking for his body, for Daryl’s closure, living off in the woods somewhere with a dog that liked to growl at you. He was over possessive of Daryl, and so were you, so the two of you were butting heads often.

He never did build you that house, but you moved into one of the newly built homes in Alexandria. He did build you a back porch, which looked great for someone who’d never built an entire screened in porch before, even if it did look a little raggedy in some spots. He even brought home pots for you to plant ‘shit’ in, as he said.

Daryl wasn’t home often, which didn't bother you anymore, because you were out there with him.

@ophelialaufey @carlgrimesgfofficial @theskinniestjackson-denny @dilfish-daydreams @louifaith @my1fx @jinx-nanami

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alldevilsarehere90 · 1 year

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Title: Pretending Pairing: Daryl x Female Reader Summary: You'd been waiting long enough for Daryl to make it clear how he felt about you and now you were tired of waiting. Rating: 15+ (SFW) W/c: 1.6k Setting: Alexandria / Abandoned town Genre/Warnings: One shot / fluff / Romance / Friends to lovers / Bad language / slightly suggestive if you squint Prompts: "You wouldn't second-look me before the world went to shit, so don't pretend otherwise.' Requested by @ravenrose18 A/n: Tried to make this as fluffy as I could, I had to re-write it because I made it too angsty the first time, I can't help it, it's in my nature lol Enjoy

You'd had enough, enough of waiting for Daryl Dixon to make a move, enough of not knowing if he even wanted to. The mixed signals he gave you were sometimes enough to cause whiplash.

Your mind was made up, today was the day you would confront him and find out once and for all how he felt about you.

This morning, as you showered and got yourself ready to go on the run with him, you had been full of confidence, consumed by your plan and practising your confession repeatedly to yourself in the mirror. The words ran through your mind over and over, like a script you were trying desperately to memorise, as you head down the pathway leading to the gate.

As soon as you spot him waiting for you however, your bravado runs off, abandoning you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and second guessing your decision.

"Yer ready?" He asks, already seated on his motorbike and sends his cigarette shooting across the road with a flick as you approach him.

Nodding, you climb on, hands unsteady as they make their way around his waist.

Your clammy palms lock together to keep yourself in place. His scent instantly claims your senses; tobacco and leather with an added note of something so him, you couldn’t put your finger on it but breathed it in and relished it just the same.

The gate opens and as soon as it's a wide enough exit, his hands move and you speed off, leaving Alexandria a blur behind you.

The wind whips through your hair, sending it flying wildly around your face. You enjoy feeling the cool air ripple against your skin, calming your nerves and clearing your mind. Before you knew it, you found yourself leaning your cheek on Daryl's back, closing your eyes, enjoying the closeness and warmth radiating from him but when you notice him stiffen under you for a brief moment, back muscles pulled taute against the softness of your face, you almost sit upright again before feeling him slowly relax back into the journey.

But all too soon you had come to your destination and were forced to unwrap yourself from him.

An abandoned town sat a fair few miles from Alexandria that had been discovered by the two of you on the way back from another run. It was getting dark when you came upon it previously and you were both tired and dirty and just wanted to get home. Investigating in the dark is never a good idea if it is not necessary.

You'd agreed to come back a few short days later in the daylight to explore it and here you were. Staying near him, eyes constantly surveying your surroundings, while Daryl hid the bike in the opening of the woods.

The place seemed deserted, eerily so, with no sight of any one dead or alive. Odd but not unheard of.

You both get your weapons out ready and head into the surrounding buildings, searching one by one and finding a surprising amount of supplies and only a handful of walkers to deal with. It was shaping up to be a very successful run. And once you'd swept through the empty little town, taking anything you could use and putting it in your packs, you journeyed to the final building; a clothes store.

You both grab standard clothes in different sizes so there could be something for everyone and fill up the last of the space in your packs in the process.

Wandering the store and surveying the racks looking for anything new and interesting, when you spot a black cowboy hat, taking it off the shelf and searching around the rails for your companion. You spot him pulling items off hangers and shoving them into his bag. Quietly walking up behind him and placing the hat on his head with a giggle.

"Why, howdy there partner, fancy seeing ya in these neck'a the woods." You mock, in a deep southern accent. He turns to you, smiling, that same smirk that you've grown to love so much and never fails to make your heart beat faster.

“Ma’am.” He nods, flicking the brim of the hat, attempting to join in with your playfulness.

Your stomach quivers as you relish seeing this side of him, a side it seems only you can bring out. “Well, well, ya can take the boy outta the country but ya can’t take the country out the boy.”

He scoffs and tosses the hat at you, managing to land it on your head. “Suits yer better.”

You hold the brim and incline your head, “thank yer, thank yer very much.” You say, spinning off towards another section of the store, hearing his quiet laughter causing butterflies to fly rampant inside you.

A perfect cobalt blue sundress catches your attention and you head over to it. The material felt soft and thin against your fingers, perfect now the warmer weather was here. It wasn't until the sound of Daryl clearing his throat behind you, you realised he'd been watching.

"Why dun yer take it?" He asks, his bag full and slung over his shoulder.

Turning back to the dress, with your bottom lip caught between your teeth in hesitation, you shrug. "I've got no reason to wear it." You finger at the material one last time, admitting to yourself that you want it more because the colour matches Daryl's eyes than because of the way it feels. "What do you think?" You ask him, peeking at him slyly.

He shifts his weight to the other foot and picks at his nails. "Try it, see if yer like it" he nods his head towards the single dressing room.

You mull it over before agreeing that's probably best. If you don't feel good wearing it there's no point in taking it.

Shutting the door behind you as you enter the small space, you begin to remove your old clothes and slip the dress over your head. A little manoeuvring and smoothing the material down before you brave the mirror attached to the wall. You're not sure what you expected but it wasn't the sight that stared back at you.

You looked pretty. You haven't felt pretty in…well, in a very long time. Seeing yourself in this dress, as silly as it sounds, made the world seem as if it hadn't ended and it was just another day out shopping for something new. You take a moment to adjust to this version of yourself in front of you before slowly opening the door and hesitantly exiting. Peering around outside where you'd left Daryl, only to be met with nothing but still, quiet space.

"Daryl?" You whisper.

His face shot out in front of you, "yea," he replies, as he appears from inside the rack closest to the changing room. He laughs as you jump, clutching your chest but unable to help the grin stretching the corners of your mouth. Your hand playfully hit his chest, "you jerk."

His smile drops as his eyes fall to your outfit and he takes a step back to really look at you. A red tinge blooms across his cheeks as his eyes roam over your body, more skin on show than ever in this strappy, short dress.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you, feeling more confident than ever in how he feels about you.

"So, what do you think?" You say, giving him a spin and in the process sending the dress flying up a little higher than you intended.

He clears his throat again, "s'nice." His voice more quiet and raspier than usual. You enjoy watching his adams apple bob up and down following the loud swallow.

There was only a few centimetres of space between you, his radiating heat made you painfully aware of his proximity.

Reaching forward, fingers in search of his and when you find them his eyes dart downwards at the unexpected touch but they respond quickly and entwine with yours. It was the confirmation you needed, bringing your other hand to tuck some of his long hair behind his ear. But he dips his head, taking his gaze away from you.

"Hey," you whisper, cupping his face and pulling him up to look at you. "If you don't feel the same, you can say."

He scoffs. "If I dun feel the same?" He repeats in surprise. "I've wanted yer since the day we met."

Your heart jerks at his confession before galloping away your chest, part of its own solo race towards him but confusion spoils your happiness, not understanding as to why he seems so unsure. You wait with a questioning gaze on him, searching his eyes for answers.

Finally, he sighs, "Yer wouldn't second-look me 'fore the world went ta shit, so dun pretend otherwise."

You bring both your hands to either side of his face and wait until his eyes meet yours again. "Daryl Dixon, I can promise you, world ending or not, I would have second, third and fourth looked you."

His answering smile made you feel like you were getting through to him.

"No one is pretending here." You insist as your hands wind around his neck and you lean up on your tiptoes to be closer to his mouth. "I have waited and waited for you, Daryl. How about we don't waste anymore time?"

As soon as the last word passes your lips, his touch yours before you even have a chance to form your next thought.

His hands come up to your face, cradling you softly and caressing the skin of your cheeks with his thumbs. Everything in this moment was gentle, loving and far more passionate than you'd envisioned. You held each other close with a lingering desperation lurking beneath the surface, something to be explored when you were both ready.

When you finally break apart, breathing hard and hearts pounding, he slides his hands down your sides to clasp yours.

"Here's ta not wasting time." He says into the silence, placing a quiet kiss on the back of your hand. "Come on, let's go home."

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #twd

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answer2jeff · 8 months

Text

fixer-upper. // lip gallagher

lip x biker-girl!OC

warnings : public sex, oral (m!receiving), praise kink, light to rough hair-pulling, unestablished relationship, intense and obvious flirting, porn with plot and detail, mentions of smoking (tobacco), cursing, OC is just as full of herself as Lip, knows she's a bitch, kinda has a weird sense of possessiveness over him?? clunky and overly detailed writing with a journaling/diary style.

authors note : trying something a little different! using the first person POV with an original character. first time writing this way—still getting the hang of it <3 this is REALLY long...sorry.

song : beauty school.

disclaimer : you can picture the OC however you like! her name is really just used for aesthetic purposes. there isn't much description on her appearance other than the fact that her hair is long enough to put it in a ponytail. enjoy!

Great. Fucking great.

One of my tires is punctured. The visor in my helmet is cracked. My elbows are etched with surface level scratches and dried blood. And the engine cover of my bike has finally snapped off. I had it coming. It was an old piece of rusty junk from my cousins garage sale from 2012, anyway. But it had charm. I knew I was gonna miss that bike for the good couple of hours, possibly days, I would reluctantly end up leaving it in a repair shop down the street from my apartment.

I can hear the squelch of skin, the seal between my hot breath and sweaty skin breaking as lift my helmet from my head. I hope to feel a rush of cool air, but the humidity tells me to go fuck myself. I'm pulled over onto the curb. I can't totally remember how I got there; being in the middle of the street on a scorching summer day wearing denim shorts that chafe up my inner thighs and rub my skin until it is raw and red and unbearably itchy, was not my vision for today. My handlebars are loose. That would explain it.

If I just take it to Born Free Cycles, leave it overnight, and come back in the morning, I can act like this whole thing never happened, and I'm not horribly irresponsible.

40th West View Ave.

Oh. I'm close actually. Barely a block away. I should go there now. I can call Mikey and have him drop me and the bike off at the garage. I'll see that kid with the grown out buzz-cut and black motor grease on his knuckles that somehow always transfers and blots on his face. Specifically on his strong jaw and right before the peak of his hairline. I wonder if he notices. Maybe he doesn't clean it off because it gives him edge that he doesn't need. Like the nickname on his name tag on a black uniform hadn't given his thirst for trouble away already. And the circles under his eyes are almost the same shade of smudged charcoal grey.

I wonder if he notices.

—

"So the engine cover popped? Just—" he shrugs, looking up at me as if I can't understand him "clean off?"

The sunlight bleeds in through the open garage door. It shines behind Lip, casting a shadow that makes his face hard to see perfectly. But I know the look he's conveying. His eyebrows are raised but drawn slightly closer together, his teeth are gnawing at the inside of his cheek so he can stifle a smile and the laugh that will follow soon after, and his blinks remain slow. I try not to smile too. But I fail.

I've only been here about 3 times, really. The first time was to get handlebar grips from Eddie. That was when I saw Lip. I chose not to make any kind of move, but it ate at my insides until the second time. That time was with Mikey. I was preoccupied with the blue-eyed kid, propped up on a workbench and throwing mindless flirty implications at him while he took long drags from a cigarette, to remember why Mikey was even doing there and why he dragged me along with him. His laugh, the playful eye-roll after I complimented his sweat-laden blonde curls weighed down by heat humidity, told me he was on board.

But I wasn't done.

I knew this time I'd pounce for what was mine.

"Yeah," I breathe out, crossing my arms and peering down at him, "And I mighta' been redlining the RPM a little too much. Probably fried the fucking thing."

Lip nods, the corner of his mouth curling up just a bit. He beckons his hand toward himself, telling me to kneel down beside him to inspect the bike. "This things kinda old, huh?" He teases, turning his head to me and finally letting a real smile break. It warms something in me. I shrug. He glances at my white tank-top, covered in black stains of dirt and oil.

"It's not great, no. It's a piece of shit. But it's cute!" I play along with him, taking the hairband on my wrist and twisting my hair into a high ponytail. Lip huffs though his nose, shaking his head and laughing again.

The next couple of minutes are filled with him telling me things I already know. Things I was too exhausted to manage on my own, defeating the whole purpose of why I was here. Fuck the bike. I know what's wrong with the bike. I know it's an old piece of junk and it's barely salvageable. You should know why I'm here. And maybe you do. But you should do something about it.

Lip has this way of speaking to me that feels ridiculously sweet and overly 'cool.' I know it's just his cadence and his cockiness, but I like it. I like that he thinks it makes me swoon. Partially because he's right, but mostly because I've mastered hiding it. He doesn't see my heart pound or the rising heat in my abdomen when he cracks his knuckles or puts a hand on my shoulder and let's it travel down to the small of my back when I crouch down beside him to look at another motorcycle he's trying to save. I'm almost certain he convinces himself that my gestures are nothing more than a meaningless flirt. I simply find him attractive, as does everyone. Nothing more.

But he's got it all wrong.

He knows my intentions somewhat well enough to the point where he can't not flirt back, though. He knows I haven't stopped him from letting his eyes travel from mine to my lips whenever I speak. He likes that I let him light my cigarettes for me. But he doesn't know this isn't just for fun. I'm so hyper-aware that it isn't out of the kindness of his heart. And neither are his compliments and lame jokes he makes to impress me. He treats my attraction to him as fact, but my genuine interest as a possibility.

Again, he's wrong.

I can't wrap my head around how he could reciprocate my efforts without ever pushing the envelope and asking to exchange numbers, or if I had a boyfriend, or maybe he had one of his own. No, no. He'd tell me if he had a girlfriend. He is, above all else, loyal.

Lip's what I want. I meant when I said his hair looked nice. I meant when I gave him a 20-dollar gratuity and a peck on his cheek just for giving me a repair cost estimate on my shattered headlight. I smile any time he says my name: Maeve.

Hey Maeve, back so soon, huh?

Hand me that box, Maeve.

Y'alright, Maeve?

Yo, Maeve, wanna bum one?

Maeve, Maeve, Maeve.

—

"Think you'll be back tomorrow to pick it up? No rush, though. I can keep it 'till you're ready," Lip asks me, leaning against the wooden workbench littered with microfiber towels and tools. His swell arms are crossed to his chest. I nod, coating my fingertips with a thin film of spin while I fish out some cash from my beat up faux leather wallet.

"A-huh. Thanks," I hand him 6 twenties before glancing at the opening of his button-down uniform.

The corner of my mouth lifts itself into a knowing smirk, my hand on my hip as I shift my weight to it, making my chest stick out and my spine bend correspondingly. My lips hang open a measly centimeter apart before I draw the bottom one between my teeth. I watch him sort through the cash, biting down harder on the flesh of my lip when he freezes.

"Looks like you're a good 15 short," he barely mumbles, looking up at me through his eyelashes. His brows narrow down to me again. I click my tongue coyly. I step closer to him, my hand, with fingernails painted black, pushing the cash in his palms down and his arms down with it.

"About that..." I pause, tilting my head with a look of naivety and not bothering to push away the strand of hair that has fallen from my ponytail and over my eye. Instead, I wait and let Lip set the pile of cash down and draw the curtain of my hair open to reveal my face. My stomach twists on itself, and I can practically feel his chest rising and falling with every anxious breath in my own lungs.

I beg to whatever higher power lies above us in this garage that a kiss will work. Not that it usually doesn't, but my form isn't as confident as it typically would be. The guys I wrap around my finger aren't as driven as Lip is. And God, none of them are part of my tantalizing daydreams nearly as often as he is. I picture his rough hands exploring me, squeezing and rubbing over the valleys of my skin. I imagine his breath is hot with the taste of mint and cigarettes. Every part of me wants to know if my predictions are accurate. If he's the type to sink his teeth into my neck and shoulder blades just to apologize to the reddening skin with open-mouthed kisses. The anticipation kills me. It's enough to swallow me whole.

"...Maybe I can pay you back a different way?"

I barely whisper and Lip scoffs, glancing away from my gaze, scanning the area just for it to be completely empty. He comes back to me. His eyes go a little wider than before. Almost to say, 'oh shit, you're serious?' I stick my tongue between my teeth and tug on his uniform, feeling the fabric rub between my sweaty fingertips. My eyes watch Lip's adam's apple bob as he swallows a breath.

"Yeah?" He thumbs my bottom lip and pulls it down, his free hand traveling down to my hip and pulling me closer to him, "what were y'thinking, Maeve?"

"Mmmm," I hum while pressing my hand against his chest while the other cups his cheek, and I let the pad of my thumb graze over the grove of his defined cheekbones. "Dunno yet."

My teasing is much to Lip's dismay, but he handles it quite well. It's sobering to see a guy as seemingly self-involved and easily impressed play into my mind games. It only pushes me further, and he knows it. I crash my lips into his, my hands anchoring themselves on his shoulders for support. He sighs into me, a hand reaching down to hook a finger through the belt loop of my shorts and drag me closer to him. His hand cups my cheek and pulls me into his mouth to let his tongue slip past my own. And he tastes just as I expected. Minty, smoky, and mine. I practically grind my self onto him in complete desperation, feeling him harden under me. Every roll of his hips threatens to send me over the edge. And fuck, his muffled groans of pleasure against my mouth that ring in my ears are hypnotic. But even with his sturdy, growing buldge forcing the fabric of my shorts to press roughly on my clit, I need this to last.

Blissfully and ever so slowly.

I finally pull away to catch my breath, the buck of our waists slowing down. My head feels fuzzy and heat rises in my cheeks when I open my eyes to see how flushed Lip's face is. Even the tips of his ears have turned a little red. I smile, giggling like a teenager who just kissed her crush in a closet at a house party as a dare. He laughs back in a way that asks 'what are we even doing?'

"Thought you had a boyfriend."

I pause, my eyebrows knitted. I try to think of who he could possibly be referring to.

Ah.

"Who? Mikey?" I try not to laugh, looking around to the imaginary audience to check if they're really hearing this nonsense too, "ew, no. He's like my brother."

Lip lets out a breath of relief he almost didn't realize he'd been holding. It surprises me. Probably a lot more than it should. But hey, for the other 3 times I've been here, I kept asking myself why his flirting was just as intense as mine, but he never asked for my number or made a true move on me. To think that my friend had been unintentionally cockblocking me with his ridiculous height and horrid American traditional tattoos all over his arms, and it wasn't because the guy had a girlfriend...it's almost funny.

"Oh," he replies, his eyebrows raising. Now both of his hands rest at my hips.

"What? Is that why you left me hangin' when I did this?" I press a kiss against his cheek, my palm rubbing over his shoulder to pull a chuckle out of him.

"I guess so, yeah. Just didn't want him to kill me for getting to close t'you," he kisses my cheek, smiling again.

"Geez. Mikey wouldn't hurt a fucking fly. He just...looks scary. Plus, nobody tells me what to do."

"Noted. Glad to hear that, actually."

"Mikey is—" I pause, biting the inside of my cheek "a sweet guy."

"Uh-huh."

"Too sweet. And I hate the aftershave he uses. He's—he's entirely too much."

"Mm."

"Whatever. Shut up."

"Didn't say anything," he shrugs, trying and failing to act clueless.

Fuck. He's fucking glad. He's glad I don't have a stupid-waste-of-my-time-cockblocking-boyfriend on my hip who's constantly watching my every move and stopping me from giving all of myself to Lip. Hell, I'm glad too. Very glad. With one swift movement, I take matters into my own hands again. I undo every last plastic button on his uniform, snaking down his chest and abdomen. I latch onto his neck, biting the skin and sucking a bruising hickey. He shivers beneath me and wraps his hand around my ponytail, huffing breathless chuckles and slowly getting more and more frustrated with my agonizingly slow, torturing pace for foreplay.

I bend my knees to begin my descend to the ground, kissing down his torso. My hands travel down his sides. Lip gently lets go of my hair to lean back into the workbench, never letting his head reel back so he can carefully watch me tenderly adhere to his needs while anchoring his hands behind him for support. I giggle to myself, relishing in the affect I have on him.

Shit. This is risky. Screw it. Pretty girl without a boyfriend who tips in 20 dollar bills and blowjobs? How could I say no? No part of me wants to back out, Lip's mind races, his grip tightening on the wooden slab as he clenches his jaw.

I wonder if he's nervous. Or maybe he's done this time and time again: fucking a girl right in this garage. Possibly bent over this very work bench. Those girls must've been so easy. I can bet on my life that they were never as fun, never as wet, never as needy as me. This would be different. I wouldn't give him everything he wanted and more that quickly. A girl deserves to have her fun. She deserves to watch the overly confident guy she's fancied for weeks, who continues to play hard to get, squirm and writhe with every slight of hand she gives him.

And that's exactly what I'm doing.

"Y'having fun down there?" Lip chastises me, chuckling lightly to himself as he tilts his head down to get a better look at my face.

My kisses stop right above the waistband of his jogger pants. I look up at him pleadingly through my lashes, my eyes big with lust and cunning seduction. I pull the middle of the waistband down just so I can drag my tongue across the exposed skin just centimeters away from his cock. The curls of his happy trail tickle my chin, but the full body shiver and the shaky exhale of "fuck," as he tries to keep his composure, makes it so worth it. He finally shuts his eyes, head reeling back. I lick my lips and smile, cupping his groin before he can even think about looking back down and feeling the blood rush to his cock again. His twitching dick underneath my palm sends me sitting on my heel, ready to slowly rock my hips down into it to fill my desperate need for friction. My cotton panties are definitely soaked.

I can't waste any more time.

I remove my hand from his crotch and quickly pull his pants and his boxers down with them. They pool at his ankles, and his cock strains hard and leaking sticky, crystal clear pre-cum from the thick and aching tip. My mouth nearly drops. I admire every vein, letting my hand wrap around the base of his cock once I've spit into it as makeshift lubricant. I'm so lost that I don't even register Lip peering down at me, swallowing impatiently.

"My, you're so worked up, Lip. And I haven't even started." I don't bother to look up at him as I rub my hand up and down his shaft, worried his pretty face will distract me. But I can picture him perfectly.

"Fuck you," he huffs through a struggled laugh, covering his mouth as he groans in pleasure at the feeling of my hand squeezing his cock every once and a while as I slowly pump him up and down.

"Later," I retort. I bite down on my bottom lip, looking up at him again for permission. He nods, almost as if he's able to read my mind. My eyes shut and my stomach flutters. Soft lips cover the head, swirling my tongue over the slit. His tip leaves my mouth with a loud pop, and I lick a bold stripe along the thickets vein I can find.

"Jesus, fuck, Maeve!" He writhes, his breath hitched in his throat by me hollowing out my cheeks and taking nearly 3/4 of his total length into my mouth. Moans of pure bliss at the feeling of his cock enveloped by the wet warmth of my mouth echo through the garage. I fear he's too loud, but I decide not to care. Not now.

My hand pumps the rest of his cock that I don't fit into my mouth at the moment, while my free hand reaches for his. My eyes remain closed and my sucking maintains a steady pace as I bob my head up and down his cock. I grab his hand and set it on the top of my head, but he hesitates.

"W—you sure, Maeve? I don't wanna hurt you," he swallows, accidentally bucking his hips into my mouth and running his unoccupied hand through his sweaty curls. I detach myself from him, wiping the mixture of pre and spit from the corner of my mouth and finally looking up at him.

"You won't," I take a deep breath, "I won't let you. I'll tell you if 's too much, kay?"

"Okay. Maybe just—" he clears his throat "tap my leg 3 times? And I'll...uh—I'll let go? Yeah?" He looks beautiful. Flushed, bare, and oh so needy for my touch. I wish I could keep him like this forever. He's so compliant, so understanding. But part of me knows that once I let him do this, it'll show me the side of him I've really been praying to see.

I nod, smiling contently and feeling myself blush when he twirls his fingers around my ponytail again. He bends over just the smallest bit to cup my chin and smile back. The pad of his thumb grazes over my skin before he lets go. I take it as my sign to go back, pressing my hands against either of his thighs and feeling clit jump with excitement when Lip tugs at my hair the moment I take his cock into my mouth again. I bob my head up and down, my eyes rolling back when his tip hits the back of my throat. Tears prick at my waterline as I struggle not to cough.

I grow even more desperate. My hand dives into my shorts and I slide two of my fingers inside of me, unfortunately never living up to the potential size and feeling of Lip's. The continuous ram into my gummy and tender spot causes me to fall apart, whining with his dick occupying the space in my mouth.

"Oh my God," Lip nearly whines, his grip tightening as he guides my head up and down his dick, but it's so gentle it never startles me, "so fuckin' good, baby. Jesus, fu—ah..keep doin' that. Yes, fuck.."

My tongue swishes over and under his cock in mind-numbing patterns, and I can't help but let little muffled moans escape my throat and vibrate against him. He almost can't contain himself: bucking his hips and practically fucking my throat. I do my best to cancel out the occasional gag so quickly he won't feel guilty and possibly stop.

Use me, I think.

Usually, I'd take the lead, never letting a head pusher take the role. But not this time. Lip's so pent up, so stressed with the complexities of his life. This is a kind gesture. One that involves tears of struggle spilling out of my eyes and streaming down ky cheeks. But fuck, I love it. It's filthy. It's nasty the way I nearly suck him dry. I can't remember the last time a blowjob was this fun.

"Such a good girl. Y'know that?" He looks down at me, biting his lip as his eyebrows knit in pleasure and desperate need to cum down my pretty little throat, "how'd you get so fuckin...so fuckin' good at this, baby? Shit—feels so good."

He babbles over and over again, and I'm taking strategic breaths through my nose and speeding the pace of my fingers as they thrust in and out of me so I don't stop him from releasing the way he absolutely deserves. Finally, he pulls my ponytail tighter than he ever has, warning me that he's about to cum, but by the time he tells me, it sends down my throat. He groans out, releasing my hair and going limp. I swallow the salty substance, blinking out the last few tears in my eyes and sliding my fingers out of me.

—

Lip: 1 message.

Hey. 11:47pm

Hey. Miss me already? 11:52pm

Something like that, yeah. 11:56pm

What's up 11:58pm

I get off early tomorrow. Just wondering if you wanted to come by the shop and hang out for a bit? 11:59pm

Sure. See you then. xoxo 12:03am.

—

current taglist : @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria

#lip gallagher x oc #lip gallagher #lip gallagher smut #shameless x OC #lip gallagher x reader smut #lip gallagher x oc smut #shameless #shameless x reader #jeremy allen white #i hope you guys like this!!!#tried really hard with this new style

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