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captainjamster · 3 months

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Price x Reader - Training and Punishment

Pairing(s): John Price x Reader Warnings: NSFW, blowjob, face-fucking, authority imbalance, choking, Y/N is used once, light dom/sub, reader is short and a bit of a brat, also not so subtle ghost/soap if you squint Wordcount: 6.4k Summary: Captain Price is a man that prides himself on his strong sense of justice and sensibility - so he knows that stupid feelings for his inferiors are the last thing he should be having. Yet thoughts of a new Second Lieutenant plague his mind after an off-hand comment, and when he sees the opportunity for an intimate scolding, he quickly finds it incredibly hard to walk the line between his desires and maintaining professionalism. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: I've been meaning to post this on Tumblr for a while, but I've been holding onto it so I can post it when I'm struggling to write/upload - aka right now :p This was the first COD fanfic I ever wrote and uploaded, and I think it's one of my most popular so I'm proud lol

Full fic is under the cut <3

John Price is a good man.

At least, he thinks that he is for the kind of man that the world has made Price to be.

But lately, devilish temptation has been weighing on his shoulders in an unfamiliar way.

"Good morning, Captain."

Your eyes glance over him in a flash that he hopes he doesn’t imagine as you settle in your chair. Price doesn't care for formal seating positions in these meetings, but as you take your seat just two across from his, he can't tell whether he appreciates that decision or not.

The scent of your shampoo and fresh soap tickles his nose and he takes a sharp breath in, lustful images flooding into his mind like they were just waiting for an excuse. But like the hardened, controlled man Price tells himself that he is, he's shaking away the thoughts before they can go any further.

"Good morning, Second Lieutenant."

For a second he isn't sure whether you appreciated his reflection of rank in his greeting, but as he sees the corners of your lips quirk, a delighted warmth builds in his stomach. Before he can find anything else to say, Ghost pushes through the doorway, nodding at Price. Price doesn't even have to raise an eyebrow before Ghost speaks gruffly. "Takin' a piss. Said he'd be quick."

The large man seats himself at the opposite side of the round table and to anyone else it would seem like a calculated move to make distance, but as you pour over your morning notes, Price notices how Ghost shifts his foot to push the chair next to him out in expectation.

The files are still warm in his folder as Price opens it, spreading out training schedules, operation plans, tactical maps and other notes to go over. Ghost's absence of a folder is displeasing to Price, but equally unsurprising. As he shifts through the folder and passes two pieces of paper to Ghost, he's grateful that at least Ghost gets his paperwork done, compared to another one of his Lieutenants.

Like that Lieutenant was summoned by Price's thought, Soap can be heard from the corridor before he even enters the room, trailing behind Gaz as he babbles about something. His demeanour is too bright for such an early morning start, but at least he looks much more awake than Gaz, who is nursing a steaming cup of coffee between his hands, strong enough for Price to smell immediately.

"Mornin' Cap'!"

"Captain."

Soap takes the pushed-out seat next to Ghost, and as Gaz follows suit, Price is relieved to see they've managed to bring their folders; despite how he cringes at the torn, dog-eared edges. Ghost hands Soap the second paper as Price slides another to Gaz across the table.

Two other second lieutenants make their way through the door. They move to sit next to you, finding companionship amongst the shared rank, though Price notices one falter as they observe your proximity to him. It was a brazen move to seat yourself so close to the captain. He likes your boldness, respectful but confident. As a couple others filter in and take their seats, Price begins the meeting. It's a standard monthly meeting, something Price has done so many times he doesn't even need to think, but today he feels nervous. It would make him a poor excuse for a captain if he let it slip him up, so he powers through the unrest in his stomach each time his eyes catch yours.

He tries to keep his eyes off you during the meeting, tearing his eyes away each time he glances at you. When you stand to speak, he almost feels relieved to have a reason to look at you while you address the table. Price doesn't know why he finds himself so distracted by you during the meeting, or why he wants there to be something behind the way your eyes linger on him.

When he dismisses the meeting, his shoulders release a tension he didn't know he was holding. Another effect of your presence, he thinks, and this realisation sparks something impulsive within him. He watches as everyone moves to the door, eyeing you lagging behind as you shuffle your notes, a pace behind your companions.

"(Y/N)."

Your name is out of his mouth before he realises it and you pause in your step, turning to look at him. "I..." Price falters, wracking his brain for something. "You spoke well in the meeting." He nods stiffly and manages a smile, kicking himself for speaking in the first place.

Confusion furrows your brow for a moment, but you look pleased as you smile, nodding back in thanks as you continue out the door. Price sinks back down into his chair, pulling a cigar and lighter from a pocket on his pants and sparking it. Off the field, he tries to limit himself to just a morning and afternoon smoke – not that he’s happy about it. He takes a long, slow drag as he eyes the "no smoking indoors" sign, neatly paired with the smoke detector that seems to be blinking at him disapprovingly. Next to fucking his inferior officer so hard they couldn't walk for days, smoking indoors seemed like a minor rule to break. ---------- It had started weeks ago, after a bitter comment he half-heard from some rookies in the common room after an exhausting session, designed during the previous monthly meeting and run under your command.

"- no way the Lieutenant worked for it; I'm telling you the bitch sucked someone off."

Their backs were turned to Price as they sat at the table, unaware he stood a distance behind them – seeing the captain occupying such spaces was rare, his work keeping him cooped in his office, and it was only checking the supplies that needed to be replenished that had brought him here.

"The Captain is too old to fuck with her, I'd bet Lieutenant McTavish. She serves under him anyway, yeah?"

The other rookie scoffed. "I bet she serves under him alright."

Price decided he’d heard enough and cleared his throat, turning around and stepping over. The soldiers bolted up, standing to attention.

There was no need for you to hear this, he mused, especially when he could handle it himself.

"Finished with training, boys?" They respond with a “yes sir” in unison, and Price saw the hope in their eyes that he missed their conversation.

"Not if you have breath to talk like that. Do it again, whole thing."

A cruel punishment when an office discussion would have served, motivated by the flush of anger he felt in the moment at the suggestion his officers would be so easily corrupted. But as he laid in bed that night, their words echoed through his mind. Sleeping with you? He could genuinely say he had never thought of that before; the battlefield keeps his mind hostage, no space for fleeting fantasies. He was a good captain and respected his inferiors, perhaps beyond what other captains would deem as wise. He wasn't going to fantasise about you because you were a human with breasts and a vagina.

But then he thinks about your first meeting with the team, remembers shaking your hand, the firm grip warming his palm as you beamed at him. Your hands were soft in his, barely weathered despite your time in the field. Soap was delighted at being the only Lieutenant assigned a Second Lieutenant that had to be transferred in, despite Price's insistence that it was a purely random decision to implement someone trained in new combat drills. You were equally as smile-y as the Scot behind you, and Price thought if your smile was any brighter it would hurt his eyes.

Your hands and that beautiful mouth. He wonders if all of you is soft, how your work has left you scarred, what else is hidden underneath that tight-fitting uniform and heavy gear. How it would feel to run his hand up your arm, pull him against you under the sheets, his fingers wet with your spit as your tongue runs over them, keeping those pretty eyes locked with his as he’s pushing right up against there –

He shoves his face against the pillow until his lungs ache for oxygen, only pulling back for a gulp of air when he feels the burning in his lower stomach dissipate. These were just silly thoughts the rookies planted in his mind, and his tired brain indulging in primal nonsense. There was nothing deeper, certainly nothing regarding you. You were a good recruit and he liked that; he’s just looking out for you, right?

I would’ve reprimanded any junior talking about their lieutenant that way – nothing more.

A small spark of rage reignites within him as he thinks of the comments, rolling himself onto his side with a huff. And as he falls asleep, the captain tried to ignore the quiet voice asking him whether he feels angry at the idea of his Lieutenants being tempted, or if it was the temptation being you. ---------- The next time he bumps into you is the evening a few days after the meeting, when dinner has finished, and most are retiring to their rooms. There's an unmanageable amount of folders in your arms as you hurry down the halls.

For a second he falters, dragging his step as his brain works to compute the next best option; does he wave? Pretend he doesn’t see you, lost in thought? Smile and hope you don’t want to stop for a conversation, busy with work?

It wasn't that he was hoping to avoid you, but your presence makes him feel stupid, unassertive as he fumbles uncharacteristically through sentences. The next morning after his encounter with the rookies, he burnt himself pouring water into his mug when you walked in, and soon Price realised he stumbled every time he noticed your presence. The latest meeting affirmed what Price had been trying to deny; not only did you stir something within him, the times you look at him make him hope you feel something back. Your eyes automatically flicker to him as each footstep brings you closer, a smile growing on your face when you recognise him, accompanied by a respectful nod. He could just nod back and keep on walking. Yet despite all his hesitancy, he finds himself to be the first one opening his mouth.

“Lose another bet with Soap?”

You let out a laugh this time, better than the small smile he got before and after the meeting. He can’t help the way that a smile tugs at his lips from just hearing the melody. The papers rustle as you readjust your slipping grip to stop and talk, and he prays that you don’t notice his lingering look at the way the folders pressed against your chest.

“Let me help you, soldier.”

From the apprehension that flashes across your face, he can predict your rejection before it leaves your mouth, cutting you off.

“You think a captain doesn’t do paperwork too? C’mon. You’ll save me from doing more when you drop those folders and lose something important; missing file reports are a bloody bastard to get done.”

To his relief, the smile returns and blooms into a grin.

“When you put it that way sir, I can’t refuse.”

You struggle to keep everything organised as you separate the piles, and Price instinctively swoops his arms underneath yours to catch any strays that might fall. The move pulls him closer to you, and he hates how he can feel his heart beating faster in his chest. Mumbling a thanks, you manage to divide the stack and hold out a half. Price grabs them, ignoring the way his fingers brush over yours as they hold the stack steady. The pile he takes is heavier than it looks, and he’s surprised you were carrying double the weight without more strain. They’re warm from your grip and he ignores the terribly childish thought about how this is some kind of indirect hug.

“Gettin’ in some extra weight training lugging this around, son. Got a strong set of arms on you.”

He needs to stop complimenting you during every goddamn interaction.

“Thank you sir, guess it’s assurance our training works well. It’s just to my office; you won’t have to carry them for long.”

He hums in approval, letting silence fall between you as he keeps a slow pace, listening to your footsteps fall in tandem. The hallways are empty, and a selfish part of him hopes they stay that way as he basks in your presence.

“It wasn’t a bet, by the way.”

“Sorry?”

“The paperwork, sir, it wasn’t a bet. It was actually really funny – we had some time to kill after training, and Lieutenant Riley and Lieutenant McTavish thought they would try and give me some lessons on hand-to-hand combat.”

“Based on your evaluation feedback, eh? Good lad, working for improvement.”

His approval seems to bring a warm flush to your cheeks that he can just catch in the poor barrack lighting, and suddenly he’s not sure he wants to stop complimenting you.

“Yes sir, thank you sir. L.T. McTavish promised me some lessons and it was convenient that Lieutenant Riley was there too.”

“What was so funny about training, then?”

He can see the door to your office come into view as you turn the corner, and his weary arms feel a little grateful it isn’t much further.

“Oh, it wasn’t the training, sir! They decided to show me some basic combat, and when we’d played around with that, we got to using prop guns as close combat weapons. After a while they started using the guns as weapons to fight each other, and then – “

Price frowns as you cut yourself off sharply, falling silent as the smile drops from your face. He raises a thick eyebrow at the break in speech, but your eyes are suddenly glued to your destination of the door with a feverish interest.

“And then?”

There’s a hesitant quiet before you respond, and Price thinks he can almost hear the gears in your brain turning.

“Lieutenant McTavish… thought it was not a good idea. Because it was irresponsible and could break the decoys or hurt someone.”

If the pause wasn’t suspicious enough, the (rather specific) answer most certainly was. Lieutenant McTavish? Thinking something is a bad idea? You come to a halt at the door, and he stops in turn, watching you.

“And that was funny?”

“Uh… Yes, sir.”

The door swings open as you turn the knob, stepping in and letting the folders fall on the desk with a sigh of relief. Price follows suit, letting the door fall closed behind him as he places his folders neatly next to the pile on the table before turning to you, crossing his arms and resting his hip against the desks’ edge. You stand next to him in front of the desk, eyes flickering between his intimidatingly relaxed stature and the closed door. Instinctively assessing the room and its exit points. Like prey.

“Can’t imagine McTavish would suddenly find such sensibility in the middle of fuckin’ around.”

The way your eyes look anywhere but his face would be amusing if he wasn’t slightly concerned about the state of his Lieutenants and the training equipment. Though, he assumes since Soap and Ghost thought they could get away with it by using you as their little lackey, nothing serious enough had happened to warrant any immediate action; he would confirm with his lieutenants later though, knowing their irritating tendency to shrug off anything but life-threatening injuries.

“You had to…” He watches you swallow as your eyes finally meet his. “You had to be there to get it, just... Funny in the moment kind of thing.”

“Right, right, ‘course. So, if I was to look through these folders…” He picks up one sitting on top just to make a point, watching your reaction. “… This extra paperwork wouldn’t happen to be accident report and equipment replacement forms, eh?”

Nothing comes from your lips as you part them to speak, and you settle for a nervous shake of your head. He notices the flexing of your arms as they rest behind your back, at an informal stance of attention; fiddling with your hands, he suspects, and the way he’s making you nervous sends a rush to his head. You were never arrogant in your responses, but sure and steady, and the sudden change in your demeanour was thrilling to him. Lying to others clearly escaped your many capabilities, and although he could just bust you right now, he doesn’t.

“And if I went to the infirmary logs, I wouldn’t find a muppet or two listed as treated at some point today? All prop guns will be neatly organised in their respective storage spots?”

There’s a pleading in your eyes as they meet his again, and Price knows he should stop tormenting you with this game. That this game is leading his mind to a dangerous place, and he doesn’t know how long he can maintain the boundaries of professionalism as you tremble in front of him. But he won’t be the first one to break, and something inside him can’t but enjoy the interaction, egging him on – so he lets you suffer before applying more pressure.

“You were asked a question, soldier.”

He watches you flounder for a few more seconds, stuttering and stumbling over the excuses racing through your mind. “I-I think I should start my work sir, thank you for helping me carry-“ As you reach out to take a folder from the top of the pile, he uncrosses his arms and moves in a flash to capture your hand against its surface, pinning it there.

“Sir?”

The silence is almost ringing in his ears as he takes a moment to watch you, caught into leaning closer towards him. If Price took not even a step closer, he’d be towering over you; any further and he could feel you pressed up against him.

“I think there’s something you’re not telling me. S’important to keep the Captain informed.”

Every muscle screams at him to give in, to pounce on you. To satisfy the urge to move he slides his arm between you to put the folder back on the table. He lets it fall from his grip before he forces it back to his side, goosebumps prickling where his arm brushes against your shirt. He doesn’t know what miracle is keeping his self-control hanging by a thread, but he’s listlessly thanking every lesson in self-restraint and patience he’s had. He can’t keep the gruffness out of his voice, scratchy as it rumbles out of him.

“Not bein’ entirely honest.”

His eyes flicker down to your lips, and the stutter in your breath tells him that he wasn’t as inconspicuous as he hoped. But you don’t pull away and your hand stays under his, warm, the shaking lulled beneath his steadying hand.

“Sir…”

He takes the step closer, keeping his hand atop of yours. You need to look up to keep eye contact with the captain, and he knows that this is the last time he’s ever going to get to be this intimate with you. Even as they rush by faster than he can keep up with, one stream of thought is loudest: he can’t be doing this. Price had seen this path before, dismissed soldiers from service who had followed it. Even if he did resign to the idea he liked you, it couldn’t go anywhere. Two soldiers couldn’t fraternise, let alone an inferior and their captain.

And it wouldn’t even matter; you were going to pull away. He was making you nervous, wishfully interpreting your fear as desire. Classic fuckin’ projection. This was going too far; a creepy, old officer taking advantage of a good, young soldier. He can’t make himself move, can’t retract his hand from yours, and he knows it’s a matter of time before you do it for him. He breathes in your scent, surprised he can even inhale and waits for you to move, wishing the moment wouldn’t end.

The world doesn’t feel real when you make the first, most unexpected move. You close the gap, body finally against his, and he knows that this is all a dream when your lips connect. But the way your hand cups his cheeks, rubs against the bristle of his beard feels so real, and the shock begins to subside as he kisses back tenderly, afraid the move will shatter whatever illusion he’s experiencing.

His heart wrenches as you’re pulling back too soon, missing your skin against his lips and cheek, but looking at your expression immediately tells him why. Something almost like shame stirs when he realises he’s been paying enough attention to you that reading your thoughts has become easier, but it’s not a challenge when they’re just an echo of his own; we shouldn’t do this, I shouldn’t have done that, we need to stop right now. But Price’s thread of self-control has snapped – it snapped the moment your lips met his – and he doesn’t care about regret or reservations anymore.

There’s only one thing that’s stopping him. He wants to be sure you want this, wants to know this isn’t a mistake.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t–“

“Will y’do it again?”

The question makes you look as stunned as he feels by the kiss, and the playing field suddenly feels a lot more level. Confidence surges back into him, and as words escape you once more, he has a better idea.

“Just tell me to stop.”

His empty hand snakes to your waist and pulls you back into him, letting you rest for a few moments as he waits for rejection. Nothing but a small huff escapes you at the collision, and Price has never moved faster in his life. When your lips meet again, he kisses you like every second breathing is a waste of time; passionate, breathless and hungry. Finally unpinning your hand from the folder, he moves it against his chest. It spurs you to life, fisting the material in a tight grip as your other hand makes itself home in his hair. Price feels himself twitch in anticipation for the moment that it’s guiding him between your legs, and the jolt keeps him grounded. He needs to take it slow, give you enough time to stop. This was already taking too much in his mind, and he was only stealing as much as you would give him. But the way you kiss him back is almost bruising, and the grip on his shirt wouldn’t let him step back if he tried. He breaks the kiss to press his mouth into your neck, and the way you whimper rips a groan from somewhere deep. It takes effort that makes his body hurt to not bite down as he leaves a trail of kisses, finding a place on your collarbone to suck at, until there’s the smallest mark fluorescing against your skin.

Straightening up lets him take a good look at you, flushed and out of breath from his ministrations. He wishes that he’d done this sooner, and an overwhelming urge to make up for lost time hits him so hard that he feels lightheaded. It’s delightfully easy for the captain to man-handle you, spinning you against the desk and nudging your thighs apart with a careful but firm knee. The hand that was in his hair clutches his shoulder for support, and he keeps his hand steady on your waist. But his knee doesn’t press up yet, keeping his distance.

“Y’know what happens to inferiors when they disobey their superiors, don’t you?”

The way your pupils dilate is exhilarating and he feels him twitch again, slowly pressing against the tightness of his pants. Whatever doubt that’s rooted in his brain is drowning underneath the hunger for you, but he refuses to take chances. He can feel the need rising in his stomach, and the fiendish desires that come with it. He wants you to know what you’re getting into – and maybe a small part of him is still in denial, craving reassurance. One last chance to back out.

“They get punished.”

Anything; the grip on his shirt slacking, a twitch backwards, a crease in your brow. But you just peer up at him with anticipation, unswayed by his conviction, jaw slightly agape as he watches the words sink in. He takes his hand from his chest where it encapsulates yours, bringing it to meld against the plush of your cheek, and the way your bottom lip catches under the thumb tracing it has his mind set on what’s coming next. You kiss the pad of his thumb, and as a small hiss slips from him, something sparkles in your eyes.

“Punished? I’m just doing paperwork, like I’m told, sir.”

Then he feels it; the roll of your hips, barely enough to brush your crotch against his thigh. His grip on your waist stiffens as he tries not to tremble. Your breath catches in your throat at the pressure, and he hopes it frightens you. So unaware of what he wants to do to you.

“Doing like you’re told?”

A stray piece of hair brushes against his hand and he pushes it behind your ear, meticulously using the move to drag his fingers down your neck until he can extend his digits, fitting your neck into the crook of his hand. Feeling you swallow underneath his grip is pushing him, and the way he throbs against the seam of his pants is fighting his urge to drag this moment out until he can commit it to memory.

“Funny. I didn’t tell your hips to move. Didn’t tell you to give me cheek.”

With his hand around your throat, you still give him that bratty attitude.

“Part of the service sir, free of charge.”

He has no question that you want this, the reality has sunk in, and it’s only a matter of how fast he can get you on your knees.

“Second Lieutenant, I think you’ve forgotten how this works.”

A gasp breaks from you as he tightens his grip, just enough to make breathing difficult.

“You report to my Lieutenants. My Lieutenants report to me. I am your Captain. You report to me, with honesty.” Price squeezes harder, completely restricting your airway, watching as your face reddens.

“I think you… need another lesson. Y’need a reminder of what your mouth is for, how you should be usin’ it. As Captain of this platoon, it’s my duty to reinforce punishment for misbehaviours.”

The hand around your throat falls to his side, and he lets go of your waist to pull your hand from his shirt, the fabric wrinkled and creased. It pains him to vacate his leg from the warm, plush thighs around it as he takes a step back, but he’s well aware that it’s going to be worth it.

“On your knees, solider.”

Without a word you push off the desk, sliding down the sturdy wood of the desk and to your knees, right at his feet. The lack of resilience is intoxicating, wrapping around his lungs and squeezing the air out of them. Without waiting, your hands are running up his thighs but before they can get to his zipper, he snatches them into a tight grip to press against your head.

“I don’t think so. No hands.”

The stare he fixes you is stern enough to keep you in place as he unzips his pants, just slightly tugging them down. His fingers slip further to his pocket, pulling out a cigar to hang in his teeth and an accompanying matchbox. A lifetime of smoking has the move perfected, and he doesn’t even need to watch, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he strikes the match and burns the cigar butt with a slow, deep inhale. Anticipation is doing his job teasing you, and he can see your thighs squeezing together; good, wearing yourself out for him. When you squirm on your heels, he exhales a plume of smoke, dropping the matchbox on the desk.

“See? Wasn’t that hard t’listen.”

The conflict in your mind is apparent; take the degradation or not. Heat rushes through his stomach at the way your jaw clenches, biting back whatever retort was on your tongue, and he thinks the attitude adjustment deserves a reward.

“Good pet, keepin’ your mouth closed. Maybe you won’t be too hard to teach.”

Price takes another long drag, taking the cigar between his fingers.

“Hands behind your back. Get started.”

“Of course, sir.”

He tries to open his mouth to reprimand your snark but instead a growl tears through him as your cheek rubs over the damp material at his tip, leaving it sticky and glistening when you pull back.

You don’t let him catch a breath, delicately grasping the band of his underwear between your teeth to begin tugging them down. The grip on his cigar is precarious and another drag steadies it as you pull down far enough for his cock to fall free, already tacky and wet from being pressed against him.

“Everythin’ out love, not just my cock.”

Teeth graze against his skin as you nip the band again and he hisses, fixing you with a stern glare. But the way his dick jumps at the pain betrays him, so he settles for another long drag, watching as you finally accomplish your goal. You let go of the band with a snap, the tight pressure of the elastic under his sack making his shaft throb; on purpose, he suspects. You sit back on your heels and take it in, almost admiring your work. He loves the way you look at him, studying his twitching and weeping cock, but Price wants to be in control of this moment. A hand tangles in your hair to attain a dominant grip, tugging your head to stay still exactly where he wants it.

The small noises of surprise are muffled as he pushes your face into the shaft, an upwards roll of his hips pressing his balls against your lips. It’s almost pornographic as each thrust of his hips drags his aching cock across your face, leaving your skin shimmering with trails of pre-cum. Your cheeks are soft and pliant as they smush against his cock, and the hot rush of air and wetness of your spit each time his cock glides over your lips is almost unbearable. A needy moan vibrates against his cock, the sensation eliciting one of his own. The idea of cumming from just rubbing against someone’s face sounds ludicrous, but as his muscles tense, he needs to pull away before he splatters across your pretty face and gasping lips. Your hair falls from his grasp as he clutches your jaw, gripping it with enough force to hurt, tilting your gaze towards his.

“Gonna tell me what my Lieutenants did?“

“They were…”

Satisfaction bubbles in his stomach as you look up at him, sticky, flushed and messy while you lick your lips. He wants you to give in, admit defeat and let him reward you.

“They gave me a close combat lesson and then cleaned down the room, sir.”

It’s so quiet he can hear each breath you take as the satisfaction is replaced with a fiery determination. He doesn’t react or respond, just watches as your eyes dart around his face, trying to gauge some level of reaction. Nothing gives as he rights himself up, dropping your jaw from his grip. The spark of his cigar is dying out, and the last embers glow as he takes a final puff.

“Y’had more than a fair chance, soldier.”

The cigar crunches as he fully extinguishes the expired butt on the desk, letting it fall with a thunk. With both hands free, he tenderly gathers your hair into a bunch, before yanking it back and pinning it against the desks’ surface. The back of your head hits the edge, and he’s satisfied at the yelp and indignant frown it draws from you.

“I’m gonna fuck this mouth ‘til you remember how to be a good soldier. At least work out the fuckin’ stress y’cause me.”

Keeping one hand to trap you against the desk, he wraps the other around his shaft. Spit gathers on his tongue before he opens his mouth, letting it fall down and splat onto his member, making a sticky noise as he rubs it along the length.

“Open up.”

You part your lips, hanging out your tongue and he can’t stop his eyes from rolling back when his cock finally enters your mouth. He knows this isn’t going to last long; Price is a man of drive over energy, stamina ebbing and flowing that’s compensated for by his meticulous touches, manipulative and focused on drawing out every pleasurable sensation he can create whether it’s with his cock or another tool. But in your office, after hours and pressed up against a desk isn’t the right place to bring you apart underneath him, and he has to settle with leaving you a taste only he can satiate.

The way you can’t do anything but let the captain work his hips is erotic, brows crinkled in desperation, eyes wet and pleading, helpless to do anything but speed up the process. It's a miracle he remembers how to speak as shallow jerks massage pre-cum across your tastebuds. In the same moment, he can feel your tongue press against him and his hips stutter.

“Bloody hell, darlin’. Use that fuckin’ tongue.”

Price thrusts further into your mouth, working his way in. You try to swallow around him, spit dribbling from your lips as you do your best to manage the intrusion, and he grunts at the suction it causes.

“Needy little love, eh?”

Another moan vibrates his cock stronger than before, and an animalistic growl is the last thing you hear before he forces the full length in. The way your throat tightens as you gag has his knees weak, and when his balls are flush with your chin, he takes a moment to regain his breath. A slick noise catches his attention, and he realises a hand is between your thighs, slipped under your panties and working away. He’s too close to draw the punishment out any longer, ignoring your absence of permission, and the fact that you’re getting off to being face-fucked is enough to reinvigorate the man.

“Can’t lie for shit, hm? Your body can’t either, just fuckin’ look at that. Playin’ with yourself as I use you.”

Every noise you make courses through him like electricity, and the degradation has you humming and whimpering. Picking up the pace again, lewd, watery plaps fill the air as he fucks your throat. Fluids trickle down his balls, droplets splashing onto your clothed chest with each slap against your chin. The deeper thrusts keep you gagging, stimulating tears that fall down your face, running the military-permitted mascara in black streaks as your eyes squeeze closed. The way you’re falling to pieces underneath him is exhilarating, better than any wet dream or weak fantasy he’s been entertaining himself with. His thrusts grow more erratic, both hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Look at me. Fucking – Look at me.”

Tears drip down your cheeks, nose buried against his pelvis as he feels your throat convulse around him. You blink rapidly up at him, trying to clear your eyes to meet his.

“Watch me while I fill your fuckin’ throat.”

When the words leave his lips, he can see your hand working faster and he feels heat rushing to his loins, thrilled at the idea of coming with you. He picks up the pace, each rough movement driving your head against the wood, and a faint voice in the back of his mind notes to grab Panadol after. The peak of his climax rapidly builds as praise falls from him between pants, telling you how "fuckin’ good" you look taking every bit of his cock.

As he throws his head back, a hand wrapping in your hair and driving his cock the deepest it can go, he prays the walls are thick enough to muffle the depraved grunts and groans he makes while emptying his balls. He feels your body spasm as your own orgasm rushes through you, the high-pitched vocalisations ringing around him as your hips gyrate into your palm and the other clutches at his pant leg. The adrenaline is rushing through him, feeling lightheaded but finally satiated. A hand unclenches from the desk and the other releases your hair, massaging your scalp almost apologetically. When he feels himself soften, he resigns to slowly pulling out, wishing he didn’t have to break the intimate connection. The cum you can’t swallow spills, leaking out and slowly seeping down your neck, onto your chest and shirt.

You look beautiful, face covered in liquids, dishevelled, and still recuperating from your orgasm. Affection overwhelms him and he crouches down, hooking his arms under yours to pull you up from your kneeling position, and sitting onto the desk. A small noise of discomfort makes him feel guilty and Price pushes between your thighs, tentatively pulling you closer into him as a hand rests against your back. The other covers your knee, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the pressure marks. He feels relieved when you melt into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your head to his chest. The room is peaceful, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, and he rests his chin against the top of your head. Although logic returns to him and rationality begins compiling the consequences of his disobedience, he can’t find himself to care, breathing in that same shampoo smell. He hopes next time – will there be a next time? – he can shower with you, surrounded by your scent. As he loses himself to thoughts of possibilities, a small voice breaks him away.

“It was only a decoy pistol, sir.”

It takes a moment to comprehend what you mean, but the realisation snatches a snort from him.

“... And two SA80s.”

Suddenly, the situation is a little less funny, but he settles on the idea it could have been worse.

“… They ripped a mat open and Ghost had a concussion.”

Of course. He closes his eyes, mentally cursing the two idiots and the additional work they’ve added to his already bursting schedule. But he feels your shoulders shake with laughter, and he can’t keep a smile from his own face. While he’d never tell the two men, they could’ve burnt down the barracks and Price wouldn’t care; as long as it led to right here, with you in his arms.

#price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #captain john price x you #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #jams fics #jams writings

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mookymilksims · 1 month

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ULTIMATE Realistic Money overhaul | Roleplay Guide | The sims 3

TYSM for 600+ subscribers on Youtube!

youtube

Introduction:

Hello everyone and welcome back to my channel! In today's video I'm going to show you how to overhaul the sims 3 economy, how to have complete control over your billing system, and how to have a more realistic money exchange mechanic! We will also be exploring how to go about a much more realistic renting/mortgage system. This guide has been a long time coming, it's very simple and beginner friendly, but to find all the mods it would take to set this up would be a pain for anyone trying to revamp their sims economy. I've playtested this mod setup for a couple of years, and I can never go back to the original EA economy and billing system. All of these mods work with each other in a synergy circle, they compliment, play off of, and enhance one another. All links will be included in my tumblr guide, and the comment leading to my tumblr guide will be pinned in the comments below. I recommend following alongside the guide and the video, especially if you do not speak english, so you can translate the guide to your native language, while still being able to follow along the video! If I am talking too slowly for you I highly recommend everyone to increase the video speed to x2, and slow it down at certain parts you need extra focus on. Don't worry, I won't be offended at all by this, I do it myself for tutorial videos.

First - Overhaul the sims economy.

No bills

First we need to get rid of the EA billing system. This is because we are going to add new mods that introduce much more realistic billing and rental mechanics. This also eliminates some core issues with the EA billing system. Such as having a large piece of land, but a tiny house, and your bills being upwards of 40k every couple of days. Utilities not being calculated properly. And being billed more because of your more expensive items on your lot. Since we are also overhauling the sims economy, the original EA calculations wouldn't make any sense anymore.

EVM Career Wages

This mod adds a much more realistic financial wage system. Since we have now removed EA bills, our sims wages need to be able to reflect the more realistic economy we are going for. Gone are the days of every Sim earning a fortune with a mere $45 per hour entry-level job. This mod adjusts the wages across all career levels to align with real-world standards, creating a more immersive gameplay experience.

With EVM Career Wages, climbing the career ladder feels genuinely rewarding as higher pay accompanies each promotion. This encourages players to strive for advancement and invest in their Sims' professional growth. Additionally, when paired with the UC mod, promotions become more challenging to attain, placing greater emphasis on the player's decisions and strategic gameplay.

Camo fairer priced groceries and books

Camo tweaked goods

Revamped Economy Essentials:

With Camo's Fairer Priced Groceries and Books alongside Camo's Tweaked Goods, the Sims 3 economy undergoes a significant transformation. These combined mods slash the prices of commonly purchased items, bringing a newfound sense of realism to the game. No longer will a single egg set you back $11; now, it's a mere $2, making grocery shopping a more authentic experience. The same principle applies to book prices, ensuring that essential items are now more affordable for Sims across the board.

This overhaul becomes even more impactful when paired with the Savvier Seller mod, which ensures that prices are not only reasonable for your household but also for the entire neighborhood. This adds a more balanced and lifelike economy, where every Sim can afford the necessities without breaking the bank.

taxi charge

simsmathew subway charger

Realistic Transportation Fees:

Combining the Taxi Charge and Simsmathew Subway Charger mods introduces a new level of realism to transportation in The Sims 3. Each time your Sims opt for a taxi ride or subway journey, they'll incur a small fee. This adds a layer of financial consideration, prompting players to rethink their Sims' commuting habits.

Immersive roleplaying opportunities emerge as players strategize the best way to navigate their Sims from point A to point B. Whether it's opting for eco-friendly methods like walking or biking, or planning a journey that involves a mix of walking and subway rides, every choice impacts your Sims' budget and experience.

This deeper level of engagement allows players to connect with their Sims on a more personal level, experiencing the journey alongside them and enjoying the rich scenery and interactions along the way. Now you'll be pushed to experience y

Ani tax collector

New Billing System:

The tax collector mod essentially allows you to create your own billing and taxing system. This mod introduces a scripted computer interface with customizable settings, allowing players to seamlessly implement various taxes and fees. From water and electricity bills to health insurance premiums and car payments, Sims will autonomously be directed to settle these financial obligations once the tax settings are activated.

For an added layer of realism and roleplay, consider situating these computers at opened rabbithole like the city hall. This not only streamlines your Sim's outing tasks but also enriches the gameplay experience, allowing players to engage in more dynamic and immersive storytelling.

I'm going to go in game and show you how I achieve this effect for a very quick and easy tutorial.

So because we turned off the EA billing system, we need to create our own bills, to still simulate having to lose money through our gameplay. You can place these new tax computers on an opened city hall rh lot (if you don't care for aesthetic then I recommend placing these in the basement), or another community lot altogether. Please note that if you place these computers on a cityhall RH lot, and you enable UC mod on that lot, you should lock the doors leading to the tax computers. This is because with SonyaJu's UC version, the sims working on the lot will be pushed to use the computers which will result in all of your sims being sent to pay their taxes throughout the day. You can lock community doors using Nraas Go Here, or nona lock community doors mod as an alternative.

Now that we have set up our computers, you click the settings and rename the computer. Rename this to any bill you want to pay. Here I am setting up a, Water, Electric, Phone bill, Car note, and Car insurance computer. Now I can click on tax collector > settings > edit multiplier.

Water = 0.8

Electric = 0.4

Phone - 0.2

Car note = 0.5

Car insurance = 0.6

these multipliers automatically calculate what you currently have available in your sims household funds, and deducts the "tax" based off of the multiplier. This adds a more logical calculations to what each individual household could actually afford, without being too overbearing on your funds loss. This make a much more realistic and immersive billing system actually possible in the game, that fixes a lot of the issues with EA billing system, and matches the new sims economy we have created with this combination of mods.

Which leads me to my next part. I pay all of these bills monthly in my game. This adds a much more immersive and realistic experience, and I even have to keep an eye on my sims budget throughout the month, like in real life. Sometimes, I may have to sell things or find any way to make extra money to pay my new bills, or pick which bill I have to pay if I can't afford them all. I give myself consequences if I can't afford certain things. When I show you how to use the new renting system, I'll even roleplay getting evicted as a consequence if I can't afford my rent.

Enhancement Miscellaneous Mods:

The collection of these next mods serve to either rectify the Sims economy hiccups or introduce a fresh layer of roleplay, prompting players to reassess their spending habits and EP career choices.

Some of these mods make purchasing certain items actually reusable like bubble bath products and painting supplies. While others make certain careers have higher payouts which makes the wages for that career make more sense and become more satisfying so you'd actually want to work at it. This also enhances rags-to-riches playthroughs, rendering them more intricate and gratifying.

For instance, with these mods combined, the necessity for pets to rely on manually refilled food bowls instead of random props elevates pet care to a level akin to caring for a toddler. This makes having a pet a lot more impactful in your household, as well as financially.

In general, all of these mods balance back out certain EA default settings, which slowly begins to push together a more and more realistic economy.

I will place the mods you want to add on the screen, and all the links will be provided in the tumblr guide.

speedo higher concert payouts

picnicbasketpricechange

bubble bath runs out

pet bowl needs food

Nona always more gigs 3 times money

wildflowernerf per value

Double money highchancs faster mooch skill

painting needs supplies

painting costs money

government benefits and service

This mod is tailored to amplify the immersive experience of playing as lower-income households in The Sims 3. This mod introduces a plethora of meticulously scripted game mechanics designed to add depth and realism to the struggles and triumphs of impoverished Sims.

One standout feature is the ability to establish child support payments, calculated with precision based on the target parent's income. This introduces a compelling dynamic for players who wish to roleplay scenarios involving relationships with wealthier partners, where child support checks become a lifeline for sustaining the family's livelihood, as an example.

Furthermore, Sims can now apply for various forms of assistance such as health insurance and Electronic Benefit Transfer (EBT), opening up new avenues for navigating the challenges of financial hardship within the game. These additions inject a newfound sense of complexity and realism into rags-to-riches playthroughs, providing players with additional gameplay mechanics to consider and explore. You'll find yourself embarking on a journey of resilience and resourcefulness as you guide your Sims through the highs and lows of economic adversity in the game.

If you are following my guide step by step consider applying these tweaks to the xml's.

As an added note, I no longer add a health insurance tax collector computer, as with MonocoDoll's new GA mod poorer sims can get affordable health care, and sims who do not qualify for this have a good job where I imagine the job offers it's own health insurance instead. So because of this new mod addition, this eliminates the need to set up health insurance payments for my households.

Second - Career's addon's

Gamefreak's check for work

job overhaul

lemonaise 50 jobs offer

These mods revolutionizes the Sims' job acquisition process, enhancing realism and depth. This also enhances the effectiveness of attending university. Without a degree, Sims may struggle to secure certain jobs and will always start at entry level.

The mod introduces a comprehensive interview and application process, typically lasting about an hour in-game, during which Sims disappear into the rabbit hole. Sims can attend resume building and interview classes to improve their chances of employment, mimicking real-life strategies. Uploading a resume, particularly a University Life degree, significantly boosts job prospects.

Maintaining cleanliness, hunger, and a positive mood is crucial as neglecting these factors decreases the likelihood of job offers. The "check for work" option allows Sims to scout for job openings beyond the replaced job hunting UI.

Lemonaise's 50 Jobs Offer expands job opportunities, reflecting the realistic scenario where obtaining desired employment may require starting elsewhere. Just as in real life, a degree does not guarantee the desired job immediately, necessitating patience and flexibility in career pursuits.

This mod combination adds layers of realism and challenges, making Sims' lives more expansive and rewarding. Achieving dream jobs becomes a testament to perseverance and hard work, enhancing the sense of accomplishment for players.

Ani's job board

Ani's Job Board introduces a WA-inspired board object that fills the gap left by missing opportunities in UC mod. With UC's scripted behaviors for work, some autonomous opportunities were removed. However, this mod remedies the situation by providing Sims with a platform to browse and undertake additional work and school opportunities. Now, players have the autonomy to choose whether to pursue these extra projects, adding depth and flexibility to their Sims' lives.

Nraas Careers

Nraas Careers is a mod that expands the possibilities for Sims by enabling custom careers and establishing a homeworld university. While the details of setting up a homeworld university can be explored in another video, this guide focuses on how this mod integrates custom career opportunities with UC. With Nraas Careers, players can seamlessly bind custom careers to EA careers, unlocking a wealth of new professional paths for their Sims within the game. What this means in basic terms, is that UC works by adding a number of objects sims use on a lot, to increase their work/school performance. If you are playing as a custom career, UC won't know which objects can increase that careers performance if the career hasn't been bonded to an EA career.

Sonja's UC

Sonja's UC is an enhanced iteration of Zerbu's UC mod, designed to optimize the original mod's scripting for improved performance and stability. While still a work in progress and subject to occasional issues, this update enhances the main features of the mod, resulting in faster and smoother gameplay. Sims now spend less time deliberating their actions, experience reduced lag before heading to work, and are not as rigidly constrained to complete tasks. Instead, they are encouraged to take breaks and socialize, mirroring real workplace dynamics.

Although ongoing testing is underway, I recommend trying out this version as it also introduces additional modded script objects to careers. Setting up the mod in-game is straightforward and can be easily demonstrated.

zoeoe flower arranging

knitting

pheobejaysims take sims to court

pheobejaysims betting

On the Screen, will be a selection of miscellaneous mods that enrich your gameplay experience by introducing custom playable careers and intricately scripted mechanics.

With these mods, you can immerse yourself in diverse professions such as modeling, flower arranging, or managing a home-based Etsy-style knitting business. Additionally, you have the opportunity to delve into the legal world as an attorney or explore the unique avenue of earning money through litigation against other Sims and establishments.

For those inclined towards risk and excitement, Phoebejaysims' Betting mod allows for a full-time gambling lifestyle, leveraging specific store objects to enhance the thrill of the game.

These mods significantly expand the scope of gameplay possibilities, offering players a plethora of new career paths and immersive money mechanics to explore and enjoy.

Third - Biggest gameplay changes and fixes

Bank mod

Otherwise known as the non-core global banking mod, this mod is a game-changer in how you manage money in The Sims. This mod allows you to establish a bank account for your Sims, complete with essential banking functionalities like deposits, withdrawals, and money transfers.

I'll guide you through setting up a new renting and mortgage system in-game, offering alternative perspectives on cash handling, including household funds versus bank account funds. Additionally, I'll show you how to separate all Sims' incomes and present an edited version where the bank account resembles a debit card in your Sims' inventory.

Let's dive into these transformative features that will revolutionize your Sims' financial management experience.

How to make a bank account.

Simply click on a computer, whether on your home lot or community lot. Navigate to online banking interaction > Open Account. $25 will be deducated automatically, and you will have a new bank account in your sims inventory.

How to create a landlord.

Simply select any sim you would like to be your new landlord. Using Nraas MC > Make Active, you can then open a bank account for the selected sim you've chosen to be your landlord.

How to pay rent.

Once the bank account has been sucessfully opened you can go back to your original active household. Then select the bank account in your sims inventory > Transfers, if you are friends with the landlord then select "Sims you know", if you are not friends with them then select "in your neighborhood". Navigate the list to find your new landlord, then send them your rent or mortgage for the month.

How to separate income.

Using this banking system I separate my sims money by having their bank account as their debit card and their household funds as their cash on hand. I typically, split up the funds reasonably between everyone's bank account in the household. This leaves $0 in the household funds. Once a sim is done with their work day, the exact amount of money they made for the day will go straight into your household funds. From there, I deposit that money into their bank account. It only takes a couple of seconds and is very simple.

As an added note, when sending the sims out and about in the world, I'll need the money from their account in the household funds so that they are able to spend money. So I quickly withdraw a random amount of money I think they will need for the outing, allowing them to actually buy what they want from the community lots. For extra immersion, consider adding a deco ATM machine, to simulate where your sims would be withdrawing their money from.

Just as promised, I told you how I would roleplay an eviction process, using this new renting system. If my sims cannot pay the rent, and they ask their landlord to an outing, if the landlord does not have a good time then I only get 1 sim month to leave the home or pay rent for both months. If the landlord does have a good time, then I imagine they allowed me to skip my rent payment for that month. If I still don't have rent money by the end of the month, I move my sim to a 10x10 empty lot somewhere in the world, and have my sim live out of a tent, or shady motel (set as a base camp), until I can afford to move into another home. If I choose to live in a motel, while the base camps are free to stay in, I create a custom role titled "Motel front desk", open that sim a bank account, and then pay them $100 weekly, while this is still a payment it is much cheaper than my sims rent that we couldn't afford, and still allows me to roleplay money being lost. If I don't have to be completely homeless then I won't, if I have $0, then I will.

nraas consigner

nraas register

Nraas Consigner and Nraas Register are essential mods that address the shortcomings of the register systems in the base game. Consigner enhances gameplay by introducing the option to make all items consignable, simulating a realistic thrift store or pawn shop experience. Meanwhile, Register adds extra checks to ensure Sims are correctly assigned, along with providing additional population controls beyond the capabilities of Story Progression. Whether or not you utilize other mods, these fixes are indispensable for enhancing your gameplay experience.

Exciting Update Alert!

@olomaya on Tumblr is currently developing an innovative new renting system for the game, which promises to offer Simmers a wide array of options for money roleplaying. This upcoming system represents a significant evolution in gameplay mechanics, potentially replacing older systems and providing fresh opportunities for immersive financial management.

Stay tuned for a comprehensive guide on this mod, which will delve into its functionalities, compatibility considerations, and potential replacements for older mechanics. Until this mod is developed, playtested, and released, I'll be using this system that I have set up and just showed you guys in this video!

So this concludes everything that I wanted to show you guys! You now know how to set up a more realistic billing system. Renting/mortgage system. You've learned how to add and roleplay more complex money gaming mechanics. You've overhauled your wage system, as well as your cost of living economy in the world. And none of these are too overbearing, with just a little bit of set up, you'll have an ultimate realistic economy and money system in your sims 3 from now on! Thank you all for joining me, thank you for 600 subscribers, and thank you for your love and support! I'll see you all in the next video!

#guides #tutorials #roleplay #roleplayguides #roleplaytutorials #youtube #youtube video #Youtube

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fatehbaz · 2 months

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They’ve built a “Great Wheel” on the Seattle waterfront [...].

The small timber village became a military outpost in the Puget Sound War [...], [and] soon evolved into a trade gateway, with timber tailings and other industrial trash from Henry Yesler’s mill used to fill in the marshlands [...], atop which migrant laborers raised tents and shanties [...] now working to feed raw materials into the furnaces of the Second Industrial Revolution burning in the East. [...] The first nationwide strike ripped across the country’s railways in 1877, but in Seattle the unrest took on a grim character, as thousands of unemployed white workers rioted against their Chinese counterparts [...]. Meanwhile, [...] local elites rebuilt [...] downtown [...] from scratch, hosting the tallest building on the West Coast alongside other new constructs [fueled] with money gleaned from the supply chains linking eastern capital to Alaskan gold. [...] Today the city - again rebuilt [...] - is seen as one of the primary beneficiaries of the “Fifth” Industrial Revolution in information technology, outshone only by California’s Silicon Valley. [...] The digital was increasingly thought of as somehow "immaterial," sustained by intellectual labor more than physical toil [...].

Silicon Valley myths of [...] "immaterial" labor disguise a more gruesome dynamic in which growing segments of the global labor force are being deprived even of the basic brutality of the wage, instead forced out into growing rings of slums, prisons, and global wastelands. [...]

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Perched alongside a downtown business corridor [...], Seattle's Great Wheel seems to peer out over [...] [the] prophesied “cooperative commons,” an infotech metropolis abutting the beauty of an evergreen arcadia. But travel below Seattle’s cluster of infotech industries and the image appears much the same as that of a hundred years prior - a trade gateway, squeezing value from supply chains by selling transport and logistical support. The southern stretch of the metropolis bears little resemblance to the revitalized urban core of the city proper. Instead of the “cognitive labor” of Microsoft, it is defined instead by the cold calculation of companies like UPS, founded in Seattle when the city was one link in a colonial supply chain built first for timber, then Alaskan gold, then World War. [...]

In south Seattle, this logistics empire takes the form of faceless warehouses, food processing facilities, container trucks, rail yards, and industrial parks concentrated between two seaports, an international airport, three major interstates, and railroads traveling in all directions. Meanwhile, the poor have been priced out of the old inner city, moving southward [...]. [T]hey can be found staffing the airport and the rail yards, hauling cargo in and out of two the major seaports, loading boxes in warehouses [...]. And, beyond them, the shadow stretches out to Washington’s rural hinterlands where migrant laborers staff a new boom in agriculture and raw materials [...] - and further still into America’s long-depressed interior, where the Great Wheel meets its opposite: Memphis, the FedEx logistics city, watched over by a great black pyramid [the infamous Bass Pro Shop pyramid]. [...]

Every Seattle is capable of creating an eco-friendly, “cooperative commonwealth” tended by apps and algorithms only insofar as there is a Memphis that can provide human workers to sort the packages, a Shanghai to build the containers that carry them, and a Shenzhen to solder together the circuits of the machines that govern it all.

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All text above by: Phil A. Neel. "The Great Wheel". Brooklyn Rail. April 2015. Published online at: brooklynrail.org/2015/04/field-notes/the-great-wheel. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Presented here for commentary, teaching, personal use, criticism purposes.]

#ecology #multispecies #abolition #imperial #colonial #edwardian #temporality #hinterlands #tidalectics #archipelagic thinking #intimacies of four continents #caribbean #carceral geography

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webseotoolz · 1 year

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Link Price Calculator helps to check the price of your URL - Webseotoolz Visit: https://webseotoolz.com/link-price-calculator

#seo tools #online seo tools #free tools #free seo tools #webseotoolz #online tools #webseotools #seo toolz #online free tools #link price calculator

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bengaly · 2 months

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Comms open for may 2024

My laptop screen is being consumed by The Red so I'll be buying a huion kamvas to do a 2-in-1 solution to my art problems.

Heres some stuff I offer [bottom has link with more info and samples]

Minis for 50$ [good to be resized and used as icons]

Poptarts starting 90$

I do scenes like this and I calculate per hour spent. They're often Something around 400$-600$ with two characters, being lineless = less time spent so its cheaper. Thats also around the price for the lubricious stuff.

A quick scene alternative, I do full background speedpaints like those for 150$

I also do customs. Heres a couple random ones.

More samples, options, prices, info etc: xuucomms.carrd.co

More info and samples on the speedpaints: bengaly.art/timedcomms

If interested please contact me through email [email protected] , i have guidelines and info on my comms site, please check them before sending an email.

#comms #commissions #art comms open #artist comms #brart #brazilian artist #brazilian artists #latino artists #latine artists #open commissions #open comms

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carmyboobear · 2 months

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 5: detergent, thrifting, and cake

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Chapter Rating: T (11k)

ao3 link, ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

Chapter Summary: It’s his roommate’s birthday this week, and Carmy doesn’t find out until it’s a couple days away. Once he finds they’re unluckily spending their birthday alone, he makes it his mission to make their lonely day better. It’s the least he can do. Little does he know how much more he has to discover about them and about himself.

Tags: reader having trauma, carmy having trauma, toxic families, domesticity

A/N: It’s time… it’s time. I said last chapter was the longest…just kidding. THIS ONE is the longest, and it was hardest to write so far. The duo gets to have a lot of fun this chapter, though! arguably the most so far! A lot of domestic goodness and good food and shopping! Until… :)

also HUGE shoutout to @justaconsequence on tumblr for being my beta reader for this chapter! she was so kind and so helpful. this behemoth of a fic is too much for me to proofread on my own. anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy! can't wait to hear what y'all think!

Typically, by this time on Monday morning, Carmy's usually three cigarettes deep into paperwork, urgently (and poorly) calculating the sales the restaurant needs to make this week to stay afloat. Because even though it's a Sunday closing activity, he never seems to find the occasion to get around to it, and by 10 pm, he doesn't have the capacity to be crunching numbers.

Not that 8 am is much better. At least he's not dissecting the debt this morning—he's studying detergent prices.

“Why is this one, like, almost 20 dollars?” Carmy stops reading the price tags and glances over at his roommate, who's squinting at products on upper shelves. The lights are always too bright in this place. “And for such a small bottle…”

“Pre-mixed organic sulfate-free 100% vegan bleach,” Carmy reads dully.

“So stupid.” They shake their head. “Does grocery shopping ever depress you?”

“Usually,” he replies dryly. “Inflation is pretty depressing.”

“Don’t even get me started. Capitalism in general depresses me.”

“Hm, yeah. That too.” He sighs through his nose and tries to refocus. He's having a hard time processing all the numbers and letters today. “You see any unscented detergent? Somethin’ mild?”

“Um…” They crane their neck up and down, and then they crouch on the ground. They pick up a white bottle. “How's this? It's like, 8 dollars. It's not name-brand, but…”

“You know I don't care.” He kneels with them, huddling in close. They smell faintly of a sweet, yet musky perfume. He reminds himself to focus on the detergent, not the way they smell (even if it's far more interesting). “Yeah, this looks good. Thank you.”

“For your vintage denim, right?” They stand up to put the detergent in their shopping cart, which is barely separated with his stuff vs. theirs. He doesn't understand why his face grows warm at their comment, but it does.

“Uh, yeah. It is.” If the blush shows on his face, they graciously don't comment. “Although I'll admit I don't get around to washing them as much as I should.”

“You're not supposed to wash jeans that often anyway, right?” They lean their elbows onto the rickety cart as they push it, and he ambles along next to them, matching the slow, relaxed pace of their walk.

“Yeah, but I really…” The implications are clear. They fail in suppressing a laugh, and it makes him smile. “And I’m supposed to hand wash them, so.”

“Oh, so what you're saying is that you never wash them,” they tease.

“That is not at all what I'm saying.” They make an unimpressed face. “I do laundry, it's just…”

“Not often,” they supply helpfully. He tries to come up with something, but he's got nothing. “It's okay, I understand.”

“I promise I wash my clothes,” he mumbles, wilting.

“I know.” There's that new smile he's grown to recognize more clearly. It's this mischievous one they get when they’re teasing him, and it's so cute he doesn't have any room in him to get even a little irritable. “I've seen you do laundry maybe once or twice.”

“Hey,” he says, warning, and they laugh and run ahead of him, the squeaky wheels of the cart giggling alongside them.

After the night he almost burned down their apartment, he had felt different. It was like a switch being flipped, light abruptly filling up a dark room, and he's been squinting, struggling to adjust. But as he walks with them today, grocery shopping lit by blinding white fluorescents, he finds that he can see them rather clearly.

The connection between the two of them is tangible, palpable. It's workable pasta dough that's been kneaded to uniformity. The dough is malleable, clean, and when he touches it, sticky, glutenous residue doesn't cover his palms. When he catches at them peeking over their shoulder to make sure he's still following them, he chases away the urge to pull them into his arms. He throws the desire into boiling water in hopes that enough pressure will change those feelings into something more palatable. He's not sure if it's working.

Something happened when he hugged them that Saturday night. He doesn't dare name what that “something” is, but it's rising from where it's sitting at the bottom of the pot, just about to hit the surface—

“Hey, I gotta get some stuff in this aisle.” Carmy snaps out of it and follows them as they veer the cart to the left. He raises his eyes to read the categories on the sign.

“You bakin’ somethin’?” They both move out of the way for an oncoming cart.

“Yeah, was thinking about it.” They halt to a stop in front of the boxed cake mix and step back to fully peruse the shelves. He stands next to them, and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye. “You’re not judging me for getting box mix, are you?”

“Not at all,” he answers honestly. “Food is always better when made from scratch, but box mix has its uses. Besides, I’m not a baker.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure you still make an insane cake.” Carmy’s aware he can’t make them unsee his flash of a smile, but he still shrugs. “Sure, stay humble.”

“I try. What’s the occasion?”

“Ah, nothing much. It’s just my birthday.”

“Oh, okay.”

…And he's about to move on, just as casually as it came, but then the processing finishes.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” They ask confusedly.

“Is it your birthday today?”

“No, um, it’s this Thursday.” He exhales in palpable relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hates at how worked up he sounds.

“Um…” Their face is twinged with guilt. “...There was never a good time to bring it up?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be getting upset.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I just feel like I should’ve known, I guess.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I never brought it up. Um…” Their hands are fiddling with the edges of their sleeves. “I just have complicated feelings about my birthday.”

“Ah, I see. I get that.” That, he can understand. “Is it all the gifts and stuff?”

“Kinda. It’s a part of it.” They lean down to grab a box of devil’s food cake, and that makes him remember that they’re in a grocery store. Not quite the best place for a personal conversation like this. They’re being vague, but he won’t press. Not right now.

“You shouldn’t be baking for yourself on your birthday,” Carmy mutters. They smile at that, but it’s different. It’s heavy with melancholy.

“It’s alright. I’m gonna be celebrating with my friends this weekend, just not on my actual birthday.” His conflicted expression persists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a day. It’ll be enough of a present to not have to go into work.”

“Put that back,” he blurts out. “I’ll make you a cake.”

“Don’t you work?” Their eyebrows are arched in surprise. “You really don’t—”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. I do work, yeah, but I’ll, I’ll get someone to cover me.” He’s never said those words before in his life, and now that they’re out, he can’t take them back. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to take them back. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” they reply quickly.

“Then let me do this. Please.” He has no idea where this courage is coming from. “I want to. I know I'm always working, but I really…” Their eyes are wide with wonder, yet watchful. It shouldn't make him falter, but it does. His heart stutters and whatever bravado briefly gripped him fades away. “I’m…probably being too pushy right now. Tell me to fuck off?”

“I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off for wanting to bake me a cake,” they laugh, easing his worries like they always do. “C’mon, Carm.”

“So, uh, is that a yes, or…?”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to ask you to take off of work for my birthday,” they start carefully, “but I wouldn’t object to it. So, yeah. It’s a yes.”

“Okay.” He can’t help his giddy smile. There's someone saying you look stupid like this, but he’s with them, and it makes everything else silent. “Okay, good.”

“You’re…being super sweet about all this.” He doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s the way they say it—but hearing that makes his neck go hot.

“I mean…friends do stuff like this, don’t they?”

“Only the good ones.” They beam beautifully at him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their affection, he thinks, but the feeling of their smile is so warm. He can’t resist soaking in it.

He's glad that lady luck blessed him just enough to stop their birthday from passing him by. He's been itching for an opportunity to repay them for all the bullshit they've had to take from him as of recent (although he knows if he brought it up, they would say it wasn't anything worth repaying). They deserve something good from him for once, not panic attacks and nightmares.

He just wishes he could figure out why they were going to spend their birthday alone. He knows them a lot better now, but there's still so much left shrouded. He wants to know them inside and out—he wants to learn what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, what makes them happy. He wants to know all of it in its entirety, to fill in the gaps in the puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for.

He has some of the pieces. He understands that their relationship with their family to his—distant, strained, and difficult. Unfortunately, that’s about it. He doesn’t know any of the specifics. It’s not like he’s talked to them about his family outside of the off-handed bitter remarks, just as they have, but he finds that this fact leaves him dissatisfied.

He just hopes that they'll let him in. He's not sure if they will, but…he's gonna try. He has to. He's sick of not trying.

. . . . .

“You want to take off?” Richie’s staring at Carmy like he’s grown a second head. They're taking a smoke break in the back. “I don’t know what sort of doppelganger bullshit this is, but if you’re trying to pretend to be Carmen, you’re doing a shit job.”

“Very funny, jackass,” Carmy mutters. “I’m being serious. This Thursday.”

“All day?” Carmy grimaces, but he nods. Richie shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Really fuckin’ weird.”

“I know I shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, but—”

“Cousin, no, that’s not at all what’s goin’ on here,” Richie interrupts, and Carmy’s at a loss for words. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“What?” Carmy squints at him. “Are you being serious?”

“‘Course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” Carmy decides not to comment on that. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you off this ship for just one fucking second?”

“As the owner of this place, you’ve tried way too many times,” he replies dryly.

“Uh, as the original co-owner of this place, you don’t listen to me enough.” Again, Carmy decides not to elaborate on that one. It’s not worth it. “Take the day off. I was running it fine before, and I’ll keep running it.”

“No, no, we’re not saying that, it was not fine,” Carmy starts, but Richie’s already flipping him off.

“Whatever, I already know, new fucking system and all that. Don’t get anxiety or whatever over it, that’s why you got Syd hustling shit your way, right?”

“Uh.” Carmy didn’t realize that Richie had even been paying attention to the new hierarchy in the restaurant, let alone respecting it in any capacity. “Yeah, she is.”

“Then it’s fine.” Richie blows smoke in his face, and Carmy swats it away with a glare. “It was fine when you came in an hour late today, wasn’t it?”

“You guys knew I wasn’t gonna come in until later,” Carmy argues, defensive (although he’s not sure if there’s actually anything to argue about).

“Exactly.” Richie sighs all of a sudden, a long one that sounds like it’s bone deep. “Carm. Let me be straight with you. You need to do this. Okay? No backing out of this one.”

“Why’re you sayin’ this? What are you sayin’?”

“It’s ‘cause of your roommate, right? This Thursday?”

“...Yeah.” Carmy pales. “How did you—?”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Richie says, grinning. “It was obvious.”

“No way. I didn’t say shit.”

“You didn’t need to.” Richie flicks the ash off his cigarette. “They’re changin’ you, man. We can all see it.”

“...” Carmy can’t deny that. He doesn't have time to ponder on that right now. “Is it really okay?”

“Yeah, you could stand to have an attitude adjustment.”

“I wasn’t talking about that, asshole. I was talking about Thursday.”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s completely fine.” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, solid in its grip. It makes Carmy’s eyes snap to him, mostly in confusion. “So what’s the occasion? Must be important.”

“It’s their birthday. I mean, I could just go home early that day, but—”

“Yo, if you’re gonna take off, don’t halfass it—”

“That’s not what I was gonna say. When I’m here, I can’t seem to find my way out. This place…it just has a way of trapping you in.” He doesn’t expect Richie to nod, but he does. “I know if I don’t take the whole day off, I’ll never get out of here in time. Not until it’s too late.”

For some reason, that makes Richie laugh.

“Yeah. That's it.” Richie shakes his head as smoke trails out of his mouth. “That’s just it, man. You have to make time for the things that’re important. Even the recitals where you have to listen to five year olds play twinkle twinkle little star 20 times. You can’t miss shit like this. Because once you miss it, it’s gone.”

“Rich.” Carmy wants to say something to make that haunted expression leave Richie's face, but he doesn't come up with anything in time.

“Don’t give me that look.” Richie’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from fucking shit up. They actually seem like a good person.”

“Y’think so?”

“I do. You?”

“Yeah.” Carmy doesn’t bother hiding his smile, even though he can already sense Richie’s teasing coming from a mile away. “They’re a really good friend.”

“Friend. Sure.” Richie snorts.

“Don’t push it,” and for some reason he adds, “they were gonna spend it alone.”

“Huh. Sociable guy like them spending it alone?”

“I know. I didn't ask. Maybe I should've.”

“Maybe. I dunno, cousin. Everyone's got their secrets. Especially the ones that try to act like they don't have any.”

“You're strangely full of wisdom today.”

“Fuck right off,” Richie responds in regular Richie fashion.

“I think they're like me. Like us.” Carmy's not sure why he's saying this on a Monday afternoon at work out of all times, but the truth bursts out of him beyond his will. Richie's expression shifts into something more solemn, something recognizable. “Y'know what I mean.”

“...Yeah.” Richie claps his hand on Carmy's back again. “Shitty parents club.”

As Carmy stands there in the back, feet sore and tobacco in the air, he sees his childhood in flashes. He's five years old again and is following Mike around with scuffed sneakers and untamed hair, although he supposes that unruliness never truly changed with time. There's warm sunlight filtering through green summer leaves. He hears his mother behind him, somewhere, but maybe he doesn't.

He thinks of home, of his bedroom, and it is cold. He has homework he’s failed to complete again. It's sitting on his desk, on top of all of the other shit he can't finish. There's screaming, and he's not listening.

He blinks. He’s 30, and he hasn’t talked to his mom since Michael died.

“Shitty parents club,” Carmy repeats hollowly.

. . . . .

When Thursday morning arrives, Carmy ends up greeting his roommate with flour in his hair and eggs sizzling on the pan.

“Um,” they say, just as Carmy goes “G'morning.” They both freeze, brief awkwardness circling between them before it dissipates with their breathless laugh.

“Good morning. I didn't think you'd actually take off,” they admit.

“I said I would,” he replies quietly, but it's not accusatory. How many times had he said he'd be home for dinner just for him to arrive when they're already asleep? He tries not to make empty promises anymore. Nonetheless, he understands their surprise. “Um, I'm almost done with breakfast. I didn't get to the coffee yet.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” They laugh. “That's the least I can do, with you doing all of this.” They sluggishly shuffle behind him to reach down into some kitchen cabinets. “It's a special day, so I'll even make us pour overs.”

“That's true. It is special.” He peeks over his shoulder, pausing from basting the eggs in brown butter to see them setting up on the kitchen island. They gently place the hourglass-shaped glass onto the counter with a light clink. He silently switches the button on for the electric gooseneck kettle to his right. “Am I allowed to wish you a happy birthday, or should I not?”

“Hm, I don't mind. Just don't overdo it, which I doubt you will.” They pull out a bag of coarse ground coffee and a filter. As soon as they open the bag, he can smell the sweet scent of the light roast floating towards him.

“Okay. Then, happy birthday,” he says as casually as he can.

“Thanks, Carmy.” He studies their expression, searching for annoyance in their content expression, but he doesn't find any. “That's not even really what I meant by today being special, though.”

“How else did you mean it?” The eggs are done. He reaches over the hot pan to cut the heat.

“Well, y'know. I dunno if we’ve ever had a full day off together.” They're carefully scooping grounds into the filter fitted on top of the glass, creating a small hill. “I think I managed to catch you coming home early on my off days sometimes, but never a full day.”

“Huh.” Carmy has to take a minute to think about that one. “Yeah, I don't know either. I think you're right.”

“Then, like I said. It's special.” They seal up the bag of coffee grounds, and then they frown. “Shit. I forgot to turn on the kettle. Can you—”

“Already did it,” he reports, pleased, and his sense of accomplishment only doubles at their sigh of relief.

“Thank god.” There's the familiar clicking sound of the kettle reaching the perfect temperature. “Just in time, too. Can you hand it to me?”

“Yes, chef,” he says, because it always makes them laugh. Today is no exception. He slides the metallic kettle over to them.

“So what delights did you whip up over there?” They ask. They begin pouring the almost boiling water over their coffee grounds in a slow circle, gradually inching towards the middle. “It smells amazing. I want the full break-down.”

“The full break-down, got it.” On two circular plates, he's carefully placing a fried egg, thick cut bacon, and a slice of toast with jam and butter. “Uh…it's nothin’ special, just stuff we had in the fridge. We've got a, uh, brown-butter fried egg with a little paprika, sage, pepper, salt…”

“Oh, just an egg made with liquid gold, no big deal,” they imitate.

“Cut it out,” he snips back, but he's smiling and they know it. “There's honestly not much to it. This thick-cut bacon was in the back, so I cooked the rest of it. And the toast is just brioche with salted honey butter and blueberry jam.”

“Carmy. C'mon. That's nothing special to you?”

“I mean.” It's not quite nothing, he thinks. “I can make nicer breakfasts, is all.”

“That's what you said when you made me garlic bread, and that fucking blew my mind.” They set the kettle down with a thunk. The glass is full of dark coffee. Prepped next to them is their favorite glass mug alongside Carmy's. He's not sure how they knew that it was his favorite, but he doesn't question it.

“I'm just letting you know that you should wait to be really impressed.”

“Too fucking late, man.” He's turned around and placed the two breakfast platters on the kitchen island, and they gawk openly at it. “Holy fuck.”

“It's ready,” he says, surprisingly meek. He can't comprehend why anxiety's hitting him now of all times. He's served acclaimed food critics, top-security government officials, and celebrities more times than he can count. Before that audience, he never faltered, but in front of his roommate in their crumpled pajamas, his heart stutters.

“Oh, wow…” They regard the food with undeserved softness. Like a punctured balloon, his anxiety immediately begins deflating. They're staring at the food like it's a painting in a museum. “You seriously didn't have to do all of this.”

“I know. I just wanted to.” He feels heat on the back of his neck. “Is…is that okay?”

“It's more than okay.” Suddenly, he notices their eyes are puffy, like they were crying. “Goddamnit, get over here.”

He only registers what's about to happen for one second before they're hugging him. Their palms are on his back, and the top of their head tucks under his chin perfectly. He makes a small, surprised noise.

“I, I'm glad you like it.” He links his arms around them, allows himself to rest his chin on their head. With their face turned to the side, their ear's pressed up against his chest, and he's instantly struck with the paranoia that they're gonna hear his rapid heartbeat.

“I haven't even taken a bite yet, and I love it.” They lean back then, arms still wrapped around him and head craned upwards to look at him. It's far too intimate for what they are, and Carmy hates how his heart beats even harder. “Thank you for doing all this. Seriously. I…”

“The breakfast's just a side thing, I'm, um, still baking you a cake.”

“What? You're doing this and a cake?”

“Um,” Carmy repeats intelligently.

“Carmy. Carmy, Carmy, Carmy.” Their words ooze affection, but surely he's just imagining it. Their hands are crawling up his back. “God, I could just ki—”

“There's the timer,” Carmy blurts out, because his phone's ringing and so are his ears. At the sound, they let him go, and he grabs two towels to retrieve the two circular cake pans from the oven. A toothpick poked through the middle comes out clean, so he sets them on a wire rack to cool.

He needs to focus on the cakes. That's the most important thing.

“Oh my god.” They lean in close to the cake and take a deep breath. “Is this—”

“Devil's food cake, yeah.” The heat searing his face is surely from opening the oven.

“You—how did you—” Their smile is luminous with joy. “You really pay attention to every little thing, don't you?”

“Sometimes. When it counts.” He fidgets awkwardly, nails picking at the sides of his fingers. “Wanna eat by the window, or…?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Can you bring the plates over? I'll have the coffee over in just a second.”

Carmy sets up at their little table first, placing the plates just right across from one another. The morning sun casts a cozy glow through their speckled window, streaking planes of light across the floor. He patiently waits and watches them pace from the fridge to the counter, splashing cream into their mugs. Through the transparent glass, he watches the white fizzle into the dark coffee, blending into a warm brown.

“Just a tiny spoon of sugar for you, right?” They peek over their shoulder, catching his stare, and he nods. He's also not quite sure how they know that, either. They've had coffee in the morning maybe a handful of times before.

He supposes they also pay attention sometimes, when it counts.

“Alright, here we go.” They bring a mug in each hand and set them delicately down on the table. He notes that his coffee is the perfect color. “Oh, thanks for waiting. You didn't have to.”

“I, I guess so, yeah. It's just, uh, you always wait for me, so…”

“That's—that's true.” An odd tension sets in their face, but they laugh it off, and it disappears. “I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

A part of him wants to ask further by what they meant by that, but they're already taking pictures of his food so dutifully. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he eats.

It's nice to have a solid breakfast for once. He had taken their advice from the other night and had been drinking milk with protein powder. It was nice not to feel like he was teetering the edge by lunch time, but truthfully, it was a bit unsavory. This breakfast platter is much more palatable. It also helps that his stomach pains aren't active today.

Time rolls by slowly this quiet morning, and Carmy recognizes the oddity of it immediately. It's clear to see when by this time, he's usually already done at least ten laps through the restaurant. An irritating signal in his brain is telling him that he needs to get up and do something, not sit around and eat, but for once, he doesn't want to listen.

A memory from roughly two weeks ago (or was it one week?) unearths all of sudden. He was up early, drinking shitty coffee and sinking into dissociation. Mornings were lonely, as he was usually the only one up, but not that day. His roommate came stumbling into the kitchen, awake from a restless night. They chatted before he had to head out, and he remembers wishing he had more time in the morning to spend with them.

He imagined a morning just like this one, with pajamas, food, and messy hair. He daydreamed about having all the time in the world, and he thought about getting to spend it all with them. Now he’s sitting in that moment he imagined, except that it’s real. They're across from him in their wrinkled pajamas and bedhead, contentedly mowing through their food. There's a smear of jam on the corner of their mouth. He takes a sip of his coffee, and it's perfect, just as they made it for him.

This amount of good should scare him, needs to scare him, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. He wants more than nightmares, cigarettes, and floating just above the budget. He wants this.

He tastes his coffee and reminds himself that he’s still here. The moment hasn’t passed him by.

“Is it good?” He asks quietly. It’s a rhetorical question, it always is, but he can’t help himself. He wants to hear it from them.

“So. Fucking. Good.” They have to finish chewing before they answer. “You always knock it out of the park. If this is the prelude, I don’t know if I can handle what’s next,” they say, gesturing towards the cooling cake.

“It won’t be ready for a while yet. You have time to prepare yourself.” That makes them smile. All according to plan. “Got anything in mind for today?”

“Nothing glamorous. I was just gonna go out for a little. Go thrifting, maybe watch a movie later. Smoke a joint.” They shrug. “Just my usual sort of thing.”

“Mm.” He dusts off crumbs from the toast off his fingers on his pants. “Sounds like a good time. You still wanna go?”

“I do, yeah.” They stare at him for a moment, as if processing his words. Or just him. “Do you…wanna tag along, or…?”

Whenever they ask him if he wants to spend time together (whether it’s grocery shopping, smoking, or watching a show), they usually offer it with an air of nonchalance. Carmy’s assumed it’s been out of politeness, restraining their expression as to not put any pressure onto him. That’s the person he’s used to, not this uneasy anxiety, someone afraid to ask him to spend time with them.

It reminds him of himself in every way.

“I’d love to tag along,” he answers easily, just as they’ve always done for him. “I’ve got the whole day off, after all.”

“Right. ‘Course.” He watches their little smile double in size. “I promise to not make you watch me try on clothes for too long.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I like thrifting, y’know.” And you, he thinks to himself.

“You do? Oh, of course—” They make a contemplative noise to themself. “Vintage denim. I always wondered how you managed to have so many pairs.”

“Once you know where to look, they’re pretty easy to find. I can help you find some, if you want.”

“I’d love that. I realized the other day that I don’t have any dark wash jeans, so—actually, the truth is that I do have a pair, but they’re so fucked up and old that I never wear them anymore. Anyway, I need new jeans. Think you could find some dark wash blue jeans for me?”

“If you’re willing to hit up more than one store, then definitely,” he replies, just a smidge cocky.

“I’m willing to hit up even two more stores.” He pretends to gasp, to which they nod confidently. “Yeah. That’s right. Maybe even three.”

“We won’t need three,” Carmy promises. “I’m better than that. Probably won’t even need two, but…” He shrugs. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”

“Okay, Mr. Confident over here,” they tease. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

They head out after they both clean the kitchen and freshen up. Carmy gets the flour out of his hair and rewets his hair to revive some of his curls. He silently thanks his past self for showering the night before. With the passage of the morning cold and the rising sun, the afternoon weather’s become brisk and pleasant. However, the weather’s barely a factor in how he’s dressing.

Is this too much? Is this not enough? He’s switching shirts and pants in the mirror like he’s about to go on a date. He knows he’s not, swears to himself that he’s not, but he’s put product in his hair and cologne on his wrists and temples. It’s not a date, but he can’t fucking decide what to wear.

He sucks it up and settles on a gray sweater, light wash blue jeans, and white sneakers. From under his collar and at the bottom of his sweater peeks out a brown button up. It’s probably too much, but this is his sixth outfit change. He’s fed up with it and himself.

After adjusting the gold chain that got hidden under his collar, he steps out.

He finds them already waiting by the door in this thick knit cardigan and fitted plaid pants that makes his heart stutter. When they hear him approaching, their head snaps up from their phone, and their skin sparkles with touches of makeup.

“You look really nice.” He has no idea how he let that slip, but he’s more shocked that he didn’t stutter once.

“Ah, th—thank you,” they stammer, fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. He’s not sure if it's their makeup or their skin that’s doing the blushing. It’s nice to see them being the one tripping over their words for once. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Oh. Um.” Handsome? It echoes in his head. He instantly feels self conscious. So much for being the more suave one for once. “Thanks, uh…I just didn’t wanna wear my work clothes,” he lies in an attempt to ease his embarrassment.

“I gotcha.” He’s glad they don’t challenge him on it. “Shall we head out?”

“Yeah. Where we headed first?”

They take the metro to their personal favorite shop a little up north. The metro’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but the crowd forces the two of them to be huddled next to each other. They’re both standing close to a pole by the window, each with one hand wrapped around the metal.

As passengers come and go, they step closer to him to move out of the way. Eventually it just gets to a point where they’re standing nearly pressed up against his chest. He tries not to dwell on how that makes him feel, but he can smell the fragrance they put on, and it’s very distracting.

Luckily, the ride is short. Any longer on the train, he might’ve put an arm around their shoulder, god forbid.

“If we can’t find what I’m looking for here, maybe you can show me one of your favorite spots to go thrifting,” they say as they enter the thrift store. The interior is decorated, clean, and lovely, and unlike the metro, it’s not packed to the brim with people. It smells faintly of incense, and there’s local art framed all over the walls for sale. It oozes warmth and excitement, much like them.

“There’s a ton of shit here, so maybe we won’t need to after all.” He finds himself intaking everything at once, eyes flickering from sign to sign. “I’ve never been here before. This is really cool.”

“It’s my favorite place to find new clothes.” They trail down the racks, finger flitting between clothes. “I hope you can find something you like here, too.”

“I’m sure I will.” He’s already walking to their denim section and immediately spots some contenders. “I think I already have.”

He’s not sure if they mean to spend hours in there, but he certainly does. There’s more than just clothes to look at, although that’s what takes up most of his time. There’s dishes, furniture, cds, vinyls, books, even electronics. He goes back and forth with them, clothing articles piling up in his arms as they sit on battered couches together and peruse scratched cds. Everywhere he looks, there’s just more, more, and more.

“Okay, I’ve gotta cut myself off,” they say as they leave the furniture section. They’ve sat on nearly every chair in that place. “I already have so many clothes to try on, and that’s not even including the jeans you’ve picked out for me.”

“If it helps, some of these are mine.” Carmy flips through the layers of hanging jeans that have built up on his forearm. “If you can believe it, I even found some stuff that isn’t denim.”

“I’m not sure if I can, but seeing is believing.” They thumb through some long-sleeves he’s carrying that are seeping out from under the jeans. “I’m just glad you were able to find some stuff for yourself, too. Not that I was that worried.”

He hands them the jeans he’s found for them, all dark wash and in their size. To his surprise, they also hand him an article of clothing for him to try on.

“I thought you’d look good in this. You’ll have to show me when you try it on,” they say, and it’s innocent, completely meaningless, but as soon as Carmy agrees and rushes to hide in the changing room, he views in the mirror and sees his flushed face.

Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. Stop getting in over your head.

He tries on his items of choice first. The first is a dark green henley that looked better on the rack than it did him, so he puts it in the reject pile. The second is a dark blue long sleeve that fits just right. It’s cheap, too, so it’s an automatic purchase. He presumes the way to word it is that it hugs him in all the right places, but he’s not sure. The rest are jeans, of which only one he decides to buy. A bit pricey, but for the brand and year, it’s worth it (although he basically always uses this reasoning with himself).

Now, for the piece of clothing they picked out for him. It’s a dark brown t-shirt that seems like it’s just the right length. It’s a muted, yet warm brown, a bit rosey in hue. He doesn’t realize it’s a v-neck until he gets it over his head and down his shoulders.

“I’ve never worn a v-neck before,” he calls out to the room next to him.

“Oh, are you trying it on? Do you like it?” Their slightly muffled voice calls back to him.

“Um…I’m not sure,” he admits with a shaky laugh. The collar is lower than he’s used to. It dips below his collarbones, and between them dangles his chain. “Should I show you?”

“Yes! Hold on, lemme get some pants on. …Okay, I’m stepping out!”

He hears their door open alongside his. When they see him, their expression snaps into what he believes is surprise and delight. He’s sure he looks somewhat the same.

They’re wearing one of the vintage jeans he picked out for them—dark blue Levi’s. Although they’re rolled up a couple times at the bottom, it seems to fit them just right. As he stares, he’s reminded of his many pairs of Levi’s, and it’s more or less like seeing them in his clothes, which is. Which is. Uh. Yeah.

“I knew that would suit you,” they say with a grin, to which he realizes he can’t hide his blush.

“It’s not weird?”

“Not at all. It looks good.” They tilt their head to the side as they openly look him over, hip cocked. Something in their gaze is making him hot. “No pressure to buy it, of course.”

“It’s different from what I’m used to, but…” He looks down, smooths the fabric with his palm. “It’s kinda nice, something like this. Um, and what do you think about the jeans?” He needs to direct the attention off him quickly.

“Oh, I love them. The others ended up fitting not quite right on me, but that’s how it goes.” They move from side to side, almost twirling. It’s cute. “I love these, though. Just a little long, but I’m used to it.”

“That’s how it always is. I can hem them for you, if you want. I usually hem mine.”

“And he sews,” they say, seemingly to themself, but they’re looking right at him. Embarrassing. “If you don’t mind, that’d be amazing. Either way, I’m probably getting them.”

“Good. You should. They fit well.”

“Yeah?” They glance back into their fitting room, likely examining themself in the mirror, and then back at him. “Okay, then. Definitely getting them.” With that and a cheeky grin, they go back into their dressing room to try on the rest of their clothes. Carmy follows suit, grateful to hide his embarrassed face.

Carmy heads to check out with the dark blue long sleeve, a pair of jeans, and the brown v-neck. They’ve decided on the pair of jeans they showed him earlier and a little purple tank-top he wishes he got to see on them.

“Will that be all for you today?” The cashier asks him as he checks out first. Even the cashiers here are pretty nice, he finds.

“Oh, their stuff, too.” He nods to them, who’s standing right next to him.

“Carmy.” They glare at him.

“What?” He feels himself smiling.

“You can’t do this to me.”

“C’mon.” He nudges them gently with his elbow. “It’s my present to you.”

“Oh, so the present wasn’t the breakfast? Or the cake? Or helping me pick these out?”

“Why can’t it be all of them?” He decides to stop this in its tracks and takes the clothes out of their hands, sliding it onto the counter. “Just these two, and that’ll be it.”

“Just you wait until your birthday hits,” they mutter darkly, shaking their head. “Just you wait.”

“I haven’t told you my birthday.” He pauses. “Right?”

“I’ll ask Richie.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re giving me no choice.”

“You could also just, I don't know, not ask—”

“I wouldn't have to if you didn't force my hand—”

“You guys are cute together,” the cashier comments with a smile, surely a harmless, meaningless thing, but it shuts the both of them up. Carmy can already feel the impact of it on his psyche, and he decides to tuck away the surging emotions to unpack later. At least, he'll try.

“You really didn't have to get those for me,” they tell him when they're exiting the store. “But I guess I should just be saying thank you. So…thank you.”

“Sure. I mean, it would've been better if it was wrapped and stuff, but…” He shrugs. “Had to get you a real present, not just food.”

“Not just food, my ass.” That makes him laugh. “It'll be nice to have something to remind me of this day, though. That's one of the nice parts of getting gifts. Everytime I wear these clothes, I'll think of you.”

“Good. Yeah, that's…good,” he finishes lamely. He nods like their words haven't flustered him, but he's sure they can tell. They laugh, and he can tell it's because of his reaction.

“I'm sorry that the cashier said that,” they say out of nowhere.

“Why're you apologizing? It's not your fault.” Any embarrassment he was feeling before is immediately replaced with a new, more potent sort of embarrassment. He was hoping they wouldn't mention it.

“I guess that's true. I don't know, I just…” They trail off. “Just hope it didn't upset you.”

“Not at all,” he lies, and he prays they believe it.

. . . . .

The metro is less crowded on the way home. They sit comfortably next to each other and watch the city pass them by. A part of Carmy mourns the closeness they had on the way there, but the other part tells him to get it together and keep his distance.

“I'mma take a nap,” they say with a yawn. Their cardigan and bag have been tossed onto the couch. The new clothes have been thrown into the laundry machine, and there's the muffled sound of running water. “Maybe we could smoke and watch a movie later, though.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He peers into the fridge to check on the cake rounds. Just as he left them. “Have a good nap.”

“Thanks, Carm,” they reply sleepily. “Wouldn't be a good day if I didn't get to have a nice nap, after all.” With that, they shuffle into their room and shut the door behind them.

Carmy spends the next two hours flying around the apartment, baking, cooking, cleaning. The sun slowly sets as he goes. He keeps his body and hands moving in hopes that his head doesn't have a chance to catch up, but it manages to keep the pace. It always does.

The crumb coat's fucked up on the left, his first train of thought says. He inspects the surface, eyes following the circumference of the cake. There's a little loose crumb. With the edge of his spatula, he tucks the crumb away.

The faint smell of chocolate wafts up from the cold cake rounds. He's hunched over the kitchen island, hands reaching between dark chocolate frosting and cake. The afternoon sun casts harsh lights onto the cake, and it glistens. He genuinely can't remember the last time he's made a layered cake. He's never been much of a baker, anyhow.

You're going to disappoint them, his second train of thought interrupts, running parallel to the other one at full speed. Who do you think you are? You don't make cakes.

He leans back, inspects his work. The crumb coats are perfect.

Fuck off, he thinks back, triumphant. Look at that shit. He runs his finger along the spatula, picking up congealed crumbs and frosting. He licks it off, and it's delicious. And it tastes good, asshole. So shut the fuck up.

You're being a nuisance, the thoughts continue. Carmy's pops the crumb coats in the freezer for a quick set. They don't actually like any of this. They're just being nice to make you feel better.

They seemed happy to me, he thinks, but he's faltering. He's washing the dishes, and the sensation of the warm water feels distant. They loved the food I made.

Couldn't you tell they were lying? He doesn't understand why these thoughts are rampaging through his head now of all times. It's not unfamiliar, but it's inconvenient. Keep this up, and you'll actually be surprised when they drop you.

Without warning, a memory hits him . As his hands drip with soap, he's reminded of playing with Michael and Sugar in the summer when he was five. Or six, or seven, he's never quite sure. They were outdoors at a local park, and the heat made the metal of the playground searing hot to the touch.

He was blowing bubbles, and the sticky mixture from the bottle was getting all over his hands. In his memory, Carmy watches the way the iridescent bubbles floated away and left little circles on the surface of the plastic slide. He can't remember why he wasn't playing with the others. He can remember the sound of their laughing voices in the distance, gleeful and delighted without him. He thinks he tried to join in, but it didn't work. It often just didn't work, and it was all his fault.

The memory ends, and Carmy's finished washing the dishes.

This is working, he thinks to himself. His hands are dried out from the hot water and soap. I swear to you, it's working. So just stop. Okay?

There's no response. Good enough.

He hears the door opening as soon as he's putting the finishing touches on the cake. With a damp paper towel, he carefully swipes away stray drops of frosting that fell onto the cake stand. He thinks it's best described as if a tiramisu was turned into a devil's food cake. It's not the best cake he's ever made, but it's definitely up there in terms of looks. All the components of the cake tasted good separately, so he hopes it makes sense in his mouth as much as it did in his head.

“Have a nice nap?” He asks before he turns his head. They're standing in the hallway, bed hair hastily tied back.

“Sorta. It was okay.” Their eyes are glued onto the cake as they walk up to the island. “Is this…?”

“This is for you, yeah,” he finishes for them. They take a seat on one of the chairs at the island. “It's a, uh, devil's food cake with vanilla mascarpone cream on the inside. The outside's this coffee buttercream…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say. He could mention the dutch processed cocoa powder, the expensive vanilla bean pods, or the endless sifting, but it feels too gratuitous.

“Wow…” They're still staring, as if it's not quite real to them. “I can't believe this is for me. It almost looks too pretty to eat, but you know I can't wait to tear into this.”

“We could, uh, have it now, if you, if you want,” he says hesitantly.

“I don't know if I could wait.” Their smile grows wider. “You even put candles on it?”

“We don't have to light them or anything if you don't want to,” he adds quickly.

“The candles are the fun part. I don't mind that. The song is…okay I guess, but…” They give him an expectant, excited look. “Were you gonna sing for me?”

“...Only if you wanted to,” he mumbles, suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

“Would that be okay? If I wanted that?”

“I wouldn't mind.” Not if it's you.

“Okay. Then, yeah.” They pull out a lighter from their pocket. “I’d really like that.”

Carmy cuts the overhead lights before taking out his own lighter to help them light the rest of the candles. One by one, the dark room gradually illuminates until it's filled with a warm, orange glow. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows onto their smiling face and reflect into their glossy eyes.

“Ready?” He asks quietly.

“I'm ready,” they whisper.

Carmy doesn't really need to clear his throat, but he does so anyway. He can't recall the last time he sang happy birthday to anyone, let alone by himself. This is the first time he's ever sung in front of an audience, too.

I can do this, he thinks to himself. I can do this.

His voice is awkward and scratchy. He never uses it like this, has never sang for anyone in his life. His ears burn, and he hates the sound of his voice, but he reminds himself to focus on their delighted little smile and warm gaze. The room is far too quiet for his voice, making the words painfully clear.

“Happy birthday to you,” he finishes singing, voice trailing off awkwardly. He's more than ready to finish singing now. “Uh, make a wish…?”

“Right.” The two of them sit in the flickering candle light for a moment longer, the silence thick. Carmy watches their face, their eyes boring into the candles with an expression he can only describe as longing. Then, they blow out the candles with a decisive blow, and the room goes dark.

He moves to switch on the lights. When he turns back to look at them, tears are streaming down their face.

“Hey,” he says softly. He props his elbows on the counter, standing across from them and tilting his head to the side. They're not meeting his gaze, glazed eyes boring into the dripping candles. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” they whisper with a sniffle, and it sounds like a reflex. Something about them suddenly seems so much smaller. “I shouldn't be crying.”

“It's okay. I don't mind.” That makes them smile, even if it's shaky. “Was the singing too much?”

“No, it wasn't your singing,” they say with a laugh. “Your singing was lovely. It's just—I'm so happy. You made today so special.”

“Yeah?” He fights the urge to reach over and wipe their tears. “I'm glad. I wanted to make it good. I…” He hesitates. “...I didn't like the idea of you spending it alone.”

“I didn't either. And I thought I was going to have to be alone…but then you—then you took off work, and you made me breakfast, you went shopping with me—even got me clothes—and now this—” Another rush of tears gushes from their eyes, and they hastily wipe at it with their shirt.

“You've done way more for me. This is the least I could do.” Before he can stop himself, his hand is brushing hair out of their eyes. They freeze for a split second, eyes finally flickering up towards him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay,” they whisper back. “Um…” They let out a shaky sigh, the sort of trembling sound that happens after crying too much. “I feel like I should explain.”

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” he assures them quickly, “but I…I'd like to know. If that's okay.”

“I want you to know. I, I do.” They open their mouth to keep talking, but shaky breaths continue to stifle them. It's hard to watch.

“Breathe,” he reminds them, quietly. He visibly takes in a deep breath, silently encouraging them to breathe with him. They follow suit, closing their eyes and taking a slow breath. Tears slip silently from their eyes. Gradually, their breathing becomes less of a staccato, evening out into something much more manageable.

“Thank you,” they murmur. He nods. They already sound a lot calmer. “I'm not sure where to start. I…I suppose I'll start with today.” Another deep breath. “I didn’t get a call from my parents today.”

“Ah…” The first missing piece.

“I knew they weren’t going to. But a part of me still hoped…” They stop and shake their head. “It's the first year that it's been like this.”

“What happened?”

“Uh…I went no contact with my family about a year ago.” Another pained, hollow laugh. The second piece. “I didn't even really want to—it was a complicated, shitty situation. My parents were being their usual shitty selves, and I just wanted them to apologize. It was over such a small thing, and, and I just…I don't know. I thought maybe I could fix things.” He's never seen them with such a heavy expression, etched with such weariness. “I just wanted them to apologize to me, Carm. That's all I wanted. And then they cut me off cold.”

Their voice is trembling again, and the tears are falling faster. The collar of their shirt is dark with moisture. Carmy hates that he doesn't know what to say. He hates just staring at them, silent as he tries to find the words.

Suddenly, he thinks of Michael.

“Michael never let me work in the restaurant,” he tells them. “That's why I went to culinary school. A big part of it, anyway. He just cut me off, didn't let me in no matter what I did, and it was…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “I felt insane. I was so fucking angry. I couldn't understand him. And I'm not saying that's anything like what you've been through, but…” He looks into their watchful eyes. “I'm sorry. I think I'm trying to say that I, that I understand. A little.”

“I…I appreciate that.” They give him a small, wobbly smile. He adores their smile, but seeing it through their tears twists something painfully in his chest. “He would've been lucky to have you. You're an excellent chef.”

“I am now, anyway.” He sighs. “Your family's missing out on you, too. You're…” Say it. Just say it. “You're a really wonderful person. I can't imagine…”

I can't imagine anyone looking at you and not loving what they see, he thinks suddenly, and he instantly realizes he can't say it. He can barely even comprehend that he just thought it.

He can't process this right now. This isn't the time.

“I keep trying to wrap my head around it all, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done better… Sometimes, the conclusion I arrive at is that I must have done something to deserve this. That I just, I don't know, that maybe I'm just this permanent fuck-up, and…” They run a tired hand over their wet face, through their hair. “My parents fucked me up real good, man.”

There's something familiar about their words, and Carmy realizes it's because it sounds like him. He would've never guessed that under their easy-going smiles was a reflection of himself. He recognizes himself in their self-deprecation, the bone-deep pain. There was always a sense of sympathetic connection between the two of them, but he had no idea. He had no idea how far deep the mutual experiences went.

A part of him still can't believe that this is the truth, that this is what lies at their core, but then he remembers. He thinks about the night they were throwing up into the toilet. They were sobbing, crying into his shoulder about how much they hate themself.

“You know you didn't deserve it. Right?” Carmy's not sure when they started leaning in so close to each other. He's looking at their wet eyelashes with startling clarity. “You did all you could.”

“You don't know that.” Their words are so soft-spoken, but it still catches him off guard. “You don't know what happened.”

“You—” Irritation prickles inside him, his instincts itching to snap back, but he doesn't. He sees himself in them, and he holds back. “You're right. I don't know what happened. But I know you.” The shock is on their face as clear as day. “At least, I think I do.”

“I want to think you do, too,” they whisper. “But this—this messy bullshit is also me. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't have to see all this. I…don't want you to…think any less of me.”

“I don't think there's anything you could do to make me think less of you.” He doesn't resist dragging his thumb across a stray tear on their cheek. To his surprise, they lean into his touch. “Y'know when I almost burned down the apartment?”

“Oh my god.” They smile, and he feels their grinning cheek against his palm. “Yeah. Is it crazy to say I remember it fondly?”

“A little bit.” They laugh. It's quiet, but it's real. “Remember that talk we had after?”

“I do. Why?”

“You're allowed to mess up on onions,” he says softly. “It won't push me away.”

They stare at him for what feels like a long time. Their eyes refill with tears, but they don't spill. With a clammy hand, they shakily place their hand on top of his hand that's still cradling their wet cheek.

“Fucking onions,” they say finally with a wet laugh. Fresh tears drip onto his thumb, and he wipes them away again. As many times as it takes. “God damnit, Carmy.”

“No one deserves to have shitty parents, let alone ones that walk out on them.” He thumbs away more tears. “You being an imperfect person like everyone else doesn't justify that.”

“There must be something more I could've done,” they whisper. “Something I did wrong.”

“Maybe. But they're your parents, not the other way around. It's not your fault.”

“I know. I know that. I do. There just has to be a reason, because—fuck—the truth would just be too fucked up.”

“...And that is?”

It takes a long, still minute before they can get their words out.

“...It’s—it's that—” Their cries are verging on sobs, increasingly more staggered and uncontrollable. “It's that s-some kids—are just—some kids have parents that will never—never love—”

They can't finish. Their sobs have overtaken their whole body. Their body's hunched over the counter, curled into themself. Carmy can't think of a time where he's ever seen them crying so hard.

Without another word, Carmy pulls them into a hug.

They cry for a long time. Through it all, fleeting condolences pass Carmy by in his head, but they all feel too cheap, too meaningless. So all he does is hold them tight, letting them grab onto his shirt and soak the fabric on his shoulder. It's all he feels he can really do.

After a while, the tide subsides. He feels them wilting in his arms, exhausted from sobbing so violently. He doesn't actually want to let them go, but their sniffling nose sounds like it's completely stopped up.

“I'm gonna get you some tissues, ok?” He says quietly. They make a quiet noise of acknowledgement, and they pull back. He snatches up a box of tissues from the coffee table. He places it in front of them before grabbing them a glass of water.

“Thank you,” they mumble, voice scratchy. Carmy stands and watches as they blow through several tissues. The water gets downed instantaneously.

“Better?”

“Yeah. A lot better.”

“Good.”

“...I think, deep down, I know I didn't deserve what happened. Or just having shitty parents in general.” They sigh. “It's just easier to think that I do. That I deserve it.”

“...Yeah.” That resonates with a part of him he's not quite ready to acknowledge. “You're one of the kindest people I've ever met,” he admits quietly. “If someone like you deserves a shitty hand in life, I'm fucked.”

“Carmy…” Their smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. I want to be able to genuinely believe that, one day. I'm going to try.”

“I know. I get it.”

“I know you do.”

That makes both of them smile, even if it's bitter.

“Thanks for telling me. About everything.”

“No, thank you for listening. For just being there for me.” They prop their chin in their hands, their elbows resting on the counter. “Y'know, this past year, I've been trying to find a sense of joy in all this mess. Sometimes it just feels so far away, like…like any happiness is just impossible. But I think I've found it. Rather, I've already found it.”

“Yeah?” Carmy looks at them expectantly, but he never expected this—

“I found you,” they tell him.

“...” He immediately fixes his shocked expression. He's at a loss for words.

Me?

“I never found a chance to mention it, but…my parents are the reason I decided to live with you. That's why I wanted to be your roommate, even though we were strangers.” They shrug shyly. “My lease was up on my last place. I was gonna go home, but then all that stuff happened at the last minute, and…yeah. I needed to find a place to live.”

“Seriously?” They just nod. “Damn. Uh…Yeah, that's fucking crazy. I had no idea.”

“At the time, I was miserable. I kept thinking to myself, ‘I can't believe how shitty this situation is!’ Don't get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but…it led me to you, so…it wasn't really all that bad, in the end. I got lucky.”

Fucking hell, he thinks to himself. Fuck.

“If you hadn't roomed with me, I wouldn't have been able to come back home for my brother's restaurant,” he says, mostly because he's so embarrassed that he swears his whole body's red at this point. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. “I think I'm the lucky one.”

“Can't we both be lucky?”

“I guess we can. Just doesn't seem very realistic.”

“Little too late to say that. It's already real.”

“...There's no other shoe?”

“Not that I know of. I think the other shoe's already dropped for us a while ago. Surely there's no other shoes left?”

“I hope not. I don't know if I could take another one.”

“Me neither.”

“...”

“Do you…want to eat your cake now?”

“Fuck, oh my god—I completely forgot! Yes!”

Just as Carmy planned, the flavors go perfectly together. Even though he knew it was going to be delicious, when he takes the first bite of the cake, relief washes over him. They seem to be overjoyed, inhaling the cake at dangerous speeds.

“You're gonna hurt yourself if you eat that fast,” he observes, both amused and concerned.

“Can't talk. Need to eat this.” That makes him laugh so abruptly he nearly gets cake up his nose. “This is the best birthday cake I've ever had, both visually and taste-wise.”

“I'm glad. Like I said, I'm not really a baker, but…I make an alright cake.”

“You make a fantastic cake.” They’ve got a bit of frosting on the corner of their mouth. “It doesn't get much better than this—eating a cake made by you.”

“Because I'm a chef, you mean?”

“No, not that. Not just that, anyway,” they amend with a cheeky grin. “Because you're my best friend.”

You're my best friend.

…

I'm their best friend, he repeats to himself. I'm their best friend.

He thinks about crying. He won't cry, but he thinks about it.

“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “...Really?”

“Y-Yeah. Unless, uh, you don't—”

“You're my best friend too,” he blurts out, and the anxiety on their face fades away into a relieved, beautiful smile.

“Thank god. That would've been pretty awkward if you didn't…” They shake their head.

“I've never been anyone's best friend before,” he confesses.

“Seriously?” They recover from the shock quickly. “Lucky me, then.”

“I thought you established we were both the lucky ones.”

“Oh, right.” They chuckle. “Lucky both of us, then.”

Carmy thought that life would always be the same. He thought that he was fated to a routine of nausea and nightmares, never quite close enough to reach a rest point. He thought that he was okay with it being his fate, because he never knew anything else.

He thought that loneliness, cigarettes, and memories would be enough, because it always stays the same. Nothing ever changes.

Until them.

He thought he had outgrown happiness, that his body had grown accustomed to living without it. That there was no longer space in his heart to withstand the weight of joy. But as he sits here with his roommate, chatting and laughing over a cake he made for them, he finds that's not true.

His capacity for happiness had never left. It had been there all along.

And with that, something in him lets go.

Carmy sees it all at once. It starts from the beginning—he sees the first day he met them, an initially hesitant meeting gone surprisingly well. He sees the first time the two of them smoked together, deliriously laughing through shared smoke. He sees them in the mornings, messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts. He sees them in nothing but an apron. He sees them in tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. He sees them laughing at a joke that he didn’t think was all that funny.

He sees them in his dreams, red tomato puree bleeding from their gums. He sees them holding his trembling hands in theirs, soothing him back down from the storm in his hand. He sees them comforting him through his tears. He sees them sobbing, hot tears on their cheek and his hand. He sees them heaving into the toilet, whispering that they want to know him. He sees himself, embracing them tightly in his arms.

He sees it all. He knows that he can't avoid it anymore.

Carmy is completely, undeniably in love with them, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do to make that realization disappear.

…Some things, he understands, refuse to stay the same.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto @thehouseofevangelista

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy the bear #the bear fx #my fics #alexithymia fic #GOD. IT'S FINALLY HERE. THIS ONE'S A BEAST.#ch 6 is gonna be the climax..... it's gonna happen yall. it's finally here. hahahaha #anyway this one took so long to write because it was so revealing for me... as i'm sure yall have guessed. sigh.

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