#idiot and fiasco

[trulycertain]

The Naut's eyes widen. “What are you?” he says, voice rough from the water. She says, while her heart hammers, with the sort of calm that her cousin has told her is very frightening: “I speak for the School of – in your tongue, it would be something like Traders, or Peace-Brokers.” “You’re a diplomat,” he says, slowly, with a tone like disbelief, and his breathing is odd; as if he might laugh. “I’m off-duty, actually.” - fit for pearls

Over the years, I maaay have drawn and written rather more of that GreedFall mer AU than I got round to posting. So, since it's MerMay, thought I'd do an amnesty... (Warning for crunchy, crunchy watercolour paper, but there's only so much I can do about that.) Most of these are from 2022? Could be '23?

[lucky13cat]

Frank is just settling back into the Pitt. He's been there a good few months now after everything (rehab, the separation, Fourth of July shift back from hell, the divorce in that order). He's got routines now. He's less edgy, and everyone around him is starting to rebuild their relationships with him.

Mel is a godsend. She'd visited him in rehab, visited him after when he was still trying to convince Robby and the hospital to take him back, and she'd stuck by him since he came back. She's probably his best friend.

Which is why he is the worst person alive because he's 99% sure he's in love with her. Just totally gone for her.

No one has noticed is the thing. Frank's not sure how he was acting before this worldview shattering revelation hit him, but clearly, he'd been acting besotted the entire time. Meaning no one noticed when he notices!

It's good. He's good. He's not going to act on his feelings. Not because of Mel. No. She's amazing, and she definitely deserves way better than a divorced addict who barely managed to keep his job and career. He's going to keep all of his romantic feelings locked down in his chest, and then hopefully, one day, he'd die (yeah, his therapist is doing their best with him). It's fine. He's good.

He is so good, in fact, that he doesn't even lose his mind when on Christmas Eve Mel's fiance comes into the ED.

Ex-fiance, technically. But semantics and all that. At one point, the guy getting blood all over his ten thousand dollar suit was going to marry Mel, and judging by the wonderstruck look in his eyes, he's still in love with her. Frank wants to go scream on the roof.

Ex-fiance had gotten into a car accident heading back to his hotel or something, the details mattered less and less in Frank's mind as the revelations kept knocking him over the head, and Frank now had the dubious honor of plucking all of the glass from his face and arm. A task that normally Mel would take over with a bright gleam in her eye. Except the moment Mel had caught sight of her ex and heard him call her name, she'd vanished. Poof, gone. Leaving Frank to sit here picking out glass and trying very hard not to snap at the man for asking a thousand questions about Mel.

What feels like every person who works at PTMC stops by to see Mel's ex. Even Garcia shows up when Frank definitely did not request a consult. She pats his shoulder before leaving, something she'd never done not even the time she'd visited him in rehab. Frank's will to live keeps decreasing.

Finally, Frank is released from his torture, sorry his task, and he can go find Mel. He finds her in the ambulance bay mouthing along to a Megan Thee Stallion song and shaking in a way that had nothing to do with the freezing cold wind blowing through.

He sits down next to her trying to share body heat. To keep both of them from getting frostbite, obviously. (Obviously.) He doesn't ask any questions. He just sits with her, and very slowly, the shaking stops. Mel opens her mouth, and the whole story floods out.

She'd met Patrick in her third year of undergrad. He'd been a fourth year about to graduate and head off to law school. When he'd gotten into the law school connected to the college, they'd moved in together. Her mom had still been alive and taking care of Becca. Mel had said this with the same delicate voice she always used when she spoke of her mother. Frank wrapped his arm around her shoulders and resisted the urge to press a kiss to her temple.

Patrick was sweet. He was from Connecticut but had gone south for school. He'd asked her to marry him a month after she'd graduated undergrad. The plan was for him to finish up law school, work a bit, and then they'd get married before Mel started her third year of med school. They'd had a summer date all picked out and everything.

Just after her first year ended, Mel's mom died.

Everything had changed. Mel was now balancing being Becca's primary caretaker with school. Patrick kept pushing the wedding, thinking she needed a distraction. Which had been the opposite of helpful. Pretty soon it just became all too much. Mel had broken down four months before the wedding. Given back the ring and blocked Patrick's number when he just kept calling and calling and calling. She'd buried herself in school and taking care of Becca ever since. And now, Patrick was here, dragging everything back up.

By the time, Mel's gotten her whole story out, Frank's pretty sure they've gone well past their union mandated break, but since no one's come to find them and their pagers have been quiet, he doesn't care.

Frank's also pretty sure offering to kick Patrick out of the ED with some made-up excuse about harassment wouldn't help, but he still tucks the idea away with all of the other urges he talks through with his hospital mandated therapist. He does offer Mel comfort, though, and by the end of it, she's smiling again. A win for him, really.

At some point, they do head back inside because they're definitely needed and definitely going to get hypothermia if they stay outside any longer. Frank squeezes her hand before they separate.

When Robby comes by to check in like he does whenever someone informs him that Frank is acting especially annoyed and manic, Frank forces a very neutral expression on his face and tells him he just needed some air before checking on his patients. Judging by the lines on Robby's face, he doesn't believe Frank, but both of them get back to work without actually talking about the problem.

He checks on Patrick because they'd gotten his CT results back, but they were still waiting on one or two more tests before they could discharge. Then a pile up on one of the bridges sends the Pitt into chaos, and he forgets about Patrick until the last of the patients gets sent up to surgery. He'd been bouncing between patients brain far too busy to focus on anything but helping.

Frank catches sight of Mel speaking to Patrick about an hour later. She's twisting her hands in front of her chest, clearly uncomfortable. Frank resists the urge to walk over and ask for her help on another case, any case really. Just an excuse to get her to stop looking so upset. He shakes his head. He's her friend, and as much as he loves her (is desperately in love with her), he can't fight all of her battles for her, nor would she appreciate it if he tried.

Their shift draws closer and closer to an end, and Frank finally puts together Patrick's discharge papers. Mel goes with him, and he doesn't say anything even though this isn't technically her patient. Closure is important, and Mel deserves it.

There's a woman standing at Patrick's side. Blonde hair, similar height to Mel. Pretty in an intellectual way he guesses. She's holding his hand speaking to him softly.

Frank inserts himself into the conversation then very abruptly bringing up the discharge papers. Patrick and the blonde woman, his girlfriend apparently, leave, but not before he says something very quietly to Mel that has her eyes going as wide as Frank's ever seen them. Frank is definitely not wondering with his entire mind, body, and soul what he said. Nope.

The pair leave. Mel and Frank stand next to each other. Mel's worrying at her nails in the way Frank knows means she's deep in thought about something. Robby starts walking towards them only to be waylaid by Collins and Dana.

Mel opens her mouth and asks if Frank would like to go on a date with her.

[marrelica]

If you think that you are too stupid for university i could send you tips and tricks for ass climbing from students from my year because aparently that is the only thing that matters #homocidal

[lnkedmyheart]

I don't like commenting on shit celebs pull that I don't like but holy shit this woman is 30 fucking years old. Getting butthurt and sad that people don't like a random cat plush to represent you when you spent several years using another animal is dumb as shit. Fans getting upset over a stupid fucking stuffed toy is dumb as shit. Crawling around on all fours at the age of 30, desperately hoping people call you a cat is dumb as shit. Animal representatives is a dumb as shit concept.

I fucking hate how immature grown ass idols behave and how stupid fandoms are.

[kyri45]

WEDDING TIME!!! THEY ARE FINALLY HOUSBANDOSSSS!!!!!

wdym they were already engaged this whole time?? Poor Wukong he wont staying a SECOND more without marrying to his monkey. I think 2000+ years of engagement are more than enough for them.

Also finally it’s Wukong’s turn to break the door!

Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU - The End Credits (PREV/ FIRST / NEXT)

Final part is coming on March 25th, 1PM ET

So yeah basically the night before the whole fiasco with the brotherhood, these 2 idiots might have drunk a little too much and Las Vegased during the night by exchanging their scarfs as an engagement gift (which then used to make the handfasting robes in the last slide) after Mac shared his worried with wukong about their plan. He was too dumb of ass for Mac to say no to that face.

[unicarcass]

lotta fuckin trauma woulda been spared for my brother and me both if drugs were just. not somethin people could be jailed for having

[magical-reid]

Yours, Whether You Know it or Not

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Falcon and the Winter Soldier Timeline

Word Count: 1K

Summary: You’ve been running missions with Sam and Bucky for a while now, and everything was fine—until John Walker started showing up and taking an interest in you. Bucky isn’t having it. Not because he’s jealous. Definitely not because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t trust Walker. Right?

Unwanted Attention

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking, but you knew Bucky was beside you—silent, brooding, and absolutely vibrating with tension.

Again.

It had started a week ago. After the whole Flag Smashers fiasco in Munich, John Walker and his annoying sidekick, Lemar, had started appearing more often. They were always just there, cocky and insufferable, flashing that stolen shield like they had any right to it. But that wasn’t what had been bothering Bucky the most.

It was Walker’s interest in you.

Ever since you’d first been introduced, Walker had made it painfully obvious that he found you attractive. The first time, it was a comment—something about how you were “too pretty to be running around with these two grumps.” You’d rolled your eyes, but Sam had snickered, and Bucky had muttered something under his breath that you hadn’t quite caught.

Then, it became touches—a hand on your lower back, a brush of fingers against yours when he handed you something, a lingering grip on your wrist after a mission. It was all casual enough that you couldn’t really call him out on it, but you weren’t an idiot. Walker was testing boundaries. And every time, Bucky got pissed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

At first, you thought it was just his general hatred for Walker. But then you noticed other things.

Bucky started standing closer. His arm would “accidentally” brush against yours when you were walking. He’d place a firm hand on your back before Walker could, guiding you away without a word. And, most notably, whenever Walker so much as looked at you, Bucky’s jaw would tighten, his fists clenching like he was barely keeping himself from decking the guy.

Which led to this moment right now.

You, Bucky, and Sam were walking back to the safe house after a tense meeting with Walker and Lemar—one in which Walker had, yet again, spent way too much time trying to get your attention.

“You don’t have to act like I’m gonna drop dead if he talks to me, you know,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Every time Walker so much as breathes in my direction, you look like you’re about to rip his throat out.”

Bucky scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t trust him.”

Sam, who had been trailing a few steps behind, smirked. “Right. That’s what this is about.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam just shrugged.

“Man, you’re jealous,” Sam said. “It’s written all over your grumpy little face.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I—” Bucky cut himself off, taking a deep breath like he was trying to calm himself. “He’s an asshole.”

“No arguments there,” you said. “But if you don’t like him flirting with me, there’s a pretty easy solution, Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”

You smiled innocently. “You could just tell me why it really bothers you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “Let’s go,” and kept walking.

Sam sighed. “Man, you are hopeless.”

You didn’t disagree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A Game of Possession

The next time you saw Walker, things escalated.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission—stakeout, gather intel, get out. But, as always, Walker found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted.

“You know,” Walker said, sidling up beside you, “we’d work a lot better together if you ditched these two and joined Lemar and me.”

Bucky, who was standing just a few feet away, tensed immediately.

You sighed. “Not interested.”

“Come on,” Walker pressed, flashing that annoyingly charming smile. “I’d take good care of you.”

Before you could retort, a heavy, warm weight settled around your waist.

Bucky.

His metal arm wrapped around you in an unmistakably possessive gesture, tugging you snugly against his side. His fingers splayed against your hip, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

“She’s already taken care of.”

The air went thick with tension. Walker’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.

“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “By who?”

Bucky’s grip tightened. “Me.”

Your heart stopped.

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down, Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

Walker let his gaze linger on you for a beat too long before smirking. “Alright, alright. No need to get your vibranium arm in a twist.”

And with that, he strolled off.

Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, you found your voice. “So. That was… something.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Slowly, his hand eased away, though his fingers brushed lightly against your side before leaving entirely. “Sorry.”

You turned to look at him. “Are you?”

He hesitated. Then, in a rare moment of honesty, he admitted, “No.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat unsteady. “So… am I actually taken?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Do you want to be?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the space he’d left between you.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you murmured.

Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to your lips. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you again.

Before either of you could do anything about it, Sam’s voice rang out from across the way.

“Hey, lovebirds! We’ve got work to do!”

You pulled back, trying not to grin. Bucky just sighed.

“This is your fault,” he muttered.

You smirked. “If you say so, boyfriend.”

Bucky groaned, but the tips of his ears burned red. And you had a feeling that, jealous or not, he wasn’t going to let the title go.

Not anymore.

[reveloser]

i like legally blonde as much as the next person, but i've watched the message of 'you don't need to change your feminine nature to be recognized as intelligent and successful' distort overtime in the collective consciousness into the (imo pretty infantilizing) message of 'every academic-adjacent thing has to be coated in a glittery coat of pink paint in order to be accessible and enjoyable to women' which like ??? stop gender-coding the sciences altogether maybe. i promise they're fun and accessible on their own terms

[purplink8]

My Lawlight headcanon is that-

L fell first:

But Light fell harder:

__________________________________________

Yeah yeah, I'm well aware that the first friend scene was a lie from L's side and a mind game from both sides- BUT look at Light's FACE (and no Light's a good actor but this split second of '...' + transparent eyes is not a performance imho)

He's genuinely stunned (translation: L broke him for a moment there lmao it's like, during that single moment, they're the only ones in the room!) BEFORE he realizes that they are playing a role here in front of the task force. As Ryuga and Light; which is what he tells Ryuk later:

(His eyes are hidden *clenches fists* Light is emotionally affected and does not want anybody to know that L got him. Again.

Except this time, he feels humiliated in a strange sort of way.

Despite everything, including the whole 'enemies till death do we part' thing they have going on? Light enjoyed his time with L (albeit not without the collateral damage of other people dying but I digress). He DID like playing tennis with Ryuga as he tells him. That part's not a lie! L being a good friend is not true though.

L does not want Light as his friend for real. He's bullshitting as always to catch Light off guard. This isn't new. But it. is. Personal (to Light, at least).

Only it shouldn't be! This is all part of their game, isn't it? Then why does Light feel a bit...disappointed due to it not being real? In an alternate universe, would he have liked truly being L's friend?

No! Of course not, that is a ridiculous line of thought! Additionally, just 2 chapters ago, Light was like:

Can you see the lawlight and yagamane parallels here? L intends to catch Kira!Light and poses an execution threat to Light while Misa means to date Light and poses some threats of her own:

Both L and Misa come on too strongly toward Light (one as an enemy and the other as a potential ally). Light merely wants to get rid of them both so as to achieve his keikaku with ease. While dealing with Misa, Light thinks, 'I'll be killing her eventually...I can't develop feelings. That's how most idiots screw up.'

Notice how similar this is when it comes to his dynamic with L as well? He has to kill the latter eventually too and his reaction (to when he's confronted with the fact that Rem *can* kill L at his immediate request before the fiasco of Misa getting arrested happens at least) is this below btw:

The guy is truly shocked at how easy it seems to kill someone as intelligent as L. Light does not smile or seem amused. He takes this (L's future death) very seriously (I think it's the first time he does this since his first two kills). I believe it's partly due to the begrudging respect he has toward the genius detective and partly because of the 'what-if's in his mind.

His eyes, blown wide, are unreadable except for the astonished look they show. It is a rare display of emotion we see from Light (I can't seem to pinpoint just what the emotion is tho) which is quite noteworthy imho.

________________________________________

...Wow I got carried away.

The point is! Light feels a little humiliated for letting his emotions get the better of him even if it was for just an instant during which he was gobsmacked by L's lie which he wished for it to be true.

Light can rationalize it all he wants but deep down, in his heart, he'd always know that there was a period of time (however small) that he not only fell for L's lie, but also secretly under LAYERS of repression actually just wanted to live in that world- the world where there was neither L nor Kira, just Ryuga and his friend Light.

That's wishful thinking and boy would Light hate this if he acknowledged for even a second that yes, he does want that.)

Again. Light 'Developing Feelings = Idiotic Screw ups' Yagami cannot afford to deceive himself that L, on some level, wants to befriend him as that may as well cost his life if he did. He cannot get distracted as that was most definitely one of L's intentions of calling him his 'first friend'.

He'll dutifully play along as he had anticipated it a while ago:

"I like this, Ryuga. If you want to be friends with me. I'll gladly hang out with you."

Light sure looks thrilled as hell to be role-playing as L's friend lmao- like he loves mind games, he revels in duplicity, he enjoys challenges that L adds to his life so is it any wonder that the combination of all is *chef's kiss* for Light? He is so so EXCITED to be hanging out with L face-to-face + looks forward to stabbing him in the back!!

Gotta love lawlight! </3 <3

[sparkleofpizza]

The Alchemy Masterlist

Lando Norris x fem!reader

THE SEASONS

2019 season Norris and Button meet on their first year at Formula 1 and soon enough they're both attached to the hip.

2020 season Nothing much has changed between the pair, expect they now wear masks everywhere they go.

2021 season Norris and Button are two big idiots traveling the world together.

2022 season COMING SOON After the fiasco of the end of the 2021 season everyone expects them to be together by now.

2023 season COMING SOON It's happening, it's finally happening! Or... is it not?

2024 season COMING SOON Where's the trophy? He just comes running over to her.

BABY BUTTON

Baby Button paddock debut COMING SOON

Ice Man melted COMING SOON

Baby Button first crush COMING SOON

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch23

*.°* pairing: pre!military jk x waitress/secret fuckbuddy!oc

"For good service, and cute waitresses."

warnings: smut, alc consumption, fluff, profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idolljungkook, mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity.

smut warnings: explicit smut again (ur welcome ) DRUNK SEX. they fuck in naris bed lol, protected sex, he dry humps ur face, throatfucking, dirty talk like its filth. HES SO DESPERATE AND HORNY. nipple play, clit play, f + m receiving oral, cnc undertones but not rlly just him being like “ let me use u “ lol, breath play kinda, missionary, mating press ? idk , kissing, hickeys, holding hands while they fuck <3, riding, thats it i think. nari sees his bare ass in the morning?? idk. he fucks ur tits

wc: longggg

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

*.°* taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92 @alana4610 @bjoriis @kaitieskidmore97 @cuntessaiii

masterlist | < prev, next >

You wake up with a jolt.

Your heart is pounding, your brain immediately in work mode, and before you can even process what’s happening, you’re already out of bed, scrambling to get ready.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You were supposed to be at work. You grab your phone, your hands shaking as you fumble to dial Nari’s number. She doesn’t pick up. You call again. And again. And again.

Finally—

“Hello?!” Nari groans, her voice hoarse with sleep.

“Are you not getting up for work?!” you yell, yanking open your closet in a frenzy.

Silence. “Are you joking?”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s. Our. Day. Off.”

Your hand freezes mid-reach. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

You open your mouth to argue—but then, suddenly, it hits you. Your boss.

Your overly dramatic, forgetful boss. Your boss who insisted yesterday that you and Nari were supposed to be in, even though you both had the day off.

“Oh my god.”

Nari sighs dramatically. “You actually got ready, didn’t you?”

You glance at yourself in the mirror. Fully dressed. Hair brushed. Bag packed. You groan, dropping onto your bed. “I hate him.”

Nari snorts. “You just woke me up for no reason.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I panicked.”

Nari yawns. “Mmm. Anyway, now that I’m up, spill.”

You furrow your brows. “Spill what?”

“The date, idiot.”

Oh. Right.

Your heart stumbles a little at the memory. The beach. The way Jungkook looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he loved you.

Your silence makes Nari shriek. “OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED?! TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

You roll onto your stomach, a slow smile creeping onto your face. “Well…”

And then, you tell her. Everything. From Jungkook surprising you, to the ridiculous phone call with your boss, to falling asleep in the car, to the entire beach trip—the teasing, the laughing, the photos, the splashing, the confession. When you get to the part where Jungkook said he loved you, properly this time, Nari screams.

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

You pull the phone away from your ear, wincing. “Calm down.”

“No.”

You hear her rustling around, probably kicking her blankets off in excitement. “So what now? Are you guys just back together? What’s happening?!”

You hesitate. Because the truth is—you don’t know. You don’t know what happens after this. You don’t know what happens in a week when he’s gone. All you know is that you love him. And he loves you. And for now, that has to be enough.

“…We’re just making the week count,” you finally say.

Nari softens. “That’s all you can do, huh?”

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “Yeah.”

A small pause. Then— “So… did you guys fuck?”

You groan, hanging up on her.

You finish making your bed, finally settling into the day after the whole work panic fiasco. Now in the shower, you realize that you actually have nothing to do until Jungkook is free.

And he said he was going to be busy all day. With what, exactly, you’re not sure. As if on cue, your phone starts ringing.

You glance at it from the shower, Jungkook. Right as you’re in the middle of shampooing your hair.

Your eyes widen. “Shit.”

You reach for the phone, hands still soapy, and it immediately starts slipping. You try to grab it, but it bounces out of your fingers and onto the floor with a loud thunk.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You bend down, water streaming from your hair, dripping onto the floor as you finally manage to press answer. “Hello?”

A pause. Then— “…Why do you sound out of breath?”

You groan, pushing your wet hair out of your face. “Because I literally just—ugh, never mind. What do you want?”

Jungkook chuckles on the other end, hearing the shower. “Oh, you miss me that much?”

You roll your eyes, stepping back into the shower, placing your phone on the ledge praying to God that your phone doesn’t get wet. “Says the one who called me.”

“I do miss you, actually.” His voice is casual, but there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach flip.

You clear your throat, pretending like that didn’t affect you. “Busy until five, right? With what?”

He hums. “Meetings. A lot of them. I don’t even wanna talk about it.”

You lean your head back, rinsing the shampoo out of your hair. “Sounds rough.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then— “I… was gonna get my hair cut off today.”

Your eyes shoot open. “What?!”

Jungkook laughs at your reaction. “Yeah, but I think I’ll skip it.”

You frown, squeezing some conditioner into your palm. “No, go, if you need to.”

“…You don’t want me to, though.”

You hesitate. “I mean, I will miss your hair.”

Jungkook smirks. You can hear it. “I still look good, though, right?”

You scoff. “You know you do, shut up.”

His laugh is soft. “Yeah, yeah.”

You close your eyes, relaxing under the warm water. “Where are you right now?”

“The gym.”

Your brows raise. “Oh? And you’re calling me mid-workout?”

“Yeah,” he says, casual. “I missed you, so I figured, why not?”

Your breath catches for a second.

Then, you glance at yourself—butt ass naked, standing in the middle of the shower, talking to a wet phone, water and soap everywhere. You must look so stupid. But despite it all, you can’t help but smile.

You stay on the phone with him the entire time.

Even after you step out of the shower, still towel-wrapped, rubbing lotion into your skin. Even when you move to the sink, balancing your phone between your shoulder and your cheek as you do your skincare. And even when you finally throw on some clothes and wander into the kitchen, eyeing whatever leftovers are in the fridge for breakfast.

Jungkook is just there. A constant, easy presence, talking to you between breaths as he finishes up at the gym. “So you’re eating cold pasta for breakfast?” he asks at one point, amusement clear in his voice.

You scowl, shoving a bite into your mouth. “Mind your business.”

He laughs.

And for some reason, it feels so normal. Like you’re in the same room. Like he’s not actually miles away, probably drenched in sweat in his gym while you sit cross-legged at your dining table in a hoodie and sleep shorts, munching on cold spaghetti.

Neither of you ever really hang up. The conversation just flows—from what you’re watching on Netflix to his gym routine to how your boss made you think that you were in work today because that man has some serious memory issues.

And then—

“Alright,” Jungkook sighs, “I gotta go.”

You frown. “Meeting?”

“Yeah,” he groans. “Kill me now.”

You snort. “Good luck.”

Jungkook grumbles something under his breath.

Then— “See you later?”

You pause, twirling your fork between your fingers. “I thought you were busy until five?”

“I am,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “But after?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. “We’ll see.”

Jungkook scoffs. “We’ll see—okay, I see how it is.”

You giggle. “Bye, Jungkook.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bye, baby.”

The call ends.

And you’re just sitting there, staring at your phone, trying really hard not to grin like an idiot.

The rest of your morning passes in a blur.

You clean up a little—fluff the pillows on your couch, fold the blanket you abandoned last night, wipe down the kitchen counters even though they weren’t really dirty to begin with. Anything to pass the time.

You send Nari a quick text somewhere in between.

You [10:30 AM]: What are you doing later?

Nari [10:31 AM]: Recovering from my pickle withdrawal.

You [10:32 AM]: …what?

Nari [10:33 AM]: YOU LEFT ME TO SUFFER ALONE YESTERDAY.

You [10:34 AM]: Oh my god.

Nari [10:35 AM]: I had to get my own pickles. I nearly DIED.

You [10:35 AM]: Nari.

Nari [10:35 AM]: Anyways, what do you want?

You roll your eyes, quickly typing your actual question.

You [10:36AM]: If Jungkook and I have no plans, can we come to yours?

Nari takes her sweet time replying, but when she does—

Nari [10:40 AM]: Ew.

Nari [10:40 AM]: But fine.

At the same time, a new text pops up from Jungkook.

Jungkook [10:41 AM]: What do you wanna do later?

Jungkook [10:41 AM]: Not gonna lie, I don’t really have anything planned.

You smirk, typing back.

You [10:42 AM]: yk anymore of those scenic ass spots you always take me to?

His response is immediate.

Jungkook [10:43 AM]: nah, not today unfortunately.

You raise an eyebrow.

You [10:44 AM]: Wow, okay fine. I’ll ask Nari.

Nari’s ew is still at the top of your chat, which makes you laugh as you text her again.

You [10:45 AM]: He rejected my idea, so I’m rejecting him. We’re coming to yours later.

Nari [10:45 AM]: Omg ew.

Nari [10:45 AM]: But fine.

Satisfied, you send a final message to Jungkook.

You [10:45 AM]: Nari said we can go to hers later.

Jungkook [10:46 AM]: I’m kinda scared. What if she slaps me again?

You [10:47 AM]: Don’t worry, I’ll make her apologize.

Jungkook [10:48 AM]: You will?

You [10:49 AM]: Yes, but she won’t mean it.

Jungkook [10:50 AM]: Figured.

You grin.

Nari never apologizes to any man, but she’ll do it for you, and you both know it. Even though you don’t really care. Even though you think Jungkook doesn’t really care either.

But still.

It’s funny.

You put your phone down, running your fingers through your hair as you exhale. You don’t even realize how much you’ve been checking the time—glancing toward the clock every few minutes, wondering when he’ll text you again.

And then, at some point in the afternoon:

Jungkook [5:11 PM]: omw, love u.

You barely take a second before you jump up, scrambling to throw something on, a little too eager.

And now, all you can do— Is wait.

Jungkook takes longer than usual. Long enough for you to check your phone, frown, and wonder if he forgot about you entirely.

But then— There’s a knock at your door.

When you swing it open, you’re met with a slightly out-of-breath Jungkook, his hair a little messy, dirt smudged on his jeans. And a bouquet of fresh daisies in his hands.

You blink.

“What kind of time is this, sir?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, shifting on his feet. “I was busy.”

You cross your arms, gaze dropping to his knees, where the evidence is literally there. “Yeah, I can tell, judging by the dirt on your knees.”

“Hey—supermarket ones are shit,” he argues, straightening up.

Your eyes flick toward the vase near the window—the daisies from…last time, the ones Nari had forced him to buy. They’re completely dead. “…True.”

Jungkook just smirks, watching as you quickly grab your bag, and before stepping out, you snatch a bottle of wine from your counter. He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so it’s that type of night?”

You smirk back. “Let’s go.”

The drive to Nari’s place isn’t long. It starts with you giving Jungkook the address, and for the most part, the car ride is quiet—aside from the occasional sound of you scrolling through your phone, catching up on the nonsense Nari’s been sending you.

But after a few minutes, you notice Jungkook’s grip on the wheel is a little too tight. His brows are furrowed, and even though his eyes are on the road, he looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “Jungkook.”

He hesitates. Then— “I don’t know. I just feel like Nari hates me.”

You blink. “What? Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I mean, I know she’s your best friend and all, but she was just being really…”

You wait for the insult—rude, horrible, unbearable—but instead, he mutters:

”…mean.”

Your heart clenches a little. It’s almost childish the way he says it, but that somehow makes it even sadder.

You sigh. “I know, she can be a bit much sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he says, jaw tightening. “Honestly, I know I deserved a lot of the things she did to me. But it was confusing, because she would always act like she hated me in front of you. And then, before I came to yours the other day—from the field, when me and her ran into each other—I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “She gave in. Like, she wasn’t mean then.”

You frown, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “We’ll talk to her about it, then.”

Jungkook’s eyes flick to you briefly before widening. “What? No. I don’t—No, I don’t have to.”

You squeeze his hand again, firmer this time. “No, honestly. Talk to her about it. She won’t bite.”

Jungkook groans. “Mmm. Debatable.”

You giggle. “She won’t.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Maybe I will.”

You give his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

When you arrive, you barely have to knock before the door swings open. Nari stands there, arms crossed, sending daggers through Jungkook with her eyes.

Jungkook hesitates.

You sigh, reaching for his hand and tugging him inside before he can cowardly retreat.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. Nari huffs. “Fine. I’m sorry for slapping you.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “…You don’t sound very sorry.”

“Well, I’m not.”

You snort.

Jungkook sighs. “I figured.”

Then— “But.”

Nari pauses, rolling her lips together before exhaling. “I guess I could’ve—maybe—toned it down. A little.”

Jungkook raises a brow. “A little?”

Nari glares. “Don’t push it.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Jungkook exhales, shaking his head. “Look. I get it. I know I fucked up really bad. And maybe I deserved some of it.”

Nari’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“But I don’t know,” he mutters, staring at the floor. “Sometimes it just feels like… no matter what I do, you’ll always hate me now.”

Nari’s lips part. She looks at you, then back at him.

And for the first time, she actually looks unsure.

“Wait,” she says slowly. “Are you… being serious right now?”

Jungkook huffs a humorless laugh. “Forget it.”

“No, Jungkook,” you interject, squeezing his arm. “If you feel that way, you should say it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tenses, like he’s considering brushing it off, but when you give him a small nod, he swallows hard and keeps going.

“I mean it,” he mutters. “I appreciate what you did for her. And for me. Stopping me from driving drunk , helping me when you didn’t have to…” He winces slightly. “Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

Nari stiffens, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.

Jungkook shakes his head. “I just—” He exhales roughly, frustration evident in his features. “You made me feel like I was doing everything wrong. And I was. But… I don’t know.”

Nari’s eyes widen slightly.

The weight behind his words finally sinks in.

Her expression softens, guilt creeping into her features. “Jungkook…” She hesitates. “I— I don’t hate you. I never have. It’s just…” She rubs her temple. “She’s my best friend. And I saw what you did to her. You expect me to just—what? Sit back and let it happen?”

Jungkook’s throat bobs. “No. I don’t. I just…” His voice drops, almost hesitant. “I just don’t want her to think I’m not trying.”

Nari exhales through her nose.

Then—

“I know you’re trying,” she admits. “And maybe I push too hard sometimes. Maybe I was too mean. I crossed the line… I’m sorry.”

You blink.

Jungkook blinks.

Nari shifts uncomfortably. “What? I can apologize.”

Jungkook eyes her suspiciously. “Since when?”

She groans. “Oh, my God—take it or leave it.”

Jungkook lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

You smile.

It’s progress.

——

“Did you bring the wine?” Nari asks, perking up.

“Duh.” Jungkook watches in amusement as you hold up the bottle like it’s some prized possession, but before you can walk further into the apartment—

You pause. Your eyes land on the kitchen shelf.

And your jaw drops.

“Nari—”

She follows your gaze, then shrugs. “What?”

“Nari. This is insane.”

Jungkook leans over your shoulder, finally noticing what you’re talking about.

The kitchen shelf is fully stocked with rows of—

Pickles.

Jungkook bursts out laughing.

“Bro, I was gonna die,” Nari says, so casual about it.

“No, no—this is psychotic behavior,” you argue, pointing at the sheer amount of jars. “This looks like you’re prepping for the apocalypse.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Jungkook is wheezing.

You just shake your head, but Nari is already walking off, waving for you both to follow.

“Whatever, come on.”

Jungkook is still chuckling as you all settle into the living room. Nari—as always—immediately sits on the floor. You and Jungkook take the floor couch.

“So,” Nari says, grabbing the remote. “What should we watch?”

“Anything,” Jungkook says.

You all settle down, and as Nari flicks through the remote, she lands on some shitty comedy show she knows none of you will actually watch. She gives it a second, but she’s already distracted, grabbing the wine bottle from the table.

“Damn Nari, What’s been on your mind?” you ask, watching as Nari fills her glass without hesitation.

She shrugs nonchalantly, looking like she’s putting up a front. “Oh, nothing.” But, as always, Nari can’t keep her thoughts to herself for long.

“Okay, but seriously,” she adds, almost whining, “This guy from the club—he literally rejected me, and I’m just like—what the hell? Like, I looked good. So how is it possible?”

You fake gasp dramatically. “How could he?” you tease. “What a disaster.”

“Shut up,” Nari grumbles, rolling her eyes, trying to act indifferent but still clearly irritated.

You push, though. “No, seriously, you’re hot. You need to get a man.”

Nari throws her head back, mockingly groaning. “Stop shoving it in my face, okay?”

Jungkook, watching the scene unfold, can’t help but grin. “Come on, Nari, settle down.”

Nari shoots him a glare but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she finishes the wine glass a little too quickly. You notice her posture change, and her mood turns from sarcastic to a bit quieter.

The wine hits her too fast.

(Though it’s Nari, and she’d get drunk off of a drop of damn beer.)

And suddenly, she starts sniffling, trying to hide it behind a sarcastic smile. “I swear to God, I just want to be loved,” she mutters, then immediately bursts into a fit of exaggerated, drunken tears.

You and Jungkook exchange a look, both of you equally surprised but not quite sure how to react.

You move over to Nari, rubbing her back. “Nari, hey… you are loved.”

She waves it off, still sniffling but pretending to be fine. “I don’t even know what I’m saying,” she hiccups. “I’m just so lonely—”

Jungkook sits back, watching, unable to look away, his eyes softening at the sight of her, though there’s something else in his expression too—maybe a little amused, maybe just seeing through her sarcasm.

“You’re not alone, Nari,” Jungkook adds, his voice gentle. “Come on, stop playing tough. We’re here, you know?”

But Nari, in her drunken state, ignores the sincerity, still wiping her eyes dramatically. She suddenly looks up at the two of you, glancing back and forth. “Oh my God, can you two just get out?”

You and Jungkook look at each other, trying to stifle your smiles. The moment’s too genuine for either of you to ignore, but you can’t help but laugh softly, both secretly wishing Nari wasn’t such a mess—but also thankful for this small, unspoken moment between the three of you.

The night then dissolves into pure chaos.

Nari is on the damn table now, hair wild, jar of pickles in one hand, the remote in the other, belting out some song off-key like it’s her solo concert.

Meanwhile, you and Jungkook? Absolutely shameless. He’s got you in his lap, hands running up and down your waist, his lips on yours like he physically can’t not be kissing you. It’s all heat, all laughter between kisses, the world spinning in the best way possible.

Nari, mid-spin, suddenly launches a pillow straight at your head. “Oh my God, stop being so horny and get up and dance, losers!”

You groan, laughing, and Jungkook just grins against your mouth before pulling you up. “Fine, fine,” you slur, barely able to balance, and then suddenly you’re just dancing.

Jungkook joins in, badly. He’s spinning you, stepping on your feet, and he doesn’t care. At one point, he starts screaming lyrics to a song he definitely does not know the words to, and it’s so fucking stupid that you nearly collapse in laughter.

The three of you—drunk, delirious, alive. move around Nari’s apartment like a hurricane. And then—

Blackout.

You don’t even realize when or how it happens.

But suddenly, you’re out, curled up somewhere on the floor, head resting on something—probably Jungkook, because you feel warmth, his familiar scent. Nari is knocked out cold, sprawled in the middle of the living room with one arm still gripping the pickle jar.

The apartment is a complete mess.

Hours pass in a blur.

At some point in the night, you stir, barely conscious, when you feel someone shifting.

Then—Jungkook.

You feel his hands, his warmth, gently tugging at you, pulling you closer, before he’s wrapping himself around you like he can’t sleep unless he’s holding you.

It’s peaceful.

Until, sometime later—

Soft fingers trail up your arm, his warmth disappearing for a split second before you feel him pulling you up.

You groggily blink. “Jungkook?” you whisper, voice hoarse, the alcohol still thick in your system.

He’s kneeling beside you now, his touch light but insistent as he tugs at your wrist.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, his voice low, breath fanning over your cheek.

“What are you doing?” you whisper-shout, still half-asleep.

You glance over—Nari is passed the fuck out on the floor, her mouth slightly open, not even stirring.

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand, his grip firm, leading you toward a room he guesses is Naris, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers— “I need you.”

And then—

You barely make it through Nari’s bedroom door before Jungkook is on you again, lips crashing against yours, hands slipping under your shirt like he physically needs to feel you.

But then—

He stops.

Mid-kiss, he pauses, eyes suddenly flicking around the room, taking in the absolute chaos that is Nari’s decor.

“Do you guys not know anything about minimalism?” he blurts out, genuinely baffled.

You groan, trying to pull him back in, but he’s too distracted now, blinking around at the explosion of pink, the cluttered shelves overflowing with old concert tickets, framed memes, and an alarming number of stuffed pickles—half of which are just straight-up staring at you both.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, eyes landing on a hot pink lamp shaped like a cat. “What the fuck is that?”

“Jungkook,” you whine, trying to recapture his attention, tugging him back down to you. “Focus.”

He blinks at you, then back at the room. “I’m just saying, this is crazy. Your room is bad, but this? This is next level.”

“Jungkook.”

“Okay, okay, I’m done.” He finally grins, shaking his head as he presses his forehead against yours. “But seriously, this is insane.”

You roll your eyes, and then—

Jungkook’s lips are back on yours, his focus finally shifting away from Nari’s absolutely chaotic room.

His hands grip your waist, firm and possessive, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let out a surprised squeal as you fall onto the mattress, the sudden movement making you giggle against his lips, and then—

He’s on you.

His body presses over yours, sinking you deeper into the sheets, kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s trying to drink you in. The alcohol is still buzzing in your system, making every touch feel heightened, every brush of his lips hotter, sloppier, messier.

It’s desperate, the way your hands move over each other—his fingers slipping under the hem of your hoodie, your own hands threading into his hair, tugging him closer, as if he isn’t already pressing every inch of himself against you.

He groans against your lips, but then—

He pulls back.

You blink up at him, breathless, lips swollen, waiting for him to say something devastatingly sexy.

Instead—

“I don’t know if I can get hard in this weird-ass room,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the corner. “Those pickles are just—staring.”

You gape at him, then burst out laughing, shoving weakly at his chest. “Jungkook, shut up.”

“I’m serious.” His voice is half amused, half genuinely disturbed. “Why does she have so many? And why do they all have faces?”

“Jungkook.” You tug him back to your lips, giggling against his mouth.

He finally gives in, kissing you again, but now you can feel his grin against your lips, amused and stupidly endearing.

And then, you tilt your head back, offering your neck. Jungkook takes the invitation instantly.

His mouth latches onto your throat, kissing down the column of your neck, messy and wet, his teeth scraping against your pulse point before his tongue soothes over the spot. The contrast makes you shudder beneath him, fingers curling against his shoulders.

And then he’s tugging at your hoodie, yanking it up with impatient hands.

“Off,” he grunts, voice rough, already pulling it over your head before you can even process it.

The second it’s gone, his lips are back on you, trailing down your collarbone, across the swell of your chest, all while his hands roam—gripping, kneading, touching you like he’s mapping out every inch of skin he can get his hands on.

It’s desperate.

It’s messy.

And god, it’s so fucking good.

You’re clawing at his shirt, fingers fisting into the fabric, trying to yank it down in your eagerness.

Jungkook just smirks.

“I don’t think that’s doing anything, baby,” he teases, keeping his hands lazily at his sides, making no effort to help. “Other way.”

You whine in frustration, tugging the hem up this time, and he just watches you struggle for a second, clearly enjoying himself, before he finally gives in—chuckling as he helps you pull it over his head.

The moment it’s off, he’s on you again.

He crawls over you, slow and deliberate, caging you beneath him, and it’s so fucking hot. The way his muscles shift as he moves, the way his eyes darken as he takes you in—all of it makes heat pool low in your stomach.

Then he kisses you again, deeper, messier, like he needs to.

You’re biting at his lip now, dragging out these desperate little groans from his throat, making his hips stutter against yours. At one point, you’re not even really kissing anymore—just panting into each other’s mouths, trading moans and gasps like it’s the only thing keeping you breathing.

And then—

Jungkook shifts again, his body sliding up, and suddenly, his bulge is right in front of your face.

You blink, lips parting slightly.

His gray boxers are already tented, the thick outline of him pressing against the fabric, and before you can even process the absolute audacity of what’s happening, he grinds against your cheek.

Your breath catches.

It’s ridiculous.

And yet, somehow, impossibly—

It’s hot.

Because it’s Jungkook.

And because you can hear the way his breath stutters, see the way his stomach tenses at the friction, feel the heat of him through the thin fabric.

You don’t even know what you’re doing—haven’t ever done this before—but something about it makes arousal burn deep in your stomach, makes your thighs press together as your hands instinctively find his hips.

Jungkook groans above you, rolling his hips a little harder, his head tipping back.

“Fuck,” he pants. “That’s—oh my god.”

You don’t even have time to feel shy about it.

Because the way he’s reacting—the way he’s gripping the headboard now, chest heaving, the muscles in his arms flexing as he ruts against your face—makes you feel drunk on him, on the power of it.

And the worst part?

You still need him closer.

Jungkook doesn’t stop.

If anything, he gets worse.

He keeps grinding against your face, his clothed bulge dragging over your nose, your lips, his hips moving slow and controlled before rolling harder, deeper. And you let him—let your mouth relax, lips parting just slightly as his cock presses against your cheek.

Your whole body is reacting to it. Your toes curl, your thighs press together, and every roll of his hips makes your stomach clench tighter.

Above you, Jungkook is panting, his breath uneven, his hands gripping the headboard like he needs to hold on to something.

“Fuck—” he groans, looking down past his own chest to the sight below him. And the sight is unhinged—your wide, glassy eyes peeking up at him, his cock grinding against the softness of your lips, your nose, the curve of your cheek.

He nearly loses it.

“Shit, baby,” he pants, rolling his hips harder. “You have no idea what this looks like.”

His voice is wrecked, thick with arousal and whatever haze of alcohol is still left in his system.

You moan against him, mouth opening just a little more, the heat of your breath sinking through his boxers. Jungkook curses sharply. “God—keep doing that, yeah? Fuck, just like that.”

His grip tightens on the headboard, his whole body trembling. He’s never done this before—never even thought about doing this before—but now that it’s happening, now that he sees it, feels it, he doesn’t know why he hasn’t lost his mind over it sooner.

The warmth of your breath, the way your lips accidentally brush his clothed length, the wet heat seeping through the fabric—it’s making him spiral.

He’s groaning, moaning, whispering things that sound like your name, sounds like fucking hell, baby, you’re gonna kill me and so fucking pretty like this, let me just use you a little more, yeah?

He wants to stay like this forever—wants to keep rutting against you, wants to watch himself grind against your slack mouth until he comes all over your face.

And then he realizes—

He’s too close.

A few more strokes, and he’ll actually—

Jungkook curses, pulling away with a sharp inhale, a final hard grind that has you scowling up at him.

“Jungkook.��� Your glare is deadly.

He just huffs out a breathless, wrecked laugh, pressing a messy kiss to your nose.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Jungkook pulls his boxers off completely, kicking them away carelessly, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. He grips his length in one hand, giving it a lazy flick upwards, watching it bounce back down. His cock is flushed, leaking, and he looks wrecked, pupils blown out with nothing but lust.

And you—

You stare.

Your mouth goes dry, your whole body tensing in anticipation. You already know what he’s about to do. “Lay back down,” he rasps, voice hoarse.

Your eyes widen. He’s going to do it.

He’s going to throat-fuck you in the exact same position he was just grinding on you.

Heat floods through you, and you’re already moving before you can think, lying back down as Jungkook shifts over you, bracing himself on his knees. But before he can position himself at your mouth, something catches his eye.

Your tits.

A sharp inhale. A pause. And then—

He grins, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Oh, fuck. Why haven’t we done this before?” he murmurs, voice dark with realization.

Then he spits.

It lands right between your breasts, warm and wet, sliding down the curve of your skin. Before you can even react, he presses his cock between them, pushing them together with his hands, and starts thrusting.

The weight of him, the warmth of him, the slick heat of his pre-cum mixing with his spit—it makes your head spin.

Jungkook groans, throwing his head back, his abs tightening with each thrust. “Fuck—this is so hot,” he pants, eyes flickering down to watch himself slide between your breasts. His cock drags against your skin, his tip rubbing over your stiff nipples, catching slightly with every roll of his hips.

You moan, a soft, breathy sound, and he feels it—feels the way your body reacts, the way your chest heaves as pleasure courses through you just from this.

“Shit—” He curses, giving a few more thrusts before reluctantly pulling away, dragging the swollen head of his cock up, tracing over your collarbone, then tapping it against your lips.

“Gotta be inside you, baby,” he breathes, moving back up, his knees caging in your head.

His cock is right in front of your face now, flushed and wet, leaking for you. And then—slowly—he pushes in.

The stretch makes your jaw ache instantly, but you don’t care. You love this. You love the way he takes, the way he gives at the same time, his hands cradling your jaw as his hips start to roll, pushing himself deeper, deeper—until he’s fucking your mouth the way he was fucking your tits, the way he was grinding against your face just minutes ago.

Jungkook groans—deep, wrecked, desperate.

“Holy fuck, babe—”

And you?

You’re in heaven.

Jungkook’s mouth is filthy.

He’s letting loose the dirtiest shit you’ve ever heard—things that would have made you blush if you weren’t already so far gone, so completely ruined under him.

“Look at you,” he groans, voice ragged. “Fucking taking me like this—so good for me, baby. Always so fucking good.”

His hips roll faster, the wet drag of his cock sliding over your tongue sending shivers through you. Your jaw aches, your throat is burning, but you love it. You love the way he fucks your mouth like he owns it, like he needs it just to survive.

And it’s too much.

Your thighs fall open, hands slipping under your underwear, fingers immediately rubbing your clit in messy, desperate circles. You whimper at the feeling, at the sharp jolt of pleasure that rockets through you, and it sends vibrations down Jungkook’s length.

He feels it.

And when he turns his head just slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of you touching yourself while taking him so deep—

“Oh, fuck yes,” he groans, his head lolling back. “That’s it, baby. Keep going—fuck, keep playing with that pretty little pussy for me.”

His fingers tighten in your hair, his thrusts growing rougher, messier. The room is filled with obscene, wet sounds—the slick, filthy noise of your mouth taking him, the soft squelch of your fingers rubbing your clit, the way he groans above you, completely unhinged.

It’s dirty. It’s filthy. It’s desperate.

And then—he plants his feet flat on the bed.

You barely have a second to process it before he tightens his grip on your head, pulling you flush against him, and—

Jackhammers.

“Oh fuck—”

Your vision blurs. His cock slams into your throat, over and over, his balls pressing against your chin, the heat of him so overwhelming you can barely think. Your throat burns, but you don’t care, you love it, and the noises spilling from him above you make it all worth it.

“God—shit, baby,” he moans, voice wrecked. “Taking it so deep, look at you—look at you, letting me use you like this.”

You can barely keep your eyes open, but you feel his gaze burning down at you.

“Shit—so perfect for me, you love this, don’t you? Love being my pretty little slut—”

A deep, broken groan rips through him, and his thrusts stutter for a second, his hands trembling as he holds you there, keeps you full of him.

He’s falling apart.

You’re drowning in it.

Jungkook pulls out suddenly, and you gasp, choking on the rush of air that floods your lungs. Your throat is raw, lips swollen, drool spilling down your chin, and for a split second, you think he’s giving you a break.

But then—

He shoves back in.

You barely have time to react before he does it again—pulling out just long enough to let you catch half a breath before pushing back in, stuffing your mouth full of him. It’s relentless, dizzying, the way he keeps you gasping, keeps you needing—

And then he starts talking.

Between each brutal thrust, he punctuates his words with the force of his cock sliding deep into your throat.

“Keep—” thrust

“Fucking—” thrust

“Taking—” thrust

“It—” thrust

And then, on the last word, he pulls out completely.

You collapse against the sheets, gasping for air, chest heaving, thighs trembling.

But Jungkook doesn’t even let you breathe.

His mouth crashes onto yours, swallowing your ragged breaths, kissing you with so much force, so much desperation, you feel like you might actually melt into him. His tongue licks into your mouth, deep and messy, and all you can do is whimper, already aching for him again.

He groans at the sound, gripping your jaw, angling your face up so he can devour you fully.

“My good—” kiss “—fucking—” kiss “—girl.”

His voice is pure filth, husky and wrecked, full of heat and love and unrelenting need.

And you’ve never been more turned on in your life.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s him. Maybe both, you don’t know.

You whine, hands fisting into his hair, tugging, pulling, begging him closer, needing more of him, all of him—

And Jungkook just grins against your mouth, breathless and completely, utterly obsessed with you.

Jungkook yanks at your thighs like a man possessed, dragging you up his body, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s falling.

His back slams onto the floor with a dull thud, the force rattling through the room.

But he doesn’t care.

Not one bit.

Because you come crashing down with him—your soaked, swollen pussy landing right onto his face.

You squeal at the impact, hands scrambling for balance, but Jungkook?

Jungkook groans like he’s in heaven.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his grip like iron around your thighs, locking you in place. His breath is hot, his lips already brushing against your slick folds.

And then— “Give it to me.” His voice is wrecked, needy, shaking with hunger, and before you can even react, he dives in.

His tongue swipes up your slit, slow and filthy, before wrapping around your clit, sucking it into his mouth.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

You jerk, a choked moan ripping from your throat, fingers clutching at the sheets as a shockwave of pleasure wrecks through you.

Jungkook groans beneath you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “Give me it, baby.” His voice is muffled against you, tongue plunging inside before dragging back up, flicking exactly where you need it. “Fucking—” He sucks, hard, making you cry out. “Give it to me.”

You do.

You can’t help it.

You grind against his face, rolling your hips, chasing every bit of friction his mouth can give you. It’s desperate, frantic, pure instinct—the way you use him, the way he lets you, encourages you, fucking devours you like he’s been starving for this.

Jungkook’s grip tightens, fingers digging into your ass, pulling you down harder, pressing you deeper into his mouth, like he wants to drown in you.

And fuck, you love him for it.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it at first—grinding down harder, faster, pressing yourself deeper against his mouth.

But Jungkook?

Jungkook feels it.

He groans beneath you, a deep, needy sound that vibrates against your clit, and fuck—fuck, it’s too much.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp as you moan loud, letting him know exactly how good he’s making you feel. And he loves it, if the way he growls against you is anything to go by, his hands flying up your body, grabbing at your tits.

“Shit, baby—”

You whimper when his thumbs flick over your nipples, sharp shocks of pleasure ripping through your body, making your hips stutter against his tongue.

But Jungkook doesn’t let up.

Not even for a second.

He just groans, fucking growls, like a man who’s been starved for years, his tongue working relentlessly, devouring you like he needs you to survive. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking just right, and you cry out, your whole body trembling as pleasure slams through you.

It’s too good.

So fucking good that you can’t even breathe.

Your head tilts back, spine arching, vision whiting out at the edges as you grind against his mouth like a woman possessed. Like you’re chasing the only thing that matters. Like you’re rabid for him.

“Jungkook— oh my god—”

He groans, muffled against you, the sound nothing short of wrecked, and then his hands slide back down to your hips, holding you firm, keeping you right where he wants you.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, voice wrecked, tongue still working you open. “Fucking—fuck, that’s it.”

And you listen.

Because how could you not?

You ride his face like you need it, like you can’t live without it, like nothing else in the fucking world matters except his mouth on you, the way he’s pulling you apart and piecing you back together all at once.

It’s desperate. It’s raw. It’s love, in its most primal fucking form.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

As you finally reach your peak, a sharp gasp leaves your lips, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes over you. Jungkook groans against you, his arms tightening around your thighs as if to keep you from slipping away. He doesn’t stop—not immediately—lapping up every bit of your release like he’s savoring you, like he’s worshipping you.

Your breath comes in uneven gasps, and when it becomes too much, you whimper, hands fisting into his hair as you try to pull yourself away. But he growls, playfully resistant, pressing one last lingering kiss against your inner thigh before finally letting you go.

Before you can even recover, he moves—grabbing you and tossing you onto the bed like you weigh nothing. You yelp, landing with a soft bounce, the breath knocked from your lungs, but you’re laughing, breathless, lightheaded from everything he’s just done to you.

Jungkook stands at the foot of the bed, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his skin flushed, his eyes hooded and dark with something deeper than lust—something almost reverent. He watches you with a hunger that sends a fresh wave of heat curling through you, and when his hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, you swallow hard.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, “how beautiful you are like this.”

Your body reacts instantly, warmth spreading over your cheeks, down your neck, the weight of his gaze alone enough to leave you feeling bare—even more so than you already are. You can’t help it. Your fingers trail lower, teasing, matching his rhythm, mirroring his desperation.

He groans, his grip tightening, his eyes locked onto you. “God, I could watch you like this forever,” he breathes. “You—touching yourself, knowing I’m the only one who gets to see you like this—” His voice falters, like even he’s overwhelmed by the thought.

The air between you is thick with tension, the unspoken love threading through every movement, every shaky breath. It’s not just about pleasure—it’s about this insatiable need for each other, this desperate, all-consuming pull that neither of you can resist.

Jungkook’s voice drops, eyes burning into you. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Your lips part, a quiet, breathy whimper escaping—because the answer is obvious. Him. Always him.

His breath is warm against your lips when he rasps, “Condom?”

You’re momentarily confused, because—why? You didn’t use one during that night on the beach, since the first time he had you raw, and neither of you had looked back since.

Before you can stop yourself, the question spills out. “Why?”

Jungkook’s eyes flicker with something—hesitation, restraint, desperation. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he grips your waist like he’s holding himself back from something dangerous.

Then he swallows hard, gaze locking with yours, and murmurs, “Baby, if I fuck you raw right now, I think I’ll come the second I’m inside you. Please—just, I need a condom.”

A feeling blooms in your chest—something heady, something that makes your thighs squeeze around his hips. He sees it immediately, nudging his nose against yours like he’s begging you to understand.

You exhale, nodding, because—to be fair, he’s probably not lying. Not with the way his cock is twitching, heavy and desperate against your stomach, as if even the thought of being inside you bare would send him over the edge.

“Nari’s bedside table,” you murmur, and Jungkook groans, reaching over without pausing his movements, his other hand still keeping you spread open for him.

You hear the drawer slide open, feel him shift above you as he rummages blindly. Then—

“The fuck is this?”

You blink, barely processing, still dizzy from the way he’s lazily rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, slow and teasing.

You crack an eye open just in time to see him holding up a tiny, fluffy cat keychain, his brows furrowed. He tosses it aside, only to pull out a handful of colorful hair clips, a few makeup brushes, a completely unrelated phone charger—

But the final straw is the pair of pink, fluffy handcuffs dangling from his fingers.

You burst into giggles, grabbing his wrist to stop him from digging further. “Oh my god, move,” you laugh, pushing him off just enough to reach into the drawer yourself.

Jungkook huffs, grinning as he watches you fish out the condom with ease, rolling back onto your knees between his thighs. His gaze darkens as you rip it open, his lips parting when you slide it on yourself, slow, teasing, just to watch his jaw clench.

“Gonna kill me, baby,” he mutters, and then he’s grabbing your waist, pulling you back over him, impatient.

Jungkook doesn’t waste another second. He pushes into you in one slow, aching glide, your body stretching around him, the both of you exhaling at the same time—like relief, like fulfillment, like this is the only place either of you are supposed to be.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, burying his face in your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, your waist, sliding under you to press you closer, like even being inside you isn’t enough.

You cling to him, fingers threading through his damp hair, tugging just enough to pull another moan from his lips. Your other hand drags over his back, his shoulders, his waist—grasping at anything, everything, trying to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him.

His pace starts slow, dragging out every thrust, making sure you feel all of him, but the restraint doesn’t last long. Soon, he’s fucking into you harder, deeper, his hands fisting into the sheets beside your head as his body presses flush against yours.

“You’re mine,” he whispers into your ear, his voice rough, desperate. “You hear me, baby? Only mine.”

You can only nod, gasping when he rolls his hips just right, when his words send another rush of heat through your veins.

He groans, lips finding your jaw, your neck, sucking and biting, marking you. “You feel so good, fuck—made for me, yeah? No one else, just me.”

You whimper, tightening your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. His breath stutters at the feeling, and then he loses it completely—his rhythm turning frantic, desperate, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to bury himself inside you permanently.

One of his hands tangles with yours above your head, fingers lacing together, his grip tight, unrelenting. The other moves down between your bodies, finding your clit, rubbing in messy, rushed circles that make you arch into him, gasping his name.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut like he’s overwhelmed. “Come for me—want to feel you—fuck, need to feel you.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening, pulsing around him. He groans, biting down on your jaw, rolling his hips into you with slow, deep thrusts, dragging out every ounce of pleasure.

Your moans break into sharp little cries as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into yours, pushing you further, further—until your body gives out, trembling against him.

But he doesn’t stop.

He grips your hips tight, flipping you effortlessly, his cock slipping out of you for barely a second before you’re straddling him, his hands spreading over your ass, guiding you down onto him again.

“Ride me, baby,” he rasps, giving your ass a sharp smack that makes you whimper, makes you clench around him as you sink back down.

You grip his chest for balance, breathless as he fills you again, his cock stretching you open so perfectly, so deep it’s dizzying.

“Fuck, just like that,” he groans, hands trailing up your waist, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. “Take me so well. My pretty girl.”

The praise, the way he’s looking up at you—like you’re the only thing in the world—makes your entire body burn. You start to move, rolling your hips, letting him press up into you, meeting you halfway with every thrust.

He groans beneath you, his fingers digging into your skin, his head tilting back against the pillow. “God, look at you. Fucking perfect. You were made to ride me, huh?”

You moan in response, nodding frantically, your hands smoothing over his chest, nails dragging down his skin.

“That’s my girl,” he grits out, eyes dark as they flicker back up to yours. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Let me see you fall apart.”

You whimper, grinding down harder, the friction, the pressure, everything building so fast you can barely breathe.

“That’s it,” he encourages, voice rough. “Feel how deep I am? Fuck—so good for me. Always so fucking good.”

His hands move up, brushing over your breasts before gripping your waist, helping you move, guiding you into a rhythm that has you both unraveling fast.

Your thighs burn, your body trembling, but you don’t stop, can’t stop—especially not when he keeps praising you, keeps moaning beneath you, his grip tightening, his thrusts growing sloppier as he gets closer, as you get closer—

“Fuck, Jungkook—”

You cry out as the pleasure crashes over you, your body tightening, pulsing around him so hard you feel him stutter beneath you, his jaw clenching as he tries to hold on.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

He groans, hands clutching you tight as he thrusts up once, twice—and then he’s gone, shuddering beneath you as he spills deep in the condom, his moans tangled with yours, the pleasure crashing between you both in dizzying waves.

You slump forward, panting, heart pounding against his as he wraps his arms around you, keeping you against him like he never wants to let go.

And maybe he never will.

——

The morning is a fucking disaster.

You wake up feeling sore, warm, and very comfortable—until you open your eyes and realize Jungkook is completely butt-ass naked next to you.

And then—

The bedroom door creaks open.

“Ughhh,” Nari groans, rubbing her eyes, clearly suffering from last night’s antics. “Why the fuck is the sun so bright?”

Your body locks up.

She’s not looking. Her eyes are still half-closed as she blindly stumbles forward, heading straight for the bed—her bed—where you and Jungkook are naked.

“Nari, wait—”

But it’s too late.

She flops down onto the mattress, sighing dramatically. “Ugh, I feel like death—why does my bed feel weird?”

You and Jungkook freeze.

Nari frowns, still not fully awake, her hand patting around the bed—and then suddenly—

She grabs Jungkook’s bare back.

There’s a long beat of silence.

“…Why does my bed have abs?”

Jungkook screams.

Nari screams.

You scream.

“WHAT THE—?!” Nari shouts, finally opening her eyes—only for them to land directly on Jungkook’s very bare ass.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK, PUT IT AWAY!”

Jungkook scrambles off the bed, panicking, grabbing at the blanket for dear life while you’re trying to cover yourself.

“ON MY BED?!” Nari shrieks, pointing at you both, utterly horrified. “ARE YOU GUYS FUCKING SERIOUS?!”

“Nari, get out!” You cry, shoving at her.

“No, this is my room, you get out!”

Jungkook is already gone, bolting for the bathroom with the blanket wrapped around him like a desperate little burrito.

You can hear him locking the door, muttering, “Oh my fucking god, what is my life,” under his breath.

Nari turns to you, squinting. “Are you serious? On my bed? On my fucking bed?”

You groan, frantically grabbing for the blanket—only for her to yank it back. “No, it’s cold.”

“Nari, do you want to see me naked?”

“Kinda.”

“Nari!”

She cackles as you finally manage to snatch it away, wrapping yourself up before making a run for the bathroom, abandoning her in the room.

You knock furiously on the door. “Jungkook, let me in.”

A long sigh. Then, finally, the lock clicks open.

You step inside, finding him sitting on the toilet seat, his face buried in his hands.

“What the fuck was that?” you whisper-shout.

He lifts his head slightly, his cheeks burning red. “I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

The two of you are fucking dead.

Still half-naked, still reeling from what just happened.

Nari is snoring her fucking life away in the bedroom, completely dead to the world, and you and Jungkook just stare at each other, still clutching your respective blankets, horrified.

And then— You crack. Laughter bubbles out of your chest, and before you know it, you’re cackling, doubled over, Jungkook gaping at you before he groans and buries his face in his hands. “Oh my god,” he groans. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Same.” You wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. “Like, what the hell did we do? Poor Nari.”

Jungkook just sighs. “She’ll probably forget.”

You both groan, knowing full well that she will never let you live this down.

Finally, you manage to sneak back into Nari’s bedroom, tiptoeing past her sleeping form as you grab your clothes, throwing them on in record time. Jungkook fumbles with his jeans, nearly falling over in his rush to get dressed, and you slap a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh.

Eventually, you escape to the living room, dropping onto the couch, exhausted, the events of last night weighing on you.

Silence.

Jungkook drags himself off the couch and stumbles into the kitchen, opening the fridge.

A long pause.

“What does Nari even eat?” He stares into the sad excuse of a fridge, filled with nothing but pickles, questionable leftovers, and instant food. “How does she live like this?”

You snort, rubbing your temples. “Honestly? I’m not even surprised.”

Finally, you take in the absolute disaster that is the living room. Clothes everywhere, empty bottles, random snacks, and a jar of pickles knocked over on the coffee table.

Jungkook looks at you. You look at Jungkook. And then, in perfect unison, you both let out a long, painful groan.

The apartment is dead silent except for the sound of the TV playing some random channel neither of you are really watching.

You and Jungkook are curled up on the floor couch, hoodies up, barely functioning, waiting for the food you ordered like zombies in recovery.

Jungkook is fully slumped over, one leg stretched out, arms crossed, looking so fucking dead to the world. His hair is a disaster, dark circles heavy under his eyes, and he just stares blankly at the screen, eyes unfocused.

And then— Nari waltzes into the room like she’s been through war.

She looks equally dead, hair a mess, eyes half-open, her oversized shirt hanging off her shoulder, moving with the slow determination of someone who’s been personally victimized by alcohol.

She stops. Looks at the two of you.

Then, without saying a word, she stumbles to the fridge, pulls out a jar of pickles, pops it open, and just starts munching.

You’re safe. She’s forgotten.

And then— “I saw Jungkook’s bare ass.”

Jungkook lets out the most exasperated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Nari, please—”

But then—her brain finally catches up. Her chewing slows. She freezes. Eyes going wide. Then she slowly turns to you. “Wait.”

Oh, fuck.

“Wait.”

“No, Nari—”

“You guys fucked in my bed?!”

“Nari, I—”

“YOU GUYS HAD FULL-ON, NASTY, SWEATY, I-HATE-YOU SEX IN MY FUCKING BED?!”

“IT WASN’T SWEATY—”

“OH MY GOD, SHUT UP, IT DOESN’T MATTER—”

Jungkook is just sitting there like oh shit man, watching this argument unfold as Nari flails her arms dramatically and you try to defend yourself.

“We were drunk!”

“I don’t give a fuck! That was my bed! Where I sleep! Where I DREAM!”

“We didn’t mean to!”

“Oh, so you just accidentally tripped and landed on his dick, huh?!”

Jungkook chokes. “Nari—”

“No!” She dramatically clutches her chest, looking pained. “My bed has been defiled—”

“Okay, relax, it wasn’t that deep—”

“It was literally that deep!”

“OH MY GOD, STOP!”

She’s fully yelling now, waving the pickle jar around, looking betrayed. Jungkook is just sitting there, mouth slightly agape, watching this play out like it’s a fucking drama series. And then—

“You guys ordered food without me?”

An awkward silence.

You slowly pick up your half-eaten sandwich and offer it to her. Nari snatches it, takes a massive bite, and keeps ranting. “I cannot believe this. This is actually sick. Fucking traitors. I’m gonna need you to call a priest—”

And then she grabs another pickle from the jar, stacking it onto her sandwich like some deranged gourmet chef.

Jungkook just leans back, shaking his head, muttering to himself. “I fucking hate my life.”

And you?

You just groan into your hoodie, realizing this will never be forgotten.

[trulycertain]

De Sardet opens the letter, and blinks. Stares at it so hard the words blur. Rereads it. Quiet, measured footsteps announce Vasco coming down from the bedroom, and he pauses. "Marie?" he asks, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "My uncle's dead."

On grief, politics, and going public.

[mariastorm]

Danny became the head assistant to one Timothy Drake-Wayne after nearly 20 years of being retired from the hero gig. In Danny's opinion,no 16 year old should be managing a multi - million dollar company as a pass time instead the fricking grown adult who owned said company... *cough,cough .....Bruce Wayne.

But then again,what did he know, alot.....he knew alot about Tim and his family of furries...the undead souls of Gotham tended to tell you things if you gave them the chance, he was just some guy in his thirties who had just moved to Gotham just a year ago. He couldn't just walk up to them and offer a free therapy session with his sister to fix the general mess that was the Wayne family unless he wanted the 'batclan' to start paying attention to him and later creeping him out with their stalking. So he chose a more subtle approach ; slowly integrate into their lives and fix their disaster of a family one appointment at a time.

He started off great. Tim began to open up to him in the office as the days went by. They talked in-between work schedules and meetings. He learnt about Tim's likes and dreams,lent an ear when he needed to vent about stuff involving home or school. In a way , Danny had realised somewhere in between that he was slowly mentally adopting Tim as his kid . He ended doing the same thing with the other Wayne children when he met them. Apparently,Tim spoke about him to the others when he was home and they had all gotten curious. Heck he had even met Alfred and they got on like a house on fire . Now he sometimes joins the old man to shop for groceries every other weekend. He had met Bruce as well and let's just say their first meeting involved Danny scolding the hell out of the man for allowing a literal child to manage his company when said child should have been doing child things as well as all the other things and the others had told him Bruce had done. Alfred had patted him on the back after he had finished his speech while the kids had been laughing at their father's expense.

Bruce had surprisingly taken it like a man considering the fact that he was being told off on how to 'parent' by a twink who was his son's assistant and therefore his employee. Danny had expected to be jobless after that fiasco but instead he was invited to dinner that very same week by Bruce himself. Albeit Bruce refused to make eye contact and seemed to have been having a fever as his face and ears were bright red but Danny didn't mind,free food was free food.... Even if he still wonderd why he had spotted Dick and Stephanie spying on them from the hallway with knowing looks on their faces......

Danny didn't even know how but suddenly he was fully involved in their lives; night time hobbies included after they dramatically told him to which Danny had simply responded with an "ya don't say?"and proceeded to go back to drinking his tea with Alfred . Things in the bat-brood were healing nicely;they were talking, bonding and generally starting to look like a true family. A true family with Danny in it. And Danny himself didn't realize this until one fluke .....no.... Two flukes occurred on the night of the biggest gala Danny had ever attended in his halfa life {galas he attended at Sam's mansion included} .

The first fluke ,he had been both happy and embarrassed about.....

Not one or two or three BUT four of the Wayne children had addressed him as 'Dad' . That too in front of a large group of guests and reporters with cameras and recorders . Damien had gone as far as to specify that ,yes they were referring to him and not Bruce..

And the second fluke....

Well, Danny wasn't sure how to feel about that one............

... Bruce Wayne,the bachelor billionaire,the man Danny had come to have a huge slight man crush on,...........

.

.

.

Kissed Danny. Right on the lips. On the balcony.

And Danny being a complete idiot had hiccuped then used his invisibility to hide and later run all while forgetting one tiny thing..

He hadn't told the batclan about his secret yet..and honestly??

Danny blames Clockwork.

[tanglepelt]

Dc x dp idea 118

Danny, Sam, and Tucker all share one braincell. One that just went on vacation.

A Giw patrol was hunting the trio down.

What else were they meant to do. Not jump in the random natural portal? No they all just convince each others it’s the best option.

Danny can make portals now. Hell maybe wulf was nearby. They were in the woods. He’d left portals open before.

It was probably safe! Better then a continued chase.

Well.

They were somehow seperated. Somehow not in the ghost zone. And was this even there dimension???

Sam was at a lost. Suddenly landing in an alley. In a grim alleyway. She could dig the dark atmosphere. Someplace called Gotham she’s assuming based on the newspaper the Gotham gazette.

Well. If she could handle that ghost prince kidnapping fiasco she could handle this place. Time to cause some trouble.

Tucker wasn’t that concerned about the separation. For now he’d hack into local sites gain some insight. There was no listing of amity anywhere. No doubt Danny would make the news soon enough. He could chill in jump city for now.

Danny. Well Danny was just vibing. He crashed landed on some farm. The two who came up to him were so nice! They gave him pie!! It didn’t even fight him.

He had no idea where they ended up. The vibe was similar to home. He could still make portals easy enough. But he had no idea where to start looking for sam and tucker.

But!! Jon and Martha promised him their son would be able to help! He had connections… apparently. He couldn’t risk the cops. Plus they let him help with the animals!!!!

He is sure that sam and tucker could take care of themselves for a few days. He was apparently out of town.

Jazz for her part. Had been on her way to pick up the three idiots. Only to see them in the distance jump through a portal. Well. She might as well give the Fenton speedster a test drive.

[carmenized-onions]

Something to Do. | Catering

logline; Itinerary for your trip to New York? Just try not to fucking cry.

[!!!] series history, this is the twelfth; gonna start season three after I post this. Wonder how bad it's gonna throw off the rest of my plot line. Ideally not at all. We'll see.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. I really like this playlist for all chapters, but for a wedding where music is blasting, it feels particularly fitting.

portion; 13.3k how does this keep happening.

possible allergies; Terrible self-image, everything feels bad, very real conversations abt ,,, self-death and addiction.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets referred to as a woman and other feminine honourifics but no pronouns, i believe)

i made you all so mad last chapter. Let's see if i can make it up to you, babydoll (probably wont)

You hate to admit it, but you were kind of relieved when you found out Carmen wasn’t coming on the plane. You’re in a bit of a state of fight or flight; well, more accurately, currently leaning towards the flight side— Pun intended.

He’s coming to the wedding. You know he is. For one, he’s getting thirty grand for this, he has to. For two, his location is still on for you— Whether he forgot to turn it off or just didn’t care, you’re not sure. But he hates you, so there’s no way it was intentional, you’re certain about that much.

You know you shouldn’t be looking at it, but you have. You’ve been looking all week. Checking your Find my Friends like a doting mother. He goes to work far too early, he stays far after close, he goes home. Rinse and repeat.

You check on him one last time before boarding the plane. He’s opted to drive, with Richie. Something about ‘wanting to bring their personal equipment’, Richie texted you. They’re halfway through Ohio. You’re sure that road trip is definitely going spectacular after their side of the explosion.

Richie texted the day after that fucking fiasco, asking if you’d want updates on how it’s going at The Bear. How it’s going with Carmen. You said you wanted to know if he wanted to tell. He opted not to tell.

You hate to admit, you were kind of relieved, to not know. To just look at Carmen’s little icon go from Point A to B. Instead of Carmen Reports, you and Richie text about much lighter things. Normal things. Eva drew a funny picture of you kinda things. It’s nice. You know you’re probably being childish, but it feels so much fucking better to ignore the Bear in the room. You don’t know how to feel about anything, and frankly you don’t want to try to figure it out.

You suck, Carmen sucks, what more is there to know? Process it? Fuck that.

Carmen hasn’t texted you; you haven’t texted him, the entire week. Radio silence. You stopped playing Connections. Didn’t see a point. Not like they even have a streak function anyways— You’d die before you let that Wordle streak break, though. That was your thing. Carmen doesn’t get to take your things, too.

You didn’t get a text from the Exec, either. So that’s… Something? Or, rather, explicitly, that’s nothing. Does that mean Carmen gives a shit? Not necessarily. Ugh. Your whole system was so shocked after that fucking fight that you didn’t really have time to take in the fact that that jag was into you? Vomit inducing. You’ve got to rethink your life choices, if they lead you to him. 

But also, you know if Carmen and you were okay right now, you probably would’ve given him your number. You would’ve catfished him for weeks, laughing over your phone with Carmen and Syd as this idiot falls into your trap. You miss Carmen. You also don’t miss Carmen. You want to see him desperately and also never fucking look at him again.

Carmen’s going to be in the kitchen; you’re going to be out in the banquet hall, on bar, this whole wedding. The likelihood either of you have to actually interact this weekend is quite low. The likelihood either of you have to confront what you’re supposed to do with yourselves now is quite low. You hate to admit it, you’re fucking relieved.

Sydney sleeps on your shoulder, for most of the plane ride. You sleep against her head. Shout out Marcus, for switching seats. He’s behind you, with Tina. He wakes both of you up about an hour in, shaking your seats— Because the dessert cart came out and he didn’t want either of you to miss it. The mini cheesecakes are better than expected, to be fair, so he’s forgiven.

This is going to be the stupidest weekend of your life. You’ll take that, over worst, at least.

“Be honest, would you tip me extra well?”

You give a twirl in your probably too fancy semi-cultural outfit. Your family shows up for weddings, if Vinnie and Mira didn’t want their bartender to go hard, they should’ve put that in their notes. It actually would have been nice to get sent notes, though… What is the theme for this wedding other than ‘Italian’ and ‘New York’…? Glitter eyeshadow is probably fine, right? Yeah it’s fine. Not like you could get that shit off now, anyways.

“If you were my bartender, I would ask ‘what are we?’” Answers Syd, watching you from the bathroom as she attempts to put her hair up. Definitely struggling in silence.

Sharing a hotel room was the best idea you ever had. It would be a nightmare to get ready alone in silence, right now. It’s nice to talk and have something to do. If you didn’t, you’d absolutely be ruminating about Carmen, debating whether or not to check on his room, that’s just down the hall, you could see if he needed help with getting ready and also see if he’s as tired as you think he is and— Plus, the amount you saved on splitting a one bed? Christ. Economy is in shambles. So is your brain.

“You would not be brave enough to ask your bartender ‘what are we?’”

“For you, I would.”

“Are we about to kiss, bro?” You duck into the bathroom, getting way too close to the side of Syd’s face. She laughs, pushing you away with the palm of her hand, you scoff, “Wooowwww—”

You clutch your heart, mortally wounded. Retching, truly. Now this is heartbreak in its rawest form. “—Reject me, why don’t you?”

“I’m playing the role of timid—” “I’m sick of this friends to lovers plot line!” “It adds! It adds!”

“Shut up— And tilt your head back, dumbass, what are you doing?” You stand behind her, taking her braids into your hands as she struggles to bundle them all herself.

“I do this all the time by myself, y’know.” So Syd says, but she lets you take her braids regardless.

“Yeah, but I’m here.” You stretch the hairband on your fingers. “Messy bun?”

“You think?”

“I think primal is too clean.”

“No, I was gonna do the one where it does like— Like the infinity in the front?”

“Who’s mom are you tryna fuckin’ look like?”

She kisses her teeth, attempting to reach a hand behind her head to smack you. You dodge and somehow manage to make it easier to smack you. “I’m literally only gonna get to come out after everyone’s left, I dunno why we’re making effort here—”

“High messy bun?” “High messy bun.”

Oh, the days of doing each other’s hair. You’re glad it’s back. You’re glad you get to become, together, again. It used to be bobbles, friendship bracelets, and glitter tattoos—but now it’s tying up each other’s hair, helping with the curling iron, clasping the gold chains on your neck, zipping up the back of your outfit, pinning the collar pins on her uniform, fixing makeup, asking each other to compare perfumes before going through with the final decision, mocking each other’s purchases.

“Wait, what mini deodorant did you get at customs?”

“Oh, one of those Native ones— I think it’s peach—?”

“Those cost like five fucking dollars, Ink. For like two swipes.”

“Excuse me for wanting to smell good, fuckin’ ‘wolfthorn’—”

“I work in a restaurant. I need Old Spice strength, okay—!”

“Oh, pbbbttt— Syd.”

“Pbb—Fuck, how do you do that?”

There’s a knock at the door, interrupting your squabble. “Are you decent?!”

Sydney groans, “No!”

“Yes, Rich, we’re decent, doors open.”

Richie comes in, unceremoniously. A touch awkward. He’s so rarely been in a room with women getting ready. It’s simultaneously exactly what he expected, and not at all what he expected. “Chip, can you put these fuckin’ things on f’me?”

Cufflinks. He presents the box to you. They’re just plain and silver, boring. Save that in your rolodex of gifts to get this Christmas. “You’re fuckin’ forty and you don’t know how to put on some cufflinks—?”

You’re nagging, but you’re already putting them on him, he holds his wrist out for you. “Nah, I was too busy runnin’ shit to learn.”

“Runnin’ your mouth, more like.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s a quiet moment, a tender moment, of adjusting his sleeves. Sydney’s scrambling to clean up the room around you two in the background. It’s hard to turn off the autopilot of cleaning one’s station, no matter where she goes.

You purse your lips. You shouldn’t ask and you shouldn’t care, but you do. You half-whisper, to Richie. “How was the drive?” He knows what you’re asking.

“Terrible start. Surprisingly okay middle. He went straight to the banquet hall once we got here.” He swallows, treading carefully, a thing Richie never does. “Do you wanna know the dirty details?”

Oh good, you wouldn’t be able to check on his room even if you wanted to. You want to. Need to? Stop thinking. Carmen sucks and you suck. 

“Not particularly.” You take one final look at his sleeves, happy with your handiwork, letting his wrists go. “You feel settled, though? Or jury’s still out?”

Richie shrugs, tilting his head back and forth. “Grovelled decent enough, by time we hit Penn. But I’m waitin’ on my informer.”

You cringe, knowing what he means. You also know he’d smack you if you said he doesn’t need your say in order to forgive Carmen. “It’s gonna be a minute, until your informer has an answer.”

“I know.” He nods, twisting his wrists back and forth, looking at the cufflinks. Then he gives you a once over. “Y’look good.”

“You too.” You look over him, he does look good. He’s in his suit, wearing his wedding ring, which makes your heart hurt a little bit, but he does look good. “What’s your fuckin’ job tonight, by the way?” He can’t be doing kitchen. He sucks at kitchen. But he’s also just not dressed for it.

“Fuckin’ everything.” Hyperbolic? Typically yes, with Richie, but not this time.

“Wait staff here had too high a fee—”

“Translation: more than free?”

“More than free, yeah.”

“Heard.”

“So, I’m server, set up, and fuckin’ whore-derve—”

“What?” That pronunciation snaps Sydney out of her autopilot clean, her back snaps up straight. Hands on her hips, like a disappointed teacher. “It’s hors d’oeuvres.”

Richie rolls his eyes and really his whole head back. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ CIA or whatever the fuck—”

You interrupt the fight before it can start. “Let’s just say appetizers.”

Sydney does not let you. “Apps and hors d’oeuvres are different.”

You angle your body from Richie to her, deadpanning. “Just because you went to the fuckin’ FBI or whatever the fuck—”

“Alright!” She’s already walking to the door, despite the fact that she started it— “We’ve gotta fuckin’ get to hall now or we’re gonna have like zero prep time, Chefs.”

You both follow after her, doing one last check to make sure you’ve got everything you need. You honestly don’t need to be in this much of a rush, you’re pretty sure, but you don’t mention that. Richie said Carmen just went straight to the banquet hall, when they came in this morning. You’re not sure how well you know him anymore, all things considered, but by your best guess, he’s almost certainly done all the prep by himself.

Carmen did not do the kitchen prep entirely himself. Well. He might’ve, you haven’t checked, but you don’t think he would’ve had the time.

Carmen did your prep entirely himself.

When you get to the bar, in the banquet hall, you have nothing to do. Side work finished for you. Lemons, limes, oranges— All cut into wedges and loaded in their baskets— even the cherries are pitted. The glasses are organized from wine to whiskey glasses, the sink is clean— Which you know the banquet hall staff didn’t do— They never fucking do.

You don’t see Carmen, but you know he did it. He showed up before anyone else, he was in the kitchen before anyone else— So no one else could’ve left the simple braised beef sandwich on your station. Exactly how Mikey used to make it. Half hot, half sweet. Your order at The Beef. Carmen would’ve done pork, but this is what they had on hand, and he had a feeling this would mean more, anyways. It does. Granola bar on the plate with it. One of the nice ones, too. The wrapping boasts fifteen grams of protein.

He knows how hard running bar is. He knows you won’t have time to eat once it starts. So, he’s making sure you get something down now— And that you have time to eat it in peace, and making sure you have something you can scarf mid-shift later, when you don’t have time.

Fucking. Hell. Fuck this fucking guy. Carmen fucking sucks. You fucking suck. This all fucking sucks so much. This sandwich is so fucking good. You’re so fucking mad. Stop saying fuck. Fuck your subconscious for wanting you to stop saying fuck. It’s so unfair, for him to be maybe the cruelest a person could possibly be, in front of an audience made out of your loved ones, and then be sweet, like this.

He is awful, with words— Well, he’s typically better, with you, par for the last time, but he’s best in the kitchen. You can taste the sorrow, the guilt, the apology. The first thing he ever made you, was a sandwich, the brisket sandwich, that Mikey refined for you, as an apology, for freaking the fuck out in a freezer and having that be your first impression of him— Or, at least, first first-hand impression of him. How far you’ve come.

This will not pass, as an apology. Not a proper one. But… You’ll give him a sign, in return, at least. A confirmation that you got the message, nothing more. Definitely nothing more.

“Rich.” You stop the guy in his tracks, as he marches through the room, helping the rest of the staff set up the hall. Not his job, but it’s Richie. “Can you ask kitchen their shifties?”

He nods, like he understands, walking away with stacks of chairs under both his arms.

He comes back after two minutes, straight up to your bar. “What the fuck is a shifty?”

“Oh.” You feel condescending, for being surprised. You’d never really thought about the huge difference between morning servers and night servers until right now. Richie has never worked with a bar staff. He worked at a fucking sandwich shop. “It’s uh— Your drink. Get a drink on your shift— Shifty— It can be like, a cocktail, a straight, a shot, coffee—”

“I know how many fucking drinks exist, Chip—” “Mocktail, smoothie, juice—” “Yeah, I’ll get a Pina Colada.” “I will break the blender over your head.” “I’ll get you a list.”

You nod, already starting on usuals you know will have remained unchanged since your absence. Steel trap memory. Getting drinks with The Beef staff used to be the highlight of your week, which isn’t a sad statement at all.  “I won’t tell anyone you like Dirty Shirleys.”

He defends. “Eva put me on them.”

“Insane thing to say about your five-year-old.”

“You know what I meant— She likes the normal—” “I’m pokin’ fun, go give this to Carmen.”

You’re hoping if you say it fast, coupled with bickering, Richie won’t make mental note of it. Won’t register it. Of course, he still does. How could he not? You slide the mug to him; he takes it, though, slow, with a perplexed look.

Yeah. They had lavender and maple syrup behind the bar. And cardamom. And milk to froth. And black coffee. Whatever. You didn’t have any dried lavender to top it with, this time, so it’s not actually that cool, anyways. Doesn’t make it special. Did you do a maple syrup drizzle to make up for this? Yeah. You hate yourself just a little bit, for it. You really cannot shut off the way you love, can you? Hopeless. Be even the slightest bit withholding, would you? Just a touch petty? God, you suck. Such a princess.

Rich shrugs, when you don’t try to justify yourself. You’re an adult, he won’t coerce you to be sharper, even if you should be. “Aye aye, Chippy.”

If Carmen ends up wanting to drink later, then he’ll have to come to you. That’s being tough, right? Sure. That’s definitely withholding, Chip. Really showed Carmen there. Certainly, a church woman must be clutching her pearls at your backbone, somewhere in the world.

Do you think you’d be able to handle him coming to your bar, anyways?

No. Decidedly no. Which is a bit stupid, because you’ve faced much scarier things in your life, than some asshole you owe two grand. Well, some asshole you owe two grand that you love deeply that hates you deeply because you are in some part responsible for not taking care of his brother—

Carmen doing your side work was unintentionally cruel, honestly. You don’t have anywhere for your brain to go but him. Don’t have anyone to talk to, or anything to do. Richie can tell and whether you want him to or not; he knows what you need. He repeats himself, walking off with the mug. “I’ll get you your list.”

He knows what you need. Something to do. Something to fix, for someone. Not fix someone. People’s princess. Still failed Mikey, no matter how hard you tried.

Sprite, grenadine, vodka, lime, maraschino cherries. Dirty Shirley. Something to do. Just focus on something to do.

You miss the naivety of wanting something to do. Three hundred guests versus one bartender without a barback is a layer of hell that Dante forgot to specify in his Inferno.

“What can I fix for you, ma’am?!” You’ve got to yell every sentence to get anything intelligible over the music and the cacophony of conversations.

There is an overlap of voices from every single woman crowding around your bar, despite the fact that you were definitely making explicit eye-contact with just one of them. You lean over the counter to hear her alone. She blinks, when you get in her face.

“What are we?”

You cannot stop the snort, but you’re pretty sure she didn’t hear it, music's too loud to hear anything. Syd’s a fucking oracle. “We’re fucked. What can I get for you?”

“Lemon drop shot?” Of course. It’s New York.

“Comin’ right up—”

The crowd of women interrupt you, and each other. “Oh, make that two!” “Make that three!” “Wait what are we making?”

Who the fuck is we? They’re more than welcome to get behind the bar with you. You’d take anyone, at this point.

“Lemon drops, babe!” “Oh—Oh, we doin’ lemon drops?” “Let’s just say ten and be safe!”

Of course.

It’s a lot of that, on repeat. But it’s better than the ones that want one very specific brand of scotch with their soda, because at least you can make huge batches for these ones— Does no one know how to fucking act around an open bar anymore? You get a vodka cran and you fuck off. You really need to start telling people you don’t know how to make bellinis.

Working alone is hard, because you can tell when you turn your back to make drinks, and aren’t able to take twenty more orders at the same time, that everyone’s real fucking annoyed with you. You have tried splitting your cells to become a second person, didn’t work. You’re constantly spinning around to accommodate people, and it’s getting fucking nauseating. And you’re usually patient, but the questions are getting just as mind-numbing.

“Can I get a uh… A negroni… Sbagliato? With prosecco?” “Sbagliato means prosecco is in it, sweetheart.”

“Do you do hurricane shots?” “I’m happy to slap you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, so it’s open bar?” “Yeah.” “So, I don’t have to tip, either?” “Well— It’s appreciated— Oh, and you’ve already walked away. Okay.”

It’s a lot of that, on repeat.

You see from twenty feet away, amidst the crowds, Uncle Jimmy walking towards your bar, and when he waves all friendly, he sees your glower, and opts to turn in the other direction. Smart man. No wonder he’s successful.

Richie swings by your bar, waiting at the corner, where the line hasn’t congregated. You don’t need to be shaking this martini for as long as you are, but it’s a good way to look like you’re working when you’re just trying to talk to Richie. He presents his serving tray to you. “Tiny quiche?”

You open your mouth, hands full with your shaker. He gets the point, stabbing a toothpick into the appetizer and shoving it in your mouth. Oh God, food is beautiful. Food is what sustains. You could write a full book of poetry right now about why food is everything. Well, not everything. You’re still in hell.

“Richie, I’m dying, your job can’t be that important, come be barback.” You pour out the martini. You attempt to open the jar of olives by yourself, when you struggle, Richie puts his tray down and grabs the jar from you.

Thankfully for your pride, he’s also struggling with it. Plus, it gives you time to annihilate the tray of quiches. He shakes his head, his job is important, allegedly. “You want me to starve guests?”

“Ideally? Yes.” You ignore the dirty looks you get from eavesdropping patrons. He hands you the opened jar. You take a toothpick from his tray, since you’re already out of yours, pierce an olive, toss it in the martini, and pass it to someone— Quite frankly, there’s every chance that’s not the guy that ordered the dirty martini, but he takes it, so who gives a fuck.

Richie sighs, he does want to help. “I’ll ask kitchen if they can cut someone.”

Thank fucking God. “Ask Marcus, he’s got mixology experience or some shit.” You remember being occasionally impressed by his verbiage— At the very least, he knows what stuff is back here, and that’s enough for you.

Richie just shakes his head, lips in a line, when you mention Marcus. A universal sign that something has gone horrifically wrong. You furrow your brows, immediately worried, leaning forward. “What happened?”

“Excuse me! What’s it take to get a long-island iced tea around here? This open bar is not very open!”

You and Richie both grimace, at the thick Jersey accent on this woman waving her hand hysterically at your bar. He gives you a nod, already taking his empty tray and starting to walk back to the kitchen. “I’ll ask.”

You turn your body to the woman, but head still to Richie. “Don’t ask. Tell.”

Not even five minutes pass, before you get a barrage of texts, from multiple people, all at once. You watch them flood in on the notification screen of your phone laying on the counter, while shaking up a cosmo, this time.

From Marcus, worrying. ‘sorrysorysorrybakkingemergencymbmmbmb’

From Syd, concerning. ‘couldn’t stop him lmk if it’s bad’

From Richie, alarming. ‘yk how to call your dog right’

But it all makes sense, when Carmen comes up to your bar, removing his apron. “You need a barback?”

Hair is normal. Not at its best, not how you taught him, but it’s better than before. He smells excessively like you; like accidentally used half the bottle levels like you. Maybe not an accident. Don’t read into it, too much— They’re almost certainly the only travel sized bottles he had on hand. Of course he’d take them. He smells like Old Spice, too, though. Don’t read into it. He looks tired. You knew he would. You’ve watched his location, every day. By the time you go to bed each night, he’s only just left The Bear. He deserves to feel tired, he was a fucking asshole, and you’re glad your cat ate just short of all of his flowers.

But you brought in the plate, the next morning. You cleaned it, and then hid it in the back of your dishwasher. You wanted it to be safe, you also just didn’t want to look at it or think about it or have it exist in your mind, at all. That’s half the reason you couldn’t let it perch outside your window anymore. Taunting you. He’s a piece of shit, but you can feel it in your chest; the care you cannot get rid of. The desire to ask are you okay? Have you been sleeping? How are you? How’s your week been? Want a hug? Have you been playing Connections? What did I do wrong? Did you need me? Did anything break? Did you break?

You missed him. Was the radio silence relieving? Yes. Preferably, you’d never acknowledge each other for the rest of your lives besides an eventual wire transfer. Preferably, he’d stay in the back of your dishwasher for the rest of your life. But God, you missed him, this week. You’ll probably miss him for the rest of your life. Is that toxic? You’re working on it. No you’re not… He just made every space easier to breathe in, kept a light on, for you. Not at the end, but he did before. Before he figured out that he hates you.

It’s a thing that everyone says about you, that you bring ease, and whether you can confirm or deny that, who’s to say— But you know Carmen does it for you. Lights up a room for you. And you might be alone in that feeling, but that’s okay with you. Or it was. It was, before he figured out he should hate you.

Oh, shit, you’ve been staring at him in silence for way too long. It’s hard to know how to navigate this. You don’t know how to feel, so you don’t know how to act either. It’s all a weird state of limbo that you desperately want to get out of, but don’t want to do any of the work required to do so. What do you do with your hands? Your body? Your voice? Are you supposed to be funny and nice still? Christ, just say something. What’d he ask, again? Can’t remember.

“Uh…” Still can’t remember, but— “What’s happening with Marcus?”

He seems to falter, slightly, but he comes into your bar, oh right, barback. You needed a barback. He exchanges his kitchen apron for a bar apron. Not used to seeing him wear all black. You wish you could enjoy it. Wish you could say it’s cool watching him act as one of your professions. He answers, as he ties the strings around his waist. “Uber dropped their wedding cake.”

Fuck whatever tension you two have. You nearly fold over in shock. The current track on the speakers fades out, right as you yell back, “They dropped their fucking wedd—!?”

With haste, Carmen puts the palm of his hand over your mouth. Knife tattoo hand. Oh, he missed being this close to you. Not the point here, though. “Shhhhhhh…!”

You relax, he removes his hand, you’re annoyed that you wish he didn’t. You whisper, though it’s still screeching in tone. “They dropped their fucking wedding cake?”

He nods, combing his hair back with his hand. Knife tattoo hand. It’s making your shampoo waft. You both notice it. He stops. “Marcus is remaking one, now.”

“From scratch?” You were right to be so worried; Richie was right to make the face he did. Carmen tilts his head back and forth. “Box mix that he’s finessing—”

You finish the sentence with him, “—Because he’s Marcus.” The king of doing too much, especially when there’s no time for it. It’s his best and worst trait.

He nods, smiling just slightly, but not the typical smile you get from him. Timid. “Yeah, so he’s locked in, but I’m here.”

Simple sentence, but it still schisms your brain. You cannot help but feel a distrust of it. “Shouldn’t you be running the back, though?” Keeping his kitchen in order? Being the Exec in his head?

He shakes his head. “They run a tight ship without me just fine.” The first lesson you gave to him, that that’s a good thing. Is this conversation hitting specific pain points on purpose as a punishment from God or is this just how all your conversations are going to feel, from now on?

Probably both. You nod. “Okay.” You do need a barback.

“This is so cute, girl, and I love love but I’m gonna need that Cosmo like yesterday.” Why did this woman have to say love? That would already be terrible if you were good right now. Carmen’s probably not the type of guy to say the L word for like several months anyways. You’re not even dating anyways— Or weren’t? Can you use past-tense on something that never was?

You hand her the Cosmo, and you both pretend you never heard her.

Running bar with Carmen makes your life infinitely easier, though albeit tenser. He hasn’t done this before, but he’s watched previous bar staff from the sidelines— And one of his best traits is how quick he catches on to things. He’s not confident enough to mix drinks, but everything else, he does just fine.

“Behind.” There’re occasional autopilot moments that make you laugh, though. He snaps back into his body, when you do, moving next to you. He tilts his head, “What, you don’t say behind?”

You shrug, and it feels normal, for a second. “Professionals probably do, I’ve never worked in a place that does, though.”

“But what about when you’re holdin’ shit?” You allow yourself to feel normal, for a second. It is a delight to teach him something about your work. You continue to make drinks and hand off orders, all while you both speak. It reminds you of the domestic flow you were both so used to doing. That was so easy for you both to fall into. It’s nice that it somehow hasn’t gone away.

“So, you know when you’re in the kitchen, or here, behind bar, you get like, really fucking hot?” Don’t let that entendre stay doubled— “Like sweaty?”

“Mhm?”

You hold onto your chilled shaker, stepping behind him, “So, we don’t say behind, we—” and press it just under the back of his neck. He shivers, immediately, full shock running through his system. “Do that.”

“Christ!”

You want to enjoy the moment, but you can’t help but remember him calling you a modern-day saviour. You try to push it down, but the warmth you were starting to feel tones down, quite a bit. You manage to keep him from noticing, manage to keep the smile on. “What, don’t like it? It’s nice!”

“Think it’s a safety concern, f’sure.”

“Call OSHA.” You touch the shaker to his face, before going to pour it. He laughs. Actually laughs. You wish that made you feel good, still. And somewhere, in some corner of yourself, it still does. But not like it did before.

Soon enough, you two get a second of reprieve, as Vinnie’s Best Man gets up to do his speech, or whatever. He uses a knife to clink his glass, and of course, it fucking shatters. You’re half-mad, because technically for the night, those are your glasses, but it’s too funny to actually give a shit. Plus, the Best Man gets a pass tonight, in your book, because one, he understood protocol and got a vodka cran from you, and two, his speech is forcing everyone to sit down and leave y’all the fuck alone.

“Beautiful night, beautiful couple, beautiful people— Couldn’t ask for a better weddin’ for my best friend— But let’s be honest, I didn’t think he’d be gettin’ a wedding at all— Aye! This guy Vin, amirite?”

You take this moment to halve your protein bar from Carmen. You wordlessly hand the other half to him. He shakes his head. “M’Good, you eat.”

 You shove it towards him. You know he hasn’t eaten much, you don’t know how, but you just know. “I’ve eaten twelve tiny quiches and a beef sandwich, Carm, take the fuckin’ granola.”

He breathes heavily through his nose, but he takes it. You both watch the Best Man, quietly eating your halves. He is silently overjoyed at the verbal confirmation you ate the sandwich.

“I don’t need to introduce my goddamn self, I’m sure my reputation precedes me, right? But I’m Leo, I’m my boy’s Best Man, and I just couldn’t be more honoured, y’know? We grew up together, playin’ stickball in the Bronx, and now this guy’s marryin’ one of the most wonderful women in the world? And I get to be here? Man, I love ya.”

As cranky as you’ve been all night, this really is a gorgeous wedding. More often than not, the guests are nice, it’s just that the shit ones stick out in your head like nails to be hammered. Vinnie and Mira seem like a good couple. You wonder if you’ll ever get to have a wedding like this. They commissioned one of those painters to do a live painting, too. Always wanted one of those. And they’ve got little gift bags for the guests. You’re taking notes, internally, of what you like here, what you’d want to do for your own.

You wish you and Carmen were talking, right now. Despite the fact that Leo’s voice is booming throughout the hall’s speakers, the silence between you feels deafening, because you both know that you would be talking right now, if you weren’t living in fucking limbo. You need to work. You need something to do. The ice basket is running low, refilling it will take at least two minutes and maybe holding the ice will shock your nervous system.

You grab a bag of ice from the freezer behind you both, Carmen pretends to be listening to the speech, because he doesn’t feel like he has the right to help you with the weight. You cut the bag, emptying huge chunks of ice into the basket. You ball up the plastic in your hands to throw out; you nod to Carmen. “Can you break the ice?”

He seems surprised, taking a second, before nodding, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I owe you an apology—”

“Oh, no!” You hastily correct. “No— Yes but no— I— I meant—” You hand him the metal scooper, nodding to the clumped-up ice you just poured out. “I meant can you break the literal ice blocks?”

Carmen wishes he has dead. And you can both tell that. “Yes. Yes— Yeah, f’sure, one-hundred— Course. Heard.” You nod back, pensive, throwing the plastic bag out, staring straight ahead, trying to refocus on Leo again. You can’t.

Carmen beats the ice, softly, so as to not make a noticeable noise for the audience. After a few seconds, he returns to his point. “…I do owe you an apology, though—”

“Don’t even worry about it, Carmen.” You don’t say this. Fak does. He sidles up to the bar. Where he keeps apparating from and hearing your conversations, you’re really not sure. “I’ve got this one.”

Neither you or Carmen know what Fak thinks he’s got, here, but you’re both too intrigued or surprised to stop him. Well, Carmen does give it a fair shot, after a second, “Fak, I’m—”

“Nono—” But there’s simply no chance. “I appreciate you trying to fix my problems for me, but y’know, I can handle myself, Carmen.” …You wish that’s what Carmen said, last Friday, instead of calling himself your charity tax write-off.

Fak pivots to you, sighing, shrugging, hands up, as if you know as well as he does what the fuck he’s about to say. You can’t tell if you’re supposed to be scared right now or not. When you don’t say anything, he starts, “Alright, I guess I’m the one that's brave enough to say it, there’s some major tension here.”

Now why does Fak think he’s the one to acknowledge this. Quite frankly, why is Fak here? Is he working, too? On what exactly? You don’t remember seeing him on the plane, either. Was he a part of the road trip? Dear God, that's a nightmare third wheel. You just let out a, “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t shown up at The Bear since last Friday—” You’re now remembering that before the fight of all fights broke out that night, Fak ran out of the kitchen. Guess no one filled him in, after. “And like, this week, when something broke—” He nods to Carmen, who grimaces, hand over his face. “Carmy told me to fix it, instead of calling you, like he’d usually.”

You know you’re not allowed to be upset about that, and yet, you really fucking are. You’re Carmen’s fucking fixer. Or were? Fuck. Christ, are you jealous of Fak now? You turn your gaze just slightly to Carmen, who’s leaning over the counter, propping his head up on his hands. “What broke?”

He answers briefly. “Expo clock.”

It was extremely apt and even more upsetting for him, the way time literally stopped, when you left. When he made you leave.

You tuck your hands in your pockets, looking back to Fak. “You fix it?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.” Carmen stands back up, opening his mouth to intercept, Fak puts a hand in front of his face. “No Carm, I’ve gotta tell her the truth…” What.

“Tony…” Neil sighs, unable to make eye contact, at this moment. “I was really harsh on you, that Friday…”

“…Huh?” The fucking degree thing? Is that what he’s talking about? You honestly can’t remember anything before Carmen, from that night.

“You don’t need to hide your pain.” He nods solemnly, “I— I’m just gonna say it… I know it’s hard to believe, but I was… jealous.”

“I know.”

He ignores that you’ve said this entirely, “I know, I know, it’s crazy. Me? Jealous? But yeah, I was really good at hiding it, but you’re just really like smart, Tony, y’know? And everyone was like— Tony can fix this— Tony can fix that— And I was holding it together, but then you were good at serving, too. And it got to me— And obviously Carmen could tell, so he stopped calling you. Trying to be a true bro.”

Oh, Fak really doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, huh? “Of course there’s like, the other obvious tension in the room—” Oh okay, so he does know— “Between us.” What.

“What’s up?” You blink, voice going high for a second. Carmen cannot stop staring at Fak, face entirely unmoving, unblinking. Neither of you are sure what emotion to feel right now. Is Leo’s speech still fucking going? You’ve completely tuned it out, if it is.

Fak gestures to the air between you two. “Well like, there’s obviously a really intense sort of rivals to romance dynamic happening here…”

What.

“And like,” He raises his hands, in defense— Of what exactly? You couldn’t be less sure. “I could totally see that happening, in the future.”

It takes everything in you, to just hold your lips closed together. You have to bite down on your top lip, to not scream laugh in his face. “For sure, man.”

He nods, continuing, “But right now, I just don’t think I’m ready to take what you’re giving, y’know?” Holy shit, wait, is that how Carmen feels? Is that what the fuck is going on in his head? “Just not ready for all—” He gestures to you in general. “This.”

“Little harsh.” You tilt your head. “Fuckin’ cool it, Fak.” Carmen barks, in tandem with you. Oh, he’s upset. He wasn’t set on his emotions, this entire time, but he seems to have now settled in the upset category.

“Right.” Fak nods. “And so, I’m sorry I can’t be that for you… And I know it’s gonna take time to recover, but please come back to The Bear, when you’re ready. You’re… You’re a better repairman than me. We need you.”

You put a hand over your mouth, to cover your shit eating grin, trying your best to compose yourself and look sad. The best way out of this is to just agree with him. It’d take far too much energy to clarify everything for Fak. You’re nodding too much. “…Yeah, y’know, Fak… I will consider that. All those words you said? I’m gonna… Gonna really take all of it to heart, dude. I really appreciate… The directness— Y’know, that takes… Strength, man.”

“Thank you.” He nods. “Still friends?”

You did not realize you were even friends to start. And not in the insecure way, this time. You nod. “For sure, dude.”

You and Carmen both watch him walk away, in perplexed silence. Carm’s the first to break it. “…Was that anything—” “Obviously fucking not.”

He’s going to reply something witty in response, and it’s going to make you both feel like everything’s okay, again, but then he seems to see something that scares him straight. He turns to the back of the bar, aimlessly grabbing bottles, for no reason. Literally no reason, everyone sat for the speeches, what’s he doing—?

“You still serving?” Older man, oval glasses. He stands in front of your bar. Ah. Kinda rude of him, maybe that’s why Carmen’s giving the cold shoulder to this guy? Whatever. You'll serve him. Just because you're Chicago's Kindest doesn't mean everyone else has to be.

“Yessir, what can I fix for you?”

“Manhattan with bourbon?”

You salute, “Aye aye.” And get to mixing the drink. You’re pretty sure Carmen must know this guy, because he’s already set out the bourbon, vermouth, and angostura. It doesn’t take long to fix the drink.

When you go to hand it to the man, he seems to notice the mop of blond curls behind you. “Aye, Carmen? Jimmy told me you’d be workin’ tonight.”

A small, tentative, meek wave from Carmen. He sniffs. “Yeah. Hi, Uncle Lee.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say. Pulling the drink away from his hand, as Uncle Lee reaches for it. “You’re Uncle Lee?”

“My reputation precedes me?” He chuckles, nodding.

Carmen comes up beside you, and witnesses a smile from you that he’s never seen from you, and ideally hopes will never be directed at him. It’s the slowness of it, it’s a smile, but you’re doing it purely to bare your teeth.

“It sure does.” Give him a chance, it’s been four years, give him a chance. “I was a friend of Mikey’s.”

He fails the chance. “Ah… I see, friend, ya did a little—” He taps the side of his nose, sniffing. “Together?”

He really fucking fails the chance. Your smile grows, painfully so. The apples of your cheeks so high they practically close your eyes for you. You laugh a deeply fake laugh. “Hahaha, yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what we used to do. Uncle Lee.”

“Oh!” You tilt your wrist quickly, pouring the bourbon Manhattan in the bar sink. “Ah, fuck. Hand slipped.”

Lee is a bit taken aback. “Really—?”

“Really.” You repeat. Putting the glass down. “And y’know, I could remake that for you, but I dunno if you wanna trust my shaky junkie hands.”

Holy fuck. Carmen has always been great at keeping his reactions hidden, and still is, so Uncle Lee cannot tell how out of character this is, of you. You’re nice, you don’t bite— Or Carmy didn’t think you did, because of the amount of grace you gave him, last Friday.

“Lee, I’m gonna level with you.” You cross your arms, smile fading, but there’s still that venomous lilt in your voice. “I’ve been thinking for the last, I dunno, two years, what I’d say to you, if I had the displeasure of seeing you.”

There’s a pile of forks behind your bar, that you’d asked Richie for, just in case this situation came to a head. Just in case this fucking idiot came by. But it just doesn’t feel right, now. Doesn't feel right to leap over the counter and stab him in the neck with a fork. Though you've imagined it, and you still actively are.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking around the venue. “But we’re at this beautiful wedding, and Vinnie and Mira don’t deserve to have their reception ruined by us causing a scene.” You gesture to the air between you, almost comical.

He shrugs, “Better than Mikey, in that regard, then.” You know what he’s referring to, despite not being there.

You nod, smiling real big now, really baring your teeth, now. “His fuckin’ house, Lee.”

“I could have your ass fired, y’know.” “So do it.”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m not getting paid for this. Please, get me fired. Snitch to Uncle J, c’mon, fire me. I’m delighted to get cut. Do it.”

After what feels like eons of a silent stare down, Uncle Lee throws a fake punch. Carmen’s the only one that flinches, immediately rearing his own fist back, stopping short when Lee does.

You’re still just coy, elbows on the counter. Lee scoffs, “Cokehead.” Of course.

“Yessir.” You just lightly shake your head, standing up straight again, smiling, amused, delighted, even. “That’s me. That’s who I am.” It’s not, but there’s no point in arguing with him— Especially when you agreeing just seems to piss him off more.

You’ve given Lee nothing to work with, to insult you, so it takes him a moment to generate something. “You’re—”

You don’t let him get it out, putting a hand up for him to give it a rest. “Lee, I’m not startin’ a scene, it’s a gorgeous wedding.”

“Oh, how grown of you—” “But, if you wanna have a scene, just wait in the parking lot.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think—” “I do. I do think, Lee.”

You lean forward, again, shrugging, speaking nonchalant, speaking with your hands, casually. “I wanna make it so clear, for you, too. I’m not gonna crack my knuckles, not gonna make some empty threats, not gonna scream in your face— I’m not gonna tell you I’m gonna kill you or anything like that. Because obviously, I wouldn’t do that.”

You nod, slowly, methodically, clearly. “What I am gonna say, is that I have been a bartender on and off since I was twenty-one. I was an E-M-T, for three years— All in our beautiful city of Chicago, Illinois. The sheer volume of geriatric white guys I have had to pull to the concrete in a full nelson in both professions— Insurmountable, Lee. So again, to be, so fucking clear, Lee— If I see you outside, I’m taking you to the fucking pavement, and I’m not getting off.”

Uncle Lee’s got no comeback, for this, but he’d be dead in the ground before he just lets someone have the last word. This is why Uncle Jimmy is more successful. “Oh, I’m sure you fuckin’ would.”

You grin. God, those forks are tempting. Resist. You keep your hands busy by grabbing a maraschino cherry from it's jar behind your bar to snack on. “Enjoy your night, Lee.”

“You’re a real fuckin’ bi—” A fork flies over his shoulder, clattering behind him. Not from you, from Carmen.

He speaks for you. “Enjoy your night, Uncle Lee.”

It feels good to be backed. Carmen’s here, and he’s on your team. You tack on, waving goodbye to the fucker, “Back lot, Uncle Lee.”

Lee pivots his gaze to Carmen, he rolls his eyes, disappointed. “Alright, Donna.”

Carmen goes for another fork, you stop his hand, holding it there, for a second. The metal clatters behind the counter. Lee’s pleased enough with the provocation. Men like him don’t leave until they’ve won something in their heads. He leaves, on his way to the punch bowl, since he’s determined he’s not getting shit from the bar tonight. You and Carmen just watch him, like prey, making sure he leaves without looking back.

“You’ve got teeth.” Carmen’s first to speak, cleaning a glass, both of you looking straight ahead. You nod.

“I do.”

“You don’t bite much.”

You shrug. “Try not to.”

Carmen considers the fact that what he wants to say would mean sticking his foot in his mouth. He then considers the fact that nothing he could say now will ever be worse than what he said then. He keeps rubbing away at a perfectly shining glass.

“You didn’t bite me.”

“I didn’t.” You nod, and your body goes on autopilot, as you start making a drink no one’s ordered. Just need something to do. “I couldn’t.”

He doesn’t like that answer. “I deserved it.”

“I deserved it, too.” You’re not a big fan of your own answer, either. But you can’t say it’s not true. You deserved it. Just some failure leech trying to reattach yourself to people through merry good deeds, as if they’d add up to fucking anything—

“No, you didn’t.” He pivots to you, tone inarguable. He puts the glass down. It’s a lowball, you need a lowball, you grab it from him.

“Do you like cognac or vodka?” You ignore his words, but you look him in the eyes. You regret it.

He lets you get away with it, because he is absolutely not the one allowed to lead the conversation, here. He did enough bulldozing, before.

“I dunno, I don’t really drink much.” You squint, you’ve seen his apartment. He clarifies. “Other than wine n’ beer.”

You nod. You opt for cognac. He watches you, for a moment, before asking. “What’re you—”

You’re already finished, by this point, sliding the glass over to him. “Black lavender latte. Cognac n’ coffee liqueur. If it’s too strong, let me know, I can add more milk.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Is all he can think to say. He takes a sip. It’s far behind in his long list of regrets, but certainly one of them in the way he spoke to you, is that there’s a strong chance he will never have a mixologist as talented as you working at The Bear.

“Hmm.” You hum, not watching him drink it, because you won’t be able to handle either reaction— You won’t be able to handle disgust nor pleasure. You never want to look at Carmen again. He’s also all you want to see. This sucks. You suck. Carmen sucks.

“Thank you for the coffee earlier, too.” You’re overjoyed at the verbal confirmation he drank it.

“Figured you’d need one.”

“I did.” He thinks about it, and decides to take the bullet. “Needed yours.”

Your breath hitches, and he can’t tell whether or not that’s a good thing. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, as a meek and overly sweaty man comes up to your bar. There are bar stools at your counter, though they’ve been tucked far under it to keep the flow of traffic moving. But the man points down to the stool, silently asking. You nod.

“You can sit, sir.”

He’s delighted. He sits. “Sorry, I’m not gonna sit long, I just uh— Just—” He turns around pointing to the Maid of Honour, who’s just gotten on the hot mic for her speech. “I uhm, it’s— Usually the bar is empty, when uh, when people are talking.”

“That they are.” You nod, smile soft. “Can I get anything for you, or d’you just wanna sit? No shame in that.”

“I— I, uh, if it’s not a bother— I was just wonderin’ if uhm— Totally fine, if it’s— If it is— Do uhm, do you— Do you do mocktails?”

Carmen watches you grow ten times softer, in demeanor. It’s wonderful, how you’re able to flip on a dime. It’s wonderful what you’re willing to give to people, when they deserve it. You nod. “Yeah, sir. What’s your drink?”

“Oh— I— Anything’s fine, really.” He plays with the loose strings on the cuff of his left sleeve.

You tilt your head, recognizing his nervousness. “If it’s not too personal, sir, are you…” You debate the best way to say it. “Taking twelve steps?”

He looks scared, initially, to be caught; but then he looks at your face, and he knows he has nothing to be worried about. He nods. “One— Two months, two weeks, one day.”

“That’s huge.”

He shrugs. “It’s a start.”

“A start is huge.” You emphasize, and he nods, because that’s inarguable. “What was your drink before? I can make a mocktail of that— Or maybe you’d prefer somethin’ total opposite?”

“Oh! Yeah, I uh, I liked uh, old-fashioneds, but you can’t really make those without whiskey—”

“Yeah, you can.” You’re already grabbing your shaker. “You just use barley tea. I can do that— If you want that.”

He thinks on it, for a second. Debates whether nostalgia is good or not. “Yeah, yeah I’d like that.”

While you work on it, the guy feels enough confidence, bestowed by you, to tell you about himself. “I liked sitting. That was the thing I liked about drinking. The sitting and the talking and the feeling good about it.”

“I hear that.” You watch the tea steep, nodding. “Reason why the phrase is ‘takes the edge off’.”

Carmen has to turn around. He’s listening intently, but he has to turn around. Again, he’s pretty good at hiding his tells, but you’re pretty good at reading them. And you’d be able to tell his flat expression is the equivalent of being absolutely fucking bug eyed on anyone else. You’re a bartender. You were a paramedic. You have seen so many people, on their worst day— Seen so many people like this guy, like his brother. You have taken care of so many addicts.

The number of times he said loser or junkie to your face, and the way that that was what you always fought back on. It will not stop replaying, in Carmen’s head. The way you think that wasn’t okay, but the way he spoke about you was. It’s all just nauseating. You’re so good to everyone but you. You defend everyone but you. Carmen's almost furious about this, though he doesn't feel he has the right to be. You should've treated him like Uncle Lee. He acted exactly like Uncle Lee. 

“It can make it easier, to be at the bar, for some people, I've found.” You continue, still making conversation with the man as you stir the steeped tea into the glass, over ice. “Makes you feel normal.” Forced sobriety is definitely in the top five, of the most ostracizing human experiences.

He nods, relieved to have someone. “Most people don’t get that.”

You nod, strain out the virgin old-fashioned, and push the glass to him across the counter. “Well, I get that.”

He takes a sip of the mocktail, it’s perfectly nostalgic in a way that doesn’t hurt. “Thank you.” He’s thanking you for a lot more than the drink. 

“A pleasure.” You nod. He stands up, tucking the stool back under the counter, as the speeches end. It won’t be long until the bar is crowded again, and he knows it’ll be too much, for him or you. You add. “Good luck with month three. It's a heavy one.”

“If you work it and you’re worth it.” He recites the line incorrectly on purpose, it’s an important one, but you both still laugh at it. Like an inside joke, practically. You give one quick dap, he puts a twenty in your tip jar, and walks off, with less sweat, and more spring in his step, this time. Good.

When he walks away, before guests start to stand, there’s a lull of silence. You don’t need to look at Carmen to know he has a million different thoughts, and a million more follow ups. 

“You have questions?”

“None of my business.” He sniffs, awkwardly. “Unless you want it to be.”

Why did he have to fucking say it like that. Why did he have to put the ball in your court. Carmen fucking sucks. Y’know what, no, turn it on his ass.

“Did you give the New York Exec my number?”

“No.” The reply is instant. He doesn’t get thrown by the topic change in the slightest. You were pretty sure you knew the answer, but the speed of it is still a little surprising. Like it wasn’t something that was ever up for debate.

“What’d you say to him, then?”

This is when he looks embarrassed, just slightly. This part was up for debate, seemingly. “We—”

“Everyone, please stay in your seats for just a moment, our wonderful catering crew will be coming around to serve you!” Says… Vinnie’s mom? Mira’s mom? They all kind of blend together. It’s not long after this, that Syd rolls by with Marcus and a cart of food. She’s starting with you, despite the fact that you’re not a guest. Sweetie.

“Salmon or chicken?”

“Just gimme both, we’ll split it.” You nod your head to Carmen. “Best of both worlds.”

And then, the game of eye contact conversation ensues. A game that Carmen nor Marcus can comprehend.

‘I asked you’ Syd glares.

‘You can’t just starve him out’ You deadpan.

‘Who said?’

“Syd.” You say aloud. She sighs, handing you both plates, mumbling ‘whatevers’, walking off to serve the actual guests. No time to bicker. You look to Marcus, worried. “Heard about the cake, how’s it goin?”

He shrugs but he’s smirking, proud and bad at hiding it, he hands you a paper plate with a little chocolate cupcake. The floral frosting job is simple, and you know if he had more time, you’d probably be looking at a full realistic rose, but it’s still beautiful. “You tell me. Taste test.”

“Lil sacrilege, to do dessert before dinner, but okay.” You grab a fork from your pile, digging in. “Oh fuck,” You have to laugh. “Marcus— You stress me the fuck out, how do you have time to make shit this good?”

It’s a built-in habit for you, to hand your fork to Carmen. He gives you a moment to realize or pull back. You should but you don’t. He takes it, thankful, and tries the cupcake for himself.

“S’fire, Chef.” He points the fork, emphatically. “‘Specially with what you had.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Marcus nods.

You tilt your head, curious, “Do you even have time to test, though? If this sucked you wouldn’t have time to remake the full cake anyways, would you?”

“No.” He answers bluntly, and you both snort. He adds, “Just wanted to make sure you got dessert, over here.” Just wanted to make sure you ate something.

“Marcus…” You pout, overcome by the sweetness of the sweets Chef. You’ve gotta return the favour. “Gin and juice still your go-to?”

“You tryna get me fucked up at work?”

You shrug, grinning. “Are you tryna get fucked up at work?”

He’s going to say yes, but then he pauses, and looks to his boss. Looks to Carmen. Ah, you don’t run his kitchen— Get that through your head. Of course, Marcus can’t just drink—

Carmen shrugs, smiling, “Are you tryna get fucked up at work, Chef?”

Marcus claps his hands, grinning. “Yessir!”

That makes you feel a little lighter. You nod. “Gin and juice, comin’ up.”

You pour out the pineapple juice— Marcus’ preferred juice, of course you remembered. And Marcus leans over the bar, to watch you stir in the gin, even if it’s just a stupid simple drink, the guy loves to learn.

He asks, “How much they payin’ you, tonight?”

You shake your head, “Tips. Nothin’ else.”

Carmen’s ears burn, at that, while he evenly divides and plates out the salmon and chicken plates so you both have a little of everything. If things were normal you could just eat off each other's plates.

Marcus tilts his head, just as surprised. “You in debt, too?”

“Just to Mikey.” You smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m doin’ this in exchange for Uncle J getting me out of work early, a couple weeks back.”

“That’s it?”

“I was in a rush.” You shrug, measuring out the simple syrup. “Got like thirty missed texts from Syd, I thought someone fuckin’ died, didn’t have time to bargain.”

“Wait—” Marcus cannot help but grin, nearly laughing, at the ridiculousness of it, at how bad you got fucked over, by your own permission. “You’re here because you… left work… to go deliver Nat’s baby?”

“Yessir.” Are you fucking serious? Carmen can’t help but stare at the side of your head, for just a few seconds, before going back down to the plates. You’re in this hellscape of a bar, three states from your home, because you were delivering his niece? You did that for them already, and promised yourself for this, in order to do that?

“You know me,” You hand Marcus his glass, and you shouldn’t make the joke, but you can’t help yourself. “Modern day Christ.”

Marcus stifles down his snort, turning his head away from Carmen, to look at the ground. You do the same. There is something painful, about it all, for everyone; but Carmen can’t say that pain isn’t deserved, on his end, so he takes it. You’re allowed to joke about it all you want, if that’s what it takes for you to feel lighter.

A timer goes off on Marcus’ phone. He takes a sip from his gin and juice, nodding in approval, “Oh, shit— Alright, cool times up—” He lifts the glass to you, you hurriedly get the point and grab a random empty cup to clink with him, cheers.

“I’ll be back.” He says. Doubtful, you think. But you nod and wave him off nonetheless.

“If T needs a drink, tell her to take five.” You haven’t seen her tonight, but you realize yourself, again, once you say this. Not your kitchen. “Uh— If that’s, that’s okay—”

“Tell Chef to take a break if she needs it, we haven’t seen her.” Says Carmen, beside you. We. Don’t read into it. He hates you, and you hate him, actually. Carmen sucks, and so do you.

Marcus nods, and makes his mad dash off as a tsunami of guests that have just gotten their plates decide now that they want a drink with their meal. Sonofabitch.

God, you need a break. It’s really hitting you, and your stomach. As full as everyone’s tried to keep you, you really need to just sit down and have your fucking plate. Working behind a bar is a nightmare on the feet and back— Your earrings feel heavy, and your bracelets feel like handcuffs. It’s just all too much, without a break. You need a nap and maybe a thirty-minute session of just staring at a wall.

But the tsunami.

Carmen watches your side profile, and thinking back in his head, the collage of memories forming your face— He’s never seen you genuinely fatigued before. He’s seen you in the middle of the night, he’s seen you caught off guard, seen you distressed— But you’ve never really been one to ask for a break. It’s always yes of course it’s done, with you. It’s your best and worst trait.

As the crowd closes in, and your face morphs into a smile, ready to serve, Carmen claps his hands together, calling out to the sea. “Ey, sorry everyone, we’re just gonna take a quick thirty, alright? Union mandated.”

There is no such thing as a Bartender’s Union, you and Carmen very well know that. You’re about to call it off and say it’s fine before someone can throw an empty glass at your head or something, but instead, a scrawny but wide built, deeply New York Italian man, at the front of the crowd nods.

And as he nods, the crowd groans. He looks deeply offended by this. He turns to his fellow guests. “Where do y’all get off? We fought for those thirty-minute breaks, you fucks!” This quiets them pretty quickly. “We can live with the fuckin’ punch bowl for thirty minutes, c’mon.”

Carmen gets close enough to whisper to you, but far enough that it’s still not personal. Far enough that he still hates you. “Most of the family does or did service work. Say ‘union mandated’ and you can do anythin’”

You smile, watching the crowd dissipate, you crack a joke, because that’s probably what you’re supposed to do. “Union mandated… Murder?”

“Revolt, y’mean?” “Is that an offer?” “I’d ride for you.”

It’s supposed to be light and fun, but you can’t stop yourself, you can’t play the part and it comes out. “Would you?”

That one hurts. It all hurts, but that one really gets Carmen. That you’d have genuine reason to have pause about his dedication to you. Not your fault, his.

You grab your plate from his side of the counter, embarrassed by your instinctual prod. “Sorry.”

He’s not embarrassed by his. “Stop apologizing.”

There’s a heavy silence, before Carmen adds, “I’m supposed to be fuckin’ apologizing.”

There are no more interruptions. Fak isn’t going to come by, patrons are leaving you be, the staff is either helping Marcus or serving food. There is nothing left, to interrupt you two. This is going to happen. Christ, why does Never Let Me Down Again have to be playing right now? That’s not a fucking wedding song. This is too dramatic and simultaneously awkward and clunky and bad. There is no somethings left for you to do. There is nothing left to do, but talk. Nothing left to do but escape the void, ideally together. Please let it be together. You hate to admit it, but you want it to be together.

There is no good place to sit. So, you pick up your plate, and one of the many forks from your pile. With a sigh, you crouch down, and slide yourself underneath the counter, sitting with your legs folded, so Carmen can join you. You nod to him, to let him know that he can in fact join you.

He does. You take a few bites, in silence, before he breaks it.

“I didn’t mean a fuckin’ word.”

“It’s okay if you did.” You can’t look up from your plate. You deserved it.

He says your name, with a severity, to it. “—I didn’t mean a fucking word.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“I—” Despite rehearsing what he wanted to say, and having ample stage to say it, he does not know how to say any of it, anymore. “I was like, like, jealous? But not in the— Not in the normal way.”

“Normal way?”

“Like, I didn’t— Well I did— But I like—” He puts his fork down, “I saw you as competition.”

You don’t know what to say, and so he keeps going. “I saw you like… Like being so perfect at everything, and being so… Being so what everyone needed, and you being there, and and— I felt so… the way you can just do that— Like— Like you can just be you and it just works. And I just fucking can’t.”

A talent you share with his brother. A talent Carmen envied in Mikey, and thus, envies in you.

“And then I got so… weird about that thought. Like you being you is— You’re for everyone. And I got this idea in my head that…” He cringes, trying to find better wording in his head for it, and he can’t. “That you were for me.”

“But you’re not for me—” “Ouch.” “—Not what I meant.”

He thanks you, internally, for being willing to add levity, right now. “I lo— I like you, so much. And I don’t want you to change. If you were like…” He half gestures to himself, which you’re not a big fan of the deprecation, but you let it slide. “Cold, and not for anyone, you wouldn’t be… you.”

Carmen realized as much, watching you tonight. Watching you interact with full strangers to long time friends. If you were callus, you wouldn’t be you. If you didn’t love his family as much as he did, he wouldn’t have attached himself to you, so quickly. He loves the way that you love. The way that you can’t turn it off. It’s not that Carmen isn’t special. It’s that you are so fucking special. He’s fucking stupid for not connecting those dots, earlier.

He picks up his fork again, needing to do something with his hands. Your brows remain furrowed, as you try to walk back how he spiraled from what and where. 

“So, you just wanted to take me down a peg?”

He shakes his head. “It— I— With Mikey, I— I saw some shit that made me think that I was just… fillin’ a gap, or you were just being so good to me out of like… Guilt.” He chews down on his salmon. “And I couldn’t find your fuckin’ invoice, so I just kept drilling into my head that I was just… Charity.”

“You’re not charity.” You’re quick to refute.

“You didn’t fail Mikey.” So is he.

Oh Christ. You nod, but you don’t believe it. “You weren’t wrong to say it.” You have to put your plate down. “I— I don’t see you like I saw Mikey, at all. But I do…” You trail off, just looking at him has you tearing up.

He leaves home so early. He comes home so late. He looks so tired. Gaunt. Has he been eating? Did he light his oven on fire again? Remember how he looked in the freezer. Remember how Mikey looked in the freezer? Remember how they are so so different. They are so different but you still can’t stop connecting every fragment and taking it as a sign and worrying so fucking much, so fucking paranoid—

“Do what?” He swallows his last bite of chicken, and you can’t stop looking at him and fuck you just can’t hold it back, this time. You were doing so good about this. This isn’t even the point of the conversation— Well, kind of. Just breathe.

As your eyes begin to water, he sets his plate aside on the floor, reaching out immediately, worried, immediately. He pauses, hand floating in the air. Hesitating. “Fuck—Can I?”

Eyes barely open, you nod. He’s quick to take your plate from your hands, set it aside, and hug you there. It’s awkward, underneath a bar counter, half sitting, half crouching, grappling you. Carmen does not wish to be anywhere else.  

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and babble, unable to hold back a fear that’s been long standing, since the day you met him.

“Sometimes you remind me of Mikey so much and I get so scared and I just— Fuck, I just— Please don’t kill yourself, Carmen.” His arms wrap around just a bit tighter, as do yours. “I know that’s selfish—”

“It’s not.” Mumbled, to your neck. Skin to skin isn’t really the focal point, here, but there is a lurking part of his subconscious fearing that he will never be able to hug you like this, again. Never be your rock. “I won’t.”

It’s silent, for a minute. You believe him. He holds you there, and you believe him.

“Why did you think all that? That you were filler?” You pull back, just a bit, to look at his face. “Did I do something to make you feel like that?”

“No— God no. You’re—” He swallows. It feels stupid now, to even say how his fucking tantrum started, you had it so much worse, in your head. Why didn’t you tell him? “I was looking for your invoice, and—”

“I forgot the booths, by the way.” You recall the shoddy invoice you wrote. It’s a stupid time to interrupt, but as you slowly grow more comfortable, inches from his face, it feels like the time to be stupid. “And taxes. I owe you something more like eighteen-seventy.”

“You don’t owe me shit.”

“I’m paying back a Berzatto, somehow.”

“Where’d that money come from?”

“Where’d your tirade come from?”

He swallows again, getting back to the point. “I found a folder. Called ice chips, or something like that— But it wasn’t for ice. It was, for you.”

You look at him, genuinely perplexed for a second. Then you get it. And it makes a lot more sense, why Carmen knows you failed Mikey—Try as he might to deny it. “Oh… You found my Ice folder.”

“Fuck’s that mean?” You’re glad, honestly, that he’s never had a reason to learn what it means. It’s fair. You had to teach it to Mikey, too.

“Ice. I-C-E, Carmen. It’s an acronym.” You spell it out, slow. “In Case of Emergency. I-C-E.”

It knocks the wind out of him, immediately. He’s extra glad he’s holding onto you, because he’s starting to feel untethered. “What?”

You nod. It’s time to walk him through it. You have to tell him. “I made Mikey keep some sort of emergency stuff as a fail-safe, for when he forgot people wanted him alive.” When Carmen’s quiet, you continue. “I was in his work cabinet, I think Richie was in his bedside, you and Sug were in his wallet.”

His stomach lurches, at the idea of being the emergency his brother always had on him. “You knew he was suicidal?”

Who didn’t? You think, but don’t say, because that’s not fair. Mikey cut him out, how could he know?

“Everyone’s suicidal, when they’re trying to get sober.”

“What?”

“What?” You parrot back. It’s both your turns, to squint at the other, confused beyond belief now. How is he confused? You’re first to ask. “Carmen, what was in my ice folder?”

“Anniver— Oh my fucking God.” He unwraps himself from you, because he’s frankly too ashamed to touch you, realizing everything he misunderstood. “Oh, my fucking God.”

You let him go, though you don’t particularly want to. He’s probably realizing he’s hugging the enemy. 

“Carmen—?” “You didn’t fucking date Mikey.”

“What?!” You jump, your head hits the bottom of the base of the bar’s sink. “Fuck! Ow, no— What?!”

It’s a mess of limbs and emotions, as he grabs your head haphazardly, seeing if you’re hurt— It honestly hurts more, to be pulled around like this. “Are you o—” You don’t let him finish, grabbing at his wrists, ignoring your sore head.

“You thought I’d fuck your brother and then—What— try to fuckin’ get the whole set?” You’re cringing at the thought. This had just never come up in your mind. You would’ve set him straight, if it did. It was way worse in his head. Why didn’t he tell you? “I— Carmy, babydoll, are you fucking insane?”

You say nice pet names, when you’re perplexed. You’ve got a pattern of doing so. He also has no comeback for this, completely mum. You release his wrists. You add, again, aghast. “How old do you think I am?”

“Ah— As old as Syd?” “Correct.” “So, twenty-eight?”

“Turning, but yeah.” You nod, like a teacher walking him through a problem. “And how old was Mikey?”

“Forty something.” “Forty-three.” “No one remembers their brothers’ age—” “Sixteen years. Carmen.”

You press your hands over your eyes. “And listen, I get at a point age is just a number but I was twenty-five when I met him and he was already fucking forty— I grew up with Muppet Babies and he grew up with Muppets. Period end of sentence.”

You sigh. This situation isn’t funny at all, but you feel a load lighten off of you significantly. And also the situation is extremely funny. It’s hard to be mad at someone this thrown off. 

“It’s just— Listen, do I think Mikey’s hot? Absolutely—”

“Alright—” He cringes, putting a hand in the air, asking you to lay off this train of thought.

“Oh, what do you want me to say ‘your genetic make-up fucking sucks actually’? No, you have a hot family, Carmen.”

“Say this in any other way but this one.”

“I did not date your brother, Carmen.” You finalize, he breathes lighter. “Think about it for like more than two seconds. Richie would’ve fuckin’ run his mouth about it immediately— Would’ve said you’re getting sloppy seconds or call me a fuckin’ homie hopper—”

“I did think that he’d say that, yeah.”

“Well fuckin’ think harder on it, next time—” “Well, what about the joint bank account?”

The most romantic paperwork he’d ever seen. It makes you pause, and Carmen’s considers a universe where you’re just the most incredible pathological liar in existence. 

“I made him make it.” You finally say, saddened just thinking about the failsafe that didn’t fucking work. “I didn’t put any money in it.”

“Why’d you want it, then?” The idea of you dating his brother quiets in his head, now he just wants to listen.

“So I could keep track of his spending and withdrawals.” You pick up your fork and twirl it around, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Need something to do with your hands. “Mostly his withdrawals.”

Carmen thinks about it, trying to tie together the red strings in his head without asking you first. “So you could see if he was buying.”

“If he knew he was being watched, he was less inclined to deal.” You shrug and nod. “Plus I wanted him to get into the habit of keeping savings.”

“Lotta good that did.” Carmen can’t help but laugh, pitifully, at that. “Everythin’ got claimed, when he kicked it.”

You shake your head, you tuck your knees to your chest. “Not everything.”

He just looks at you, curious, waiting for you to explain. Mikey had so much credit card debt— Everything he had outside of fucking tomato cans was claimed. 

You shrug. “Not the accounts he wasn’t sole proprietor on.”

Joint bank account. It was partially your money, technically. It deferred to you. Carmen’s head just falls over, another painful realization of another thing you did, that he got completely wrong. You never gave Mikey a cent. You just gave him the protection of your name and credit score.

“Why’d you do all that, for him?”

Holy shit, he doesn’t know. Carmen doesn’t actually know you killed Mikey. You live in a world, still, where Carmen doesn’t completely rightfully blame you. You tap your fingers on your knees. Staring aimlessly. There is nothing else to do.

“Anyone ever tell you why I get called Chip?”

“I asked Richie. Said to ask you.” Carmen shakes his head, he’s a bit sick of himself, for being almost excited to get an answer about this. “Said it was personal.”

You squint and snort. “Since when does Richie give a fuck about personal?”

Carmen smiles, finally, and tucks his knees to his chest to mimic you. “Since me, I guess.”

“Good influence.” You smile, trying to distract from the nervousness, thrumming hard in your chest. Spit collects in your throat like it’s trying to choke you. “I uhm… Chippy is, uh, Mikey started calling me Chip or Chippy cause of uhm—”

You take a moment, one deep breath. A breath of air in the world before Carmen knows. A sanctimonious breath.

You pull at the long black rope chain on your neck, pulling it out from underneath your top, where it’s always been safely tucked. Not hidden necessarily, just always close to your chest. Close to your heart.

“It’s a joke, about— It’s like—”

Just do it, Chip. Let it rip.

“It’s—”

You hold out your fist for him to put his hand out and take it. Carmen gets the point and holds his palm out. You press the pendant into his hand. Holding your hand over it, for a moment, as if you could decide now that actually he shouldn’t be allowed to see this. Like there’s still an escape option, somehow.

You move your hand, you try to speak calmly, as he stares. And the text on the large round pendant stares back at him.

To Thine Own Self Be True.

“Sobriety chip.” Unity, Service, Recovery.

A proud and large 3 months, in the middle of the triangle, leers back at Carmen.

“I was— I was Mikey’s sponsor.”

Now y'all in my asks see why I was waiting, eh?

Ya caught on! Well, after thinking collectively, ya caught on. Some of you got it quick. Anyways, I shouldn't be talking about this like it's some gotcha, it's deeply painful.

A lot of hard confirmations! Fuck! This conversation was so hard to navigate, because I was like-- There's just so much for them to catch up on, and so they keep like moving forward and so I was like wait I have to go back and address this-- No. That's not how most real convos like this work, they just keep running forward, they can clarify later. Such a weird brain challenge. I was tweaking. I hope it's sensical to read? If it's not, dw, i'll walk into the sea about it.

Can you believe this chapter began with Syd/Chip/Richie? Absolutely bonkers. We started with getting ready in a hotel/taking a flight. We were so young, then. I've gotta go watch season 3, so don't send me spoilers, but please send me literally any and all thoughts about this chapter. I really fuckin-- Rah.

I'm happy with this chapter and I honestly think I will probably make a separate post sometime this week showing bits you might've missed-- So much of this was me harkening back to those first three chapters. I went back and reread them recently and I was like woah. I don't know how I did the thing where the writing style felt distant and slowly became close as they became close as characters, but I did feel like that was a thing. In the early chapters. Having to recreate that distant feeling here? Oh fuck. Brutalizing feeling.

Oh but on the more cute side, if you also see Tony as Desi, I was thinkin like a lehenga style blouse with all the work, and like, some black flared pants? and she's got big fuckin jhumkas, OF COURSE!!! OF COURSE BRO!!! But I just left it at semi-cultural so everyone could have fun, hehehe

I feel almost certain, someone's gonna be missing from this tag list, and for that, a thousand pardons, I am gonna put it in my notes app so I don't forget next time, mbmbmb, also added people that did not ask but you are so frequent that i feel like you're just forgetting to ask? idk if you wanna get taken off always just ask dw

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

anyways, if you wanna be added send me your thoughts/analysis/diagnosis at length + ask to be added and i will ! try! sometimes they get lost and i am sorry abt that but i do try!

Next Part

[madaqueue]

RECIPE FOR DISASTER — yuji itadori & ryomen sukuna x gn!reader

request | event masterlist | fluff : baking cookies

“no offense, yu, but literally what did you do?”

yuji pouts over the glass bowl, in it laying some combination of chocolate, sprinkles, and…goo.

“i don’t know! i swear i followed the recipe,” his lips curl into a frown, one that makes you giggle at the sight, like a puppy who didn’t get a treat he worked oh-so-hard for.

“he probably fucked it up by looking at it wrong.” your gaze shoots to sukuna, his legs idly kicking from where he’s perched atop the kitchen counter. reaching out to smack him for his indignance, he catches your wrist in the air. “and if you get flour on my shirt, you’ll be going in the dough next.”

with a grumble you pull back, instead offering yuji a comforting pat. “it’s okay, yu, it happens. maybe let’s just order something-”

“no!” you and sukuna freeze at the outburst, yuji’s cheeks turning pink. “no, we can do this, really! let’s just try one more time, please?”

and even though he rolls his eyes, sukuna mumbles a low “fine” as he hops down, black boots landing heavily on the hardwood floors. “but when this goes to shit, it’s your fault and you’re paying for our takeout.”

yuji’s smile grows impossibly wider as he sets the goo-bowl aside, already searching for another. rummaging through the cabinets, he sprawls ingredients across the table.

the three of you work in silence for a while: you, carefully measuring sugar and flour; yuji cracking the eggs; and sukuna off in the corner, mixing oil, butter, and vanilla. soft music plays from a speaker nearby, and for a moment it’s peaceful, until yuji’s voice breaks the silence:

“what the hell are you doing?”

“what am i doing?” sukuna challenges. “i’m doing what your stupid ass told me to do!”

over your shoulder, you turn to find the two of them bickering over their now-shared mixing bowl, holding a clumpy off-white mixture that looks distinctly non-edible.

“you didn’t mix it right, why does it look like that!” yuji exclaims.

“oh, so it’s my fault it’s wrong? you’re the one who doesn’t know how to crack a damn egg - there’s eggshells everywhere in here!”

“that’s not my fault, i swear there weren’t any like a second ago!”

you find sukuna’s gaze across the kitchen, mischief glimmering behind the crimson. “that’s not my problem, now is it, yuji?”

sliding yourself between them, you manage to catch a glimpse of their concoction, something that seems all too liquidy and solid for a cookie recipe.

“sukuna, what did you put in here?” you ask incredulously.

“i just did whatever he told me to - a quarter cup of oil, half a tablespoon of vanilla, and eight sticks of butter.”

you choke on your spit. “eight sticks of butter?”

“yep,” he smirks, crossing his arms. “that’s what yuji said.”

staring at the boy behind you, he smiles sheepishly. “that is what the recipe called for…”

grabbing the phone from him, you scroll through lengthy walls of text to find the culprit of this fiasco. at the very bottom of the page, the text glares back at you: “eight tablespoons of butter.”

“yuji.” you rub your eyes in disbelief. “eight tablespoons. that’s one stick of butter.”

“oh,” he shrinks, raising his shoulders apologetically. “oops.”

“told you it was your fault, you idiot-”

“and you,” you spin on your heel to face sukuna, finger pointed in accusation towards him. “you knew the recipe was wrong and you did it anyways!”

leaning forward, you smell the vanilla wafting off his skin. “i was just doing what i was told, sweetheart.”

shoving him away, your hand leaves a flour-white imprint on his black cotton t-shirt, one you’ll surely be forced to clean later. but he doesn’t get angry - instead, sukuna lets out the biggest, bellowing laugh, one that electrifies the air and shakes the cupboards. it’s a laugh that vibrates in your chest as you join in, ruffling yuji’s hair as he begins to giggle.

the absurdity and joy overtakes you; you laugh until your ribs hurt, and yuji smiles at you. “i’ll get the takeout menus,” he grins, and in the tiny kitchen, all you feel is warmth.

a/n: samara, my most beloved dear samara - i love you so much and i'm so happy to have met you :') thank you for loving our silly stupid boys with me, thank you for letting me scream and rant abt things to you, thank you for making this little online space one that i cherish so much <3 I LOVE YOUUUUU and i hope you enjoy this :33