#maybe that’s why i do so well just in general when i’m smoking way too much weed

[dagasinfilo]

something about me is that i always forget i get super sick when i’m stressed

[writella]

Screwed Up and Brilliant

Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.

A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?

—— LDR, Million Dollar Man

The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.

There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.

And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.

It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.

It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.

You still remember it well.

Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.

The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.

Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—

Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.

You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.

Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.

“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.

His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”

Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”

Obviously, you did not.

Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.

‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’

And he did.

You made an impression.

Now you’ll pay.

Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.

Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.

The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”

You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.

You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.

Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.

“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”

Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.

Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.

You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.

Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.

It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.

It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”

This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.

Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”

“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”

Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.

You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”

“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”

You almost felt embarrassed to answer.

“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”

As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”

“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”

He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”

“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”

“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”

And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.

Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”

The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.

Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:

You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.

You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.

There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.

“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.

It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.

Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”

Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.

You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.

You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.

Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?

“I see they delivered my message.”

You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.

It was just him. There Negan finally was.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”

“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.

“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”

“But after Carl—“

“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.

“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”

You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”

He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.

This time.

Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”

You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”

Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”

You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.

“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.

Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.

“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”

You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”

Still, you give him nothing.

He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”

“A lot has happened this week.”

“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.

Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”

He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”

You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.

Because he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Right?

You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.

“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”

Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”

“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”

But you know something too. He says it before you can.

“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”

You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”

“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”

You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop,” he warns.

“You didn’t even let me see him.”

“He doesn’t notice you.”

“You don’t know us.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”

You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”

“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”

“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”

“Shut up.”

“And you killed Abraham—”

He warns you by name.

“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”

“SHUT. UP.”

“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”

His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”

Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”

Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.

“See? Told you, you were smart.”

And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.

“You have to get why.”

His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”

Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.

“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”

His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”

“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”

And you know you should get up.

You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.

You breathe into it.

His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.

Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.

His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.

His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.

He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”

Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.

“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”

Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.

Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”

You shake your head small and slowly. No.

He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”

He felt like a rich man.

He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.

“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.

He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.

“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.

It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.

“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.

His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.

You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.

It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”

He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”

As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”

Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”

“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”

He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”

Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.

“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”

You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”

He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.

The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.

Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.

Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.

And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.

“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”

“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.

His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.

It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.

“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”

He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”

All you can do is whine incoherently.

“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.

“Negan,” you whine again.

He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”

You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”

You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.

You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.

He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.

It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”

You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.

“Who's making you feel like no one else?”

“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”

He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”

You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”

His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”

“Only you, daddy.”

He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”

“Yes, daddy. So good.”

You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.

He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.

He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.

Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.

“I think it does.”

“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”

Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.

“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.

He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.

You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.

“Negan,” you say weakly.

“Yes,” he responds intently.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”

“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.

“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”

You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.

Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.

He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.

You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”

“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”

A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”

He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.

He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.

“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”

So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”

He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.

“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”

He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.

You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.

Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.

A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.

It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.

It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.

“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”

“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”

“I’m not.”

“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”

His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.

You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”

Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.

“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”

You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”

You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.

“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.

“What about now?”

“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”

You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”

“8 hours till 8, kid.”

You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”

Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.

He had to finally accept it.

“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.

But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.

You won.

He lost.

But both your hearts broke.

[carmenized-onions]

Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you, Amish?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

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

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

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

“I just like making my own lunch.”

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

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This fucking guy. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fak.” 

“Carm?”

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

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

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

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

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

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.” 

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

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

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

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

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

“You're the baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Your hair is fucked.” 

“And the food?”

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

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.” 

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye aye, Rich.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin!” 

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

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She had to leave early.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

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

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s how it starts.”

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

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

“How long you been stable, again?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

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

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

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

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

“What?”

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

“Fuck you mean what?”

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

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

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

“You said she failed him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

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

Richie just nods, pensive. “M’sorry.” 

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

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

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

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

“Same team.”

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

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

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

“Six hours. Same team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“First time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re multiplying?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Can you stay after close?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods, “Can you do that?”

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

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

“Insane, Uncle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I believe in you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish you did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“Mikey—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not?”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you, Bear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

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

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not negotiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Part

[starrywilliams]

baby i’m yours - abby anderson

and i’ll be yours until the stars fall from the sky. yours until the rivers all run dry. in other words, until i die

fem reader x abby anderson

synopsis: abby anderson hates seeing her girlfriend upset, so decides to show you just how much you mean to her.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: bad writing ??, general non-apocalyptic au, smut w a tiny bit of plot, top abby, oral sex (r receiving), fingering, some pet names, overstimulation, slightly insecure reader, not proof read !!

notes: i was gonna send this into someone’s asks but i thought it easier just to write it myself. so if it’s bad , ummm pretend it isn’t. wanted to add abby fucking r with her strap too but decided against it… so lmk if u want a pt 2 or something !!

it all started at a party. the music was loud and you were just a little tipsy, abby the designated driver as usual. she was talking to one of her friends beside you, rambling on about something you’d lost track of a long time ago. you could hear she was getting slightly angry as the conversation progressed, so you grabbed her hand to calm her down, y’know? but she decided to pull away. leaving you stood there embarrassed and feeling extremely awkward.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom, okay?” you mumbled seconds later, not staying long enough to hear her response: if there even was one. you cursed when you tried to open the door, finding it was locked. from the smoke filled air and bottle covered surfaces, everywhere felt crowded. more crowded than you deal with right now, so you made your way out onto the, thankfully empty, small terrace that would grant you refuge.

clearing your lungs with a deep inhale, sobering up slightly while looking out into the darkness. she’d dropped your hand. maybe it was the alcohol making you overthink it, but you weren’t THAT drunk. abby always let you hold her hand, she knew you got nervous at these things. so you couldn’t understand why she didn’t this time. was she angry at you? had you done something wrong without realising? this spiral would’ve continued if it hadn’t been for a voice behind you.

“baby, what are you doing out here?” abby asked, voice laced with a slightly worried tone, as she kneeled down in front you. “nothing.” you choked, trying to avoid the tears that had accumulated in your eyes. “thought you said you were going to the bathroom?” she said, putting a hand on your knee. “it was full.”

she pouted, looking you up and down with concern. “d’you wanna go? i won’t mind.” she smiled, pushing your hair behind your ear in an attempt to cheer you up. biting your lip, you nodded, standing up. you walked silently behind her to the car, not really wanting to talk.

abby opened the door for you and held your side as you got inside. you took a deep breath as she walked around to the driver’s seat, knowing she would have questions. she slipped in, putting on her seatbelt and starting the car. abby let the sound of the radio fill the car for a few moments, driving away from loud house out onto the dimly lit street.

after what felt like a lifetime of awkward silence, she turned the dial down. “so you gonna tell me what’s the matter?” she said softly, gripping the wheel tightly as she did. “it’s nothing.” you muttered before looking down to your fumbling hands. “it didn’t seem like nothing.”

“well, it was. okay?” you snapped; voice croaking as you finished. abby frowned, turning to you as you reached the red light. “have i done something?” her voice was low - accusatory - and her eyebrows were furrowed. you looked up to the green light, “go.” she huffed, sticking her tongue into her cheek before nodding to herself. “so i have.” she whispered. “abby-“ you started. “what did i do?”

“it was nothing, i’m just overreacting.” you rambled, quietly thankful you’d reached your street so you could get out of this seemingly tiny car. “no, i must’ve done something. so tell me.” she sounded calm, words slow and sure. but you knew she was the opposite. she parked outside your apartment building, having failed to answer her request, you quickly got out and rushed towards your door, her not far behind you. “i asked you what i did to make you upset. answer me, please.” you pushed the key into the lock, turning it and pressing down on the handle before finally answering. “you dropped my hand.”

“i- what?” abby replied, laughing softly. “knew you’d think i was being stupid.” you whispered, throwing your stuff onto the side as you walked towards the kitchen. “i don’t think you’re being stupid. just tell me when this happened.” you grabbed a glass, “before i said i was going to the bathroom, you were talking to whats-his-face when i tried to hold your hand and you let go like- immediately.” you went on, finishing as the water reached the top of the glass.

“no it wasn’t like that.” she shook her head as you faced her, your furious pout not seeming to approve of her response. “it sure seemed like it.” you hissed, pushing past her towards your bedroom. you could hear her footsteps heavy on the floor behind you. “no, baby stop. sweetheart listen to me.” you pushed the door open, settling the glass down on the nightstand. “okay talk.” you began to undress, wanting to just go to sleep already. you were fully sober now, and very tired.

“i didn’t mean to drop your hand, i was about to get an eyelash off your face- but you pulled away before i could!” you looked up to her, sighing with a mix of relief and adoration for the girl. “oh abs. i’m so dumb.” you said as you stood up. softly smiling, you wrapped your arms around her waist and leant your head against her chest. “you’re not stupid, okay- maybe a little.” she joked, kissing your forehead. “how about i make it up to you?” she whispered in your ear before pressing her hips against yours “yeah, good idea.” you mumbled, slightly breathless.

that’s how you found yourself laid back on the bed with her whispering sweet nothings against your skin. each kiss against your thighs was making your patience disappear more and she could tell. “you sound so pretty like that.” you looked down at her, meeting her darkened eyes. “so fucking desperate for me.” you caught a glimpse of a smile before her tongue delicately made its way through your folds. the noise you made when she reached your clit was borderline pornographic, let’s just hope your neighbors weren’t in tonight.

feeling her tongue swiping back and forth against your needy little clit, your hands reached to her scalp; pulling her hair softly as you pulled her closer. “hands off baby.” you groaned, having to use your hips to get her closer. “abby, fuck.” you whimpered, thighs suddenly tightening around her head. “mhm.” she hummed, looking up to you again. “look at me.” she said against your pussy, moving her head lower once you did. “those fucking eyes.” she mumbled before slowly pushing her tongue into your hole, smirking as she felt it pulse around her. she moved it around slowly, before pulling back out just to thrust it back in again.

then she stopped. deciding to now leaving soft, far too gentle kisses around your lips. close to where you needed, but ever so far. “please don’t stop.” you whispered, screwing your eyes closed as if that would hurry her up. perhaps it worked, as you instantly felt two fingers push roughly inside you. your hips bucked upwards, a loud whine rolling out of your throat. “look so good for me, taking it so well.” she cooed, using her other hand to spread your lips. “your clit’s so swollen baby, want me to take care of it?” abby asked, her hot breath against it making you go crazy. you nodded, not receiving anything in return.

“use your words baby, tell me what you want.” she spoke, slightly mockingly as she dragged out the final word. feeling her large fingers thrusting inside of you relentlessly, you were almost rendered speechless entirely. but you managed to stutter out a “please touch my fucking clit abby.” that had her immediately suckling on it like a starved woman. the added sensation had you quickly getting closer and closer, that knot in your stomach tightening more by the second.

“feel so tight around my fingers, pretty. gonna cum for me?” she said, instantly returning to her assault on your clit while her fingers pressed against that spot inside you that made you see stars. you made some kind of noise to tell her yes before the cord snapped and you were drowning in her. “that’s it, sound so fucking beautiful when you cum.” abby hummed, stretching out the beautiful as her fingers started thrusting even faster. your legs snapped together as you pulled away, but a hand pressed down firmly on your hip, keeping you locked in place.

“you can take it can’t you? i just want you to feel good baby.” she cooed, keeping her pace rapid. “it’s too much.” you cried out, feeling your twitchy clit sting at the continued pressure against your insides. “you can take it.” she said, whether it was to reassure you or simply an order, you didn’t know. but to be honest, you didn’t care. you were gonna take it whether it hurt or not.

“fuckfuckfuck-“ you whined, feeling that knot tighten back up again. but with her fingers fucking into you like that, it felt so, so much more overwhelming. your mind was just chanting abby on repeat, and perhaps your mouth was too - you were too out of it to know.

then it was like a fucking explosion inside you, limbs spasming around her as your mind went foggy. you gripped onto the bed for some kind of relief from the pleasure that was consuming your every cell, but eventually you were just fucking floating. abby pulled her fingers out at some point, before softly licking up the mess you’d made all over your thighs. she left to go and grab a warm cloth, wiping you down before cleaning her face.

abby pulled your underwear back up your legs gently, stroking your hips as she did so. “i’d never drop your hand.” she whispered. you smiled at her, eyes barely open. “maybe you should, if it’ll end like this.” you joked, eliciting a small laugh from her.

she may have never dropped your hand after that, but she did fuck you until you saw stars, that’s for sure.

[rumble-aint-a-rumble-without-me]

Dallas Dating A Curtis!Reader

Buckle up buttercups, this is gonna be fun!

As always, to fit the age bracket, you’re either Soda’s twin, or you were born between Sodapop and Ponyboy

Pick and choose as you see fit, but I’m definitely seeing more opportunity for a Sodapop’s twin sibling-

Anywayyyssssssss

Lemme set the stage a little bit, alright? Cause there’s a bunch of ideas floating around in this brain of mine-

You’ve had a crush on Dal for the longest time and I mean the longest time- ever since he stumbled in with that stupid white blond hair and that stupid New York accent and that stupid little attitude of his- you’d been head over heels

And low and behold, Dallas had been nursing a few feelings for you as well, hiding them a little better than you had been

So of course, y’all flirt and mess around and all the rest of the boys are a little suspicious but you and Dal both deny that there’s anything between the two of you

That changes a few weeks before the Curtises die, you and Dallas go on an official date down to the nightly double (he timed it with your favorite films cause he’s romantic like that) and bada bing bada boom, y’all are dating

But it’s a secret and no one knows but here comes the funeral and you’re holding Dallas’ hand through the whole thing, crying into his shoulder and he’s cradling the back of your head and everyone knows there’s something up

Darry doesn’t like it- not even a little bit- he doesn’t love that you’re dating Dal one smidgeon of a bit

He likes Dal well enough, he’s got to, they’re in the same gang, but like- he knows Dallas well enough too to know that maybe this isn’t the best thing

Dare’s biggest concern is your heart and whether or not Dal’s gonna break it by doing something stupid like fooling around with someone else or getting hauled in for something big and leaving you alone forever

Sodapop’s a little more okay with it? But he’s still a little hesitant, especially when Dally likes to get a little more physical than he needs to

*cough cough* kissing you way past decent under the porch light when he’s dropping you off at home after a date, sliding his hand into your back pocket to keep you close, just generally being Dal and pushing the limits of what is publicly decent *cough cough*

But!

Where the real fun is located is with our dear darling Ponyboy!

It’s canon, I’m pretty sure and I’m pretty confident after reading the book fifty million times, that Ponyboy “doesn’t like” Dally and thinks he’s kinda scary

But at the same time, we all know that boy looks up to Dally too and Dally has a soft spot for him

I’m seeing like- Ponyboy and Johnny and Dallas hanging out, just the three of them, and Dal’s trying to be all nonchalant and stuff, smoking casually as he tries to ask Ponyboy about how you’d like certain things

Dally tries to subtly run almost all his date ideas past Ponyboy before he takes you out because yeah, he really does like you, and sometimes he’s just a little unsure of himself with how much he cares about you

Now. When he gets hauled in, and we know it’s going to happen, let's be honest with ourselves folks, when he gets hauled in, his phone call is going to go to the Curtis house

He’s gonna ask for you and he’s gonna apologize for having to be gone for so long

If I was you? I’d cry, I’d scream, I’d be angry and sad and frustrated because why does he keep making stupid decisions?

But I’m gonna tell you this-

Putting up with stupid decisions and working through tough times like this? It’s gonna be a lot of the relationship, and it’s gonna be pretty prominent in your time with Dally

If that’s not for you? Then maybe, maybe it won’t work out

But that’s alright too! All the more for me :D

[uriekukistan]

In Defense of Shoko in 261

to be so honest, i’m really doing my best not to come off angry while talking about this. but to me this conversation is not just about shoko, but about the way women are treated in media, and especially in shounen manga in general.

people are upset about the way shoko reacted, or rather didn’t react, to yuuta’s plan because it seemed too unemotional and uncaring. if she had shown emotion or protested, people would still be upset because she would be seen as unable to do the necessary thing in a time of crisis due to her feminine emotions or whatever.

this is the dilemma of not just female characters, but real life women. there’s never a right reaction.

additionally i feel that some of the things being said about her are expecting her to only exist as support for gojo, and not as her own character, which i see way too often with female characters in shounen manga.

in any case, i stand by my cancelled wife, and here’s my defense of her. spoilers below the cut.

Since when has Shoko ever been outwardly emotional like that?

if shoko is upset about yuuta using gojo’s body as a weapon, there is just no way she would outwardly object or show any signs that she’s upset. that’s not who she is and she’s shown that. there have been several times where she’s not displayed the emotion one would expect from her, so why would that change now?

when shoko sees geto, one of her closest friends, if not her closest, for the first time after finding out that he massacred an entire village, you would expect her to be feeling a slew of emotions. maybe confusion, maybe anger, maybe hurt, maybe betrayal. maybe even concern for her friend.

but shoko acts like it’s no big deal at all. she’s just seeing her close friend on a regular day. because she’s not the type to get outwardly emotional. whatever she’s feeling right now is kept somewhere else entirely, far away from the surface.

additionally, in the scene where everyone got frustrated that gojo didn’t react about nanami, we have this from shoko.

talking about geto. not reacting. guys shoko is just not a reactive person like that, and that’s totally fine. a lot of people are like this (including myself but thats not the point)

but that doesn’t mean the emotions don’t exist, or that shoko has no way of reacting or coping or showing that she’s going through anything at all. one way is through smoking.

smoking is something shoko picks up again before the shibuya incident, when the entire jujutsu world is growing more stressed with the increased presence of special grades, particularly the disaster curses, the incident at the goodwill event…and at shibuya, the situation was very high stress, yet she keeps a cool demeanour. the only sign that she’s upset at all is that every time she’s shown, she’s smoking.

the only times we’ve seen shoko’s feelings, it’s been completely internal. the most notable being this scene:

this is the most emotional we’ve ever seen shoko, and if you’ll notice, she’s completely alone.

shoko keeps her feelings well hidden from everyone, so it’d be completely against her character to outwardly show if she was upset by yuuta’s plan.

Since when has Shoko shied away from questionable medical/jujutsu practices?

shoko was eager to dissect yuuji after he “died” like it was some sort of science project and not a human being…please note im saying this as a completely neutral statement, this is not to say whether shoko is a good or bad person, just that she is and how she is.

sure, it’s a bit questionable that she’s looking at a dead teenager on her table and wondering what information she can get out of him, but at the same time, there could be useful information in yuuji’s biology that shows what makes him a successful vessel, at least as far as shoko is aware. useful knowledge that could be used to find another suitable vessel to continue killing sukuna’s power, one finger at a time.

she even says to gojo “who do you think i am?” when he tells her to make her examination of yuuji worth it, implying that this is a trait that those around her are aware of.

she’s practical and methodical, logically thinking rather than emotionally thinking, but most importantly, she’s not the type to display her feelings.

she’s exactly the type to understand the reasoning behind yuuta’s plan and accept it as a logical last ditch effort, and she’s also the type to store her true feelings about it away to process over a cigarette (or several) at a more convenient time. asking her to do anything else would be asking her to change as a character.

i hope this doesn’t come across as me being unsympathetic to gojo’s dehumanization and being turned into a weapon, i think it’s upsetting for sure (but i respect the narrative choice, i think it’s an interesting way to bring out themes). mostly, i think that shoko, both by the narrative and by the fandom, is only perceived in geto & gojo’s shadow, and i wanted to draw attention to her as a person.

i’m sick of reading the “shoko’s a cold-hearted traitor” comments on different platforms bc i think it’s not true, and i think asking her to act differently removes her autonomy as a character and forces her to be nothing but a supporting role to gojo, rather than her own character.

hopefully this makes some sense dkskld

[cici-sunshine]

I just had (in my opinion) a fucking amazing idea for a story after looking at this post (which is amazing by the way)

Okay just imagine this… Sukuna x Reader but with the AU in which sukuna is yuijs older brother.

So now there are two different “scenarios”

1. Sukuna and Yuji have a relatively small age gap. You’re one of Yujis closest friends and hang out at his pretty often. Yuji is just such a sunshine, just a positive person in general. His older brother how ever not so much. He’s just a troublemaker through and through. He got his face pierced, smokes and even got some tattoos behind his parent’s back (also may I add he’s 100% a biker or drives an amazing black car). Sukuna and Yuji have a pretty typical sibling relationship. They both care for each other but don’t get along that well (typical around that age I guess). You first meet Sukuna when you have a sleepover at Yujis house. He invited you (and Megumi and Nobara) because his parents were gone for the weekend. At around 2 am you still lay awake on the mattress in the living room, the others are already fast asleep. Suddenly you hear the jiggling of keys in front of the door. At first you’re scared, cause who the hell is at the door at this hour. Then the door opens and Sunkuna in all his glory is standing just a few feet away from you…

The second scenario is 100% inspired by THIS

2. This time Sukuna and Yuji have a big age gap alright. So you’re in Sukunas class. You don’t necessarily get along that well but you’re not on bad terms either. You both just don’t acknowledge each others presence more than necessary I guess. Everyone is living in the dorms except for Sukuna. At first everyone wondered why and some even came up with the weirdest theories as to why. The school year is almost at its end so that means it’s time for a school trip. Everyone is excited except for Sukuna. That wasn’t necessarily weird considering that he never showed his emotions much in general. What made you suspicious is the fact that he stayed behind after class to talk to the teacher (Gojo duh) even tho he’s usually the first one out the door at the end of class. Being the curious person you are, you stay behind too and eavesdrop on their conversations. Sukuna says something about not being able to go to the school trip and the teacher knowing why. To which the teacher only responds with words of understanding and support. That only confuses you even more. You follow Sukuna home (Funking stalker tf) because you’re determined to find out what he’s hiding. You follow him thinking he’ll just go straight home or to some shady place of sorts. But to your surprise he heads to a kindergarten!? You wait outside just to see him walk out of there with a much smaller copy of him. Only problem is that this small copy is looking directly at you. You quickly try to walk away and act like you’re just there by accident, but it’s too late. The little guy is pointing directly at you and before you can really react you can hear Sukuna say “what the hell are you doing here?!”…

Okay so that was that lol. Im so sorry for my grammar English is not my first language.

Do these “scenarios” have fanfic or oneshot potential or am I literally the only one that’s a sucker for big bro sukuna

I’d love to write a whole fic about the second one because I have literally so many ideas but I’m not sure if it would be good or if literally anyone would enjoy it haha.

I’m always open for feedback, suggestions and responses 🩵

[also just to clarify in advance I’m sure this isn’t that much of a original idea but I’d still love to write something like that (maybe lol)]

~Rules~

[nightmare-niko]

ATEEZ responses to “What are we?” [Hyung Line]

Warnings: NON IDOL ATEEZ!! NO MENTIONS OF Y/N!! GENDER NEUTRAL READER!! a lot of lying down and doing nothin! Mentions of weed!

A/n: I found this prompt list on Pinterest! I can link my Pinterest page on my master list!! Also you can def tell which members are my favorites😅 sorry not sorry!!

Copying or translating my writing is not allowed. If you see my work on another site it is stolen. Reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

Masterlist

Kim Hongjoong:

You would spring the question. on him randomly one night while hanging out in your room. Both of you in baggy pjs, limbs tangled together on your bed.

The room was dimly lit by the purple LED lights lining your nearby desk. You were calm, too calm. That’s why you popped your head up to look at the man next to you.

“Hongjoong, what are we?”

You watched as the corners of his mouth curled up, “You know what we are. You just wanna hear me say it.” He lifted his hand up to play with a lose piece your your hair.

Guilty. You blush, “maybe i do, Maybe I don't…”

He let’s out a content sigh, “you’re mine, l'm yours. Sound good?"

“Sounds perfect.”

Park Seonghwa:

The two of you have been friends for a while. Most of your hangouts consisted of you hogging Seonghwa’s bed while he sat at his desk while he played legos.

Every once in a while you would show him a funny post. After a while, your mind started to wander. You found your eyes falling onto Seonghwa. He wasn’t paying attention to you, all of his focus was on the LEGO set taking up his whole desk. You had bought it for him not too long ago.

The cashier had asked you if the set was for you. Not bothering to lie, you told her they were for your friend. But was Seonghwa just your friend? Buying a boy a set of legos was practically marriage in this day and age!

…Were you and Seonghas a couple— or just friends? You didn't know for sure.

“What are we?" You broke the silence with your intense question.

You heard him chuckle at your question, “I don’t thing that’s up to just me, now is it?”

You were taken aback at his honesty, "well I don't know? Do you like me?"

"Of course,” His voice was as calm as ever while you felt your heartbeat slowly rise. “Do you like me?”

You hum, "sometimes.” You joke.

“Wha-!" He whips his chair around, fake betrayal painted on his beautiful features.

"I'm Kidding!" You smile at him.

Seonghwa crosses his arms across his chest, pouting cutely. "I take it back I don’t like you anymore."

Jeong Yunho:

[a/n 2.0: I use the terms pen and vape interchangeably but I’m talking abt a normal weed pen🤓]

You and Yunho were best friends.

All best friends have rituals, some may shop, or play videogames. But for you and your best friend, it was smoking weed in your room. Yunho wasn’t allowed to smoke at the dorm due to Seonghwa’s rules, he lucked out that his best friend had their own place.

You balanced all of your stacks on top of eachother. Slowly making your way to your bed where Yunho layed sprawled out. You dumped everything onto him before kicking off your slippers and moving him out of the way.

“You take up so much room, bro." You complain, taking out your pen and clicking it five times to turn it on. Before you could even take your first hit of the night, Yunho was taking the pen out of your hand and taking one long hit.

"Thanks babe," he throws the vape back into your general direction.

You groan and cursed at him under your breath, Flustered at the nickname. You were thankful for the dim lighting. Finally taking your first hit, you take a moment to take in Yunhos apperence.

His face bare, his sort black hair fell perfectiy over his forhead. The hood From his hoodie was pulled on, he looked beautiful, but when did he not?

Too busy staring, you forgot to exhale your puff, the burn becoming too much before you let out a nasty cough. Gasping dramatically you reach out to Yunho who nonchalantly opens a water bottle before putting up to your lips to drink.

"Thanks baby." You blow him a kiss, and he giggles softly. God he was perfect.

As the night went on, the two of you got higher, passing the pen back and forth. Maybe it was just the weed (definitely wasn’t), but your best friend was looking too hot for your own good.

Here the two of you were, shoulder to shoulder on your bed, Sharing snacks and drinks. Almost as if the two of you were a couple. More times than not you felt like a couple, how come the two of you hadn't had the conversation?

“What are we?” Your hand flies to slap over your mouth. It was too late, your didn't mean to say that out loud. “wait no-I didn't."

His laughter rung out in your otherise quiet bedroom. Yunho turns on his side to face you, you mirror him, “whatever we are, I wouldn’t ask for anything difterent.”

The two of you couldn’t keep serious at his cheesy line. Immediately breaking out in loud laughter, “Mr. Cool guy over here!!” You tease him, hiding your face against his chest to conceal your laughter.

Smiling ear to ear, his large hand wraps around your arm gently, pulling you back to look at him. "I just wanted to seem cool, you made me nervous!”

Kang Yeosang:

Yeosang wasn’t the biggest fan of physical affection. But for some reason he can't fathom the thought of sleeping with out you in his arms. The two of you didnt live together, not technically.

That didnt stop the two of you from being in the same bed everynight. When you weren't together, he would text you to tell you he couldn’t sleep. Then the next day one of his roomates would text you about how grumpy your boyfriend was.

Wait- Boyfriend? No - Yeosang wasn't—was Yeosang your boyfriend?!

When you heard your front door open and close, your heart sunk. He had a hey, of course he did. What if he got out of work when you weren't home? Going back home to an empty bed was a big no for him.

You stayed on your bed anxiously, his footsteps grew louder as he approached your room.

“Hey, Yeosang. How was work?” You croak out timidly.

Letting his bag flop of his arm he furrows his eyebrows. "Yeosang?" He questions.

"That's your name last l checked,” you chuckle.

"Not to you? Is something wrong?"

You sigh and smile at him, “no Sangie, nothings wrong,” you try your best to reassure him, "Go shower quickly and come back. You’re all sweaty

“Okay..." He looks at you suspiciousy, not convinced your not mad.

One quick shower later and Yeosang was back in your room, excitedly making his way into his Side of your bed. You cursed yourself mentally for being so freaked out about something stupid it was freaking Yeosang out.

“Are you sure nothings wrong…?”

“What are we?” You blurt out, looking at the boy next to you. He looked stunning, his hair pushed away from his face, under his hair you could still see his birth mark.

"Whatever you’d like us to be, silly." He smiles gently.

You pause for a moment, somewhat surprised at how calmly he answered you. "So…boyfriend girlfriend?"

"That's fine by me, darling. But I’m tired so let’s sleep.”

Tag list (If you want to be added just comment!)

@nallasstuff

@chmpgneprblem

@qoopeeya

@lilybellalana

@sleepysongbirdsings

[creepsopasta]

Do you have any general dating headcannons about Jack?

If that's too vague then maybe Jack dating someone who knows a lot about the supernatural. Like they're oddly chill about him being a demon and sometimes even give him tips about his diet of something like that.

I HAVE SO MANY DATING HCS FOR JACK I THINK ABOUT HIM ALL THE TIME. I LOVE EYELESS JACK A NORMAL AND SANE AMOUNT

General EJ Dating Hcs

• He doesn’t sleep, or he doesn’t really need to. It creates problems, because he will just sit there and stare at you while you try to sleep. He won’t move or speak or get up. He will just stare. And then he gets hungry after a while so he leaves.

• Absolutely miserable to sleep with if it’s winter. He is so fucking cold. He’s so cold he doesn’t feel hot when summer rolls around. The hoodie and jeans are a year round wardrobe for him. People look at him like he’s more of a freak than usual when they see him wearing heavy jackets in 102 degree weather.

• He smiles so wide. I am of the opinion he has a bunch of fucking teeth so when you make him laugh or smile he grins so big!!!!! He’s a great smiler

• Insufferably sore loser. He hates losing in any facet of life. He goes through multiple stages of grief before he’s just pissed the fuck off and he goes to your room (not even his fucking own he likes yours better) and locks you out and sits there for an indefinite amount of time. He might steal something out of there and you can hear him bitching to himself

• Cooks things with a ridiculous amount of seasonings. He doesn’t fucking care. Let him cook you someone’s livers with lemon pepper and juice and garlic salt and meat tenderizer and spices and nutmeg and chili powder and lime and basil and popcorn salt. The kitchen is fucking insane when he’s in it. But he’s cooking with love and human organs please accept it

• He shows affection in a very odd way. Pulls you in close by your shirt sleeve or jacket strings or belt loops or scarf or whatever. Just wants to feel you close to him sometimes.

• Super flexible. Wants to freak you out. Let him spider walk to your room. He is going to climb on the ceiling in the middle of the night. You can hear his bones. His back bends in ways that are wrong. He’s fucked up

• I think he smells like weed and copper. He’s killed in all of his clothes so they all smell like metal or they’re very stained. And I am a firm believer he smokes weed with Clockwork and Hoodie and sometimes Jeff after a job well done. So he comes home really high and covered in blood sometimes but it’s okay don’t worry about it. It’s cool. He might not even come home until the day after so he can avoid worrying you or you seeing him in that state

• Fucked up tangled hair. Always covers it up with his hood and it’s frizzed up and the ends are split and it’s mangled with blood and there’s miscellaneous substances sticking to it. And he just never puts in the effort to fix it. So he will often just get you to brush it for him and then he’ll get angry that it hurts. And it’s like what the fuck did you expect Jack? But he always greatly appreciates your help

• It’s likely that he gives you his clothes if he doesn’t want them/can’t fit them anymore. I’m not sure how desirable a hoodie that smells of cannabis and blood is tho but if you like it he wants you to have it

• Freakishly Tall. How’s the fuckin weather up there cocksucker? He could lift you all the way up to the goddamn Eiffel Tower. That’s why he has to lean down so his head doesn’t hit most ceilings and shower heads are taller than him so he has to sit down to take baths

• If you weren’t scared of him upon first meeting him (aka he tried to kill you), he would probably think that’s a huge fucking mood killer. “Really? You’re not scared? Kinda killing my vibe here, man… you’re not even gonna scream?”

• He’s downcasted. Dejected. Is he not scary anymore? Is that the problem? Are you just a freak? Do demonic, cannibalistic creatures frequent your room often? What the fuck are you just standing there for?

• He needs to find out what the fuck is wrong you. Which is why he’s going to stay in your house and pace around your kitchen. Stop trying to offer him food and advice on how to wash the blood off his clothes. Stop being yourself!!!!! Get away from him!!!!!!

• So fast forward to now and uh. He would kill for you. Like and subscribe for that

• Evil fucked up creature boyfriend.

[highonmarvel]

girl- i'd do ANYTHING for a very dark!Thor x f!reader where reader is kidnapped and enslaved by him. Noncon, violence will be great.

Love ya! And ty, no pressure :))

-🪐

no it did not take me five months to answer this, who said that. i do apologise for the nearly half a year wait, i’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but i appreciate the ask, and your patience! love you to the moon and to saturn 🪐 alright, here we go:

No Words, Just Screams

Thor Odinson: A quiet and dignified rejection leads to consequences that are the exact opposite of it.

Thank you to the absolutely incredible @buckys-wintersoldier for helping me with this. You are seriously, seriously the best person ever, I love you so much.

additional content warnings here!

CONTENT WARNING, PLEASE READ: This piece includes graphic depictions of violence. Seriously, this is really dark; do not proceed if you are uncomfortable with explicit descriptions of physical abuse and rape. This is your warning. This is fucking dark. I am going to hell.

Non Con Warning

For only the second time in your life you reject a man. He seems nice enough—Thor, is his name—and you’ve seen him around a few times at a mutual friend’s parties, but you’ve hardly spoken to him; he’s gregarious and outgoing and he gets along well with everyone, including you. Though you hardly know him, he’s never given you a reason to dislike him; very short pleasantries have always been comfortable and even humorous, and everyone around you says he’s cool, you’ve just never had the opportunity to really learn anything about him, especially considering he never sticks with one group during a party, making his way through the crowd so everyone gets a piece of him, although it’s never been too much for you.

That’s why you’re so taken aback when he finds you outside and confesses his attraction to you. You had slipped out to the backyard to take a smoke break and try to relieve yourself of the pounding headache caused by the constant yelling and booming music inside.

“I really, really like you. And I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me sometime.”

“Oh!” you startle, really not having expected this. “I… I’m sorry but no… I just don’t know you too well.”

For a moment you wonder if that was the right call—you haven’t really been on too many dates but you know the general idea of them is to get to know someone, and who knows, maybe you’d actually find yourself attracted to him; he’s not bad looking at all—strong arms, blue eyes, blond hair, the works—but you can’t say anything on him as a person. Nearly as immediately as that thought crosses your mind, it’s swept away when his expression changes.

The usually lighthearted and easygoing demeanour he carries vanishes into thin air, and the somewhat bashful nature he had around you as he asked you the question turns into something a little darker, and more serious.

You really can’t tell what’s wrong with this guy. You try to tell yourself he’s just feeling embarrassed and maybe even a little sad right now, but for some reason you suddenly notice the extreme height difference and avert your eyes.

Deciding it’s best to head back inside, you try to push past him on the narrow veranda where he stands blocking your path to the door. He’s still as you move and for a second you don’t think he’ll do anything until suddenly a calloused hand clasps around your wrist and you yelp in fright jumping back at the touch.

“Sorry!” he apologises nearly immediately with a breathy half-laugh.

You look up from his hand restraining you to find his eyes have softened and his popular but not douchey energy is back, as if that earlier spell was just a trick of light.

“I’ve just… never been rejected before,” he laughs again and shakes his head. His words sound lightheartedly incredulous, innocently surprised, but his grip on you is so strong you’re starting to lose feeling in the tips of your fingers.

“Uh— yeah, alright,” he lets your hand fall free and you gasp as the blood comes rushing back, cradling your wrist in the palm of your other. “Just know that you’re incredible, and any guy would be lucky to have you.”

You want to thank him for the compliment and for his interest, but you’re sort of frozen in bewilderment at his weird juxtaposition; his words are soft and sweet, but he won’t meet your eyes, staring into the distance as if focused on something; his reaction to your rejection wasn’t extreme, but it was so unsettling you’d rather he have yelled at you.

You give him a quick, tight-lipped smile before rushing inside and shutting the door behind you, not really caring that you left him out there. For 15 minutes you half-dance lingering by the backdoor, but it never opens again and he never steps in. Oh, God, you really hope no one saw that, you’d rather not be bombarded with questions about why Thor ditched the party after seeing you, but you also don’t want to leave immediately and be interrogated on why you and Thor left at the same time. Eventually you stop hanging at the back of the house and dance your way to the main area where Nat is swaying happily.

“Nat!” you yell her name over the music, moving into her sight line to try to get her attention.

“Oh, hey!” she says in an excited and high pitched voice, “Where’d you go?”

“I just went out for a breather and spoke to Thor.”

“You did?” she replies, closing her eyes as she moves to the music, “That’s great, he’s great!” She’s clearly drunk and you doubt that even if you got her alone for a bit she’d be able to understand what you’re trying to tell her. And what even are you trying to tell her? He didn’t hurt you (intentionally), he didn’t do anything wrong at all, in fact, he was overwhelmingly nice, but the way he switched was spine chilling.

You just nod and continue dancing until your legs are tired. You pour yourself a glass of water at the drink table, looking out through the window it’s pushed against into the street where parked cars are lined up and down the road. But one car is in the middle with the engine running, and you swear it’s Thor’s, but it’s just sitting there, and it’s too dark to tell if it’s him inside. If it is him, what’s he doing? Is he waiting for someone? He came here alone, but he stayed sober tonight, maybe so he could drive a few friends home because he was just that thoughtful, but… maybe that’s not the reason he’s sober while everyone else—including you—is drunk as fuck or high as shit.

Your mind swirls in confusion—worsened by the alcohol—as you try to get your bearings, trying to decide if maybe you really are just being unnecessarily skeptical and harsh on him. Whatever his intentions, you still felt weirdly uncomfortable, and you’re not really able to enjoy the rest of the night feeling slightly unnerved by his earlier presence.

You give Nat a quick goodbye and she waves, but you’re not sure if she heard you say you’re leaving or if she was just swaying to the music. The cool night air calms you down as you step through the front door, but you’re not at peace for long before you stumble and nearly fall face first into the concrete with a shriek. But you don’t feel the impact, instead, you feel steady arms catch you, and hold you a little tighter than necessary.

“Are you okay?” a familiar voice asks: Thor. Maybe he just went to drop someone off at home and he’s back now, there’s no reason to think he’s watching you or following you or anything like that; for Christ’s sake, you barely even spoke to him a few hours ago, you can’t even classify the interactions you’ve had with him as a conversation, and he’s known around here to be the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, so why does this feel so odd?

You grab onto his biceps to steady yourself, mumbling a thanks as you straighten to full height. You can’t really focus on his features considering you’re much drunker than you initially thought, but his cadence just doesn’t seem right.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy? Or, alternatively, what’s wrong with you?

“That’s not an answer, baby.” Baby? “You can’t even walk, let me take you home.”

The last thing you want to do is spend any time alone with him, even though you have to admit his offer seems better than sitting on the couch of a hot living room while people grind on each other all around you. What can you do? You’re feeling a little too out of it to reject his offer, but you know he can tell you don’t want this, and you know he can come up with a dozen reasons as to why you should get home, and why he should be the one to take you; you only really know Nat here and she’s in no condition to drive or even just walk you home, and you don’t live close, so walking alone isn’t just unfeasible based on distance, but after midnight is way too dangerous, and you might even hit the ground on your way.

His hand is light on your bicep, gently catching your attention as he gestures to his car with his other, like he’s laid a treat down to lure an animal into his cage. When you don’t move for a few moments, he guides you forwards; initially you try to resist him, planting your feet in the ground as he walks just a little ahead of you, but even his lightest tug is stronger than you can fight in this state, and you soon find yourself slowly walking with him, carefully eyeing the car.

He opens the back door and you slide in, head pounding and vision slightly blurred, but at least relieved you don’t have to sit next to him. You don’t realise you hadn’t given him your address until the car slows after ten minutes, and you groggily turn your now-heavy head towards the windows and peer at the unfamiliar yard the car is parked in.

Before you have time to question it, Thor gets out and slams the door behind him, the car rocks on its wheels and you try to clasp onto the car door but it’s flung open before you can latch onto it. A shrill squeal leaves your throat before your arm is caught in a death grip between a rough palm with fingers digging so hard into your arm you worry he’ll snap right through your bone.

“Thor—”

“Shut the fuck up!” he yells in your face, causing you to cringe back into the car but he harshly tugs you out and you fall to your hands and knees on the rocky pavement with a grunt, the stones splitting the relatively thin skin of your knees leaving abrasions dirty with sand and small rocks.

Thor’s hand tangles itself into your hair and you yelp as you grip onto his wrist and hastily stumble to your feet lest you risk him ripping your scalp off. If he feels your nails digging into his skin so hard trickles of blood run down your fingers, he doesn’t show it.

You let one hand go and attempt to swipe at him but he’s just far enough out of reach, and you’re not really able to land any hits on target given on your disorientation.

The door to what you assume is his house slams open and you’re flung so far in your slide across the floor for a few metres before hitting your head against the hardwood. You groan as you lift a hand to your temple to feel for a warm trickle of blood racing down the side of your face, but before you can bring your fingertips to your line of vision, a heavy and muddy boot presses onto your head, pushing your cheek into floor and clotting leaves and twigs into your hair. You gasp and try to reach back to pry his ankle off of you but he swats the hand away with one of his own and you let it fall to the floor with a whimper. He leans forward on his leg and lets out a disappointed sigh, crushing your face so your lips purse and you can’t even ask for him to stop.

“This could have been a lot easier, you know,” he says casually, as if saying yes to him was the definition of a no-brainer, and in his mind, it might have been; he’s never been rejected before, and by the way he’s behaving, you can tell he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Saliva drips out of your mouth and forms a small pool on the floor as he presses down harder, before he finally releases you and you’re able to place your hands underneath your shoulders and push your head up, and the room spins so fast you nearly regret doing so. You don’t have time for relief before you’re kicked so you have to roll over onto your back and stare up at this beastly man who seems to be becoming less human and more animal-like by the second, breathing heavily as if he’s the one who was practically thrown across the room and crushed under the weight of a tall man. His pupils have definitely dilated, making the anger in his eyes that much more intense.

Again he presses his foot down, this time to your stomach, knocking the wind right out of you. You try to squirm upwards from under him but he leans down and effortlessly wraps a large hand around your throat, stopping you in your tracks as you pivot your attention to prying him off of you and trying to get some air into your lungs again, ignoring the black spots that dot the corners of your vision.

He does finally let go of your neck but not before slamming your head into the floor, making you gurgle and sending a near-deafening ringing sound bouncing through your skull. You try to prop yourself up on your forearms but you can’t lift your head a few inches off the ground before it slams back down.

“I try… to be nice,” he growls as he steps over you, putting one foot on either side of your body, “And you… just wanna be difficult.” He brings his boot up and slams it down hard against your wrist, and your scream is so loud you nearly miss the unmistakable bone-crunching sound the stomp makes as your left wrist breaks under the impact.

“Please—” you begin, but are forced to let out a cry of pain as he presses down harder.

“I told you to shut the fuck up!” he bellows, but he finally frees your mangled hand and you gasp as you push over to your left side, wanting to grasp your wrist in your right palm but stopping short when noticing the hypersensitivity even as you brush your fingers lightly over your jagged skin is enough to make you want to pass out. “No words,” he continues, clearly trying hard to keep his voice level, though you can still hear the twinge of sadistic enjoyment at the edges of his words, “Just screams.”

He nudges you over until you’re lying on your belly again and makes quick work of kicking your legs apart. In anticipation of what’s coming, you try to kick at his crotch but he catches your ankle and crashes your leg back down to the cold, hard floor. The sound of him unbuckling his belt makes your heart rate pick up, drumming against your ribs is such harsh hits you’re scared it’ll break through. You try to claw forward but choke on a sob as you’re reminded of your broken wrist when the slightest movement causes blood to start painfully pumping through the site of injury.

When he spits in his hand, you break down and let out a wail, and based on the grunt he lets out as he strokes himself, it seems to only spur him on further. You don’t even know when he’s pushed your underwear to the side but when he feel his tip rest for a moment on your entrance, it makes you cry out a plea, using your right hand to claw at his thigh while hopelessly trying to thrash your legs with your thighs trapped under his knees that are painfully digging into your flesh, “No, no, no, please, please—”

He interlocks his fingers through yours making sure his palm presses down on your injured hand and his other hand pulls roughly at your hair to bring your head up. He spits in your face then slams your head back down so hard your teeth chatter and you taste warm blood filling your mouth.

He pushes into you with a frustrated grunt at how painfully dry you are, but that doesn’t stop him for long. He spits on his hand and reaches down to add a few wet fingers to his length, causing you to cry out at the painful and unnatural stretch. With a low growl in the back of his throat, he slowly pulls himself nearly entirely out of you before slamming his hips so far into you that you jerk forward and feel your walls tear around him. The sight of blood has him nearly drooling and makes his task of rocking into you a little easier, and you’re sick with the thought. You can’t even cry out for help, all your oxygen being used to actually keep yourself breathing despite your tortured cries and the fear you might actually split apart because of how relentlessly his massive length is pounding into you, literally tearing your cunt apart.

You feel his thrusts start to get sloppy as he loses his rhythm and his muscles tense up. With one final slam he releases himself and lets his heavy body fall on top of you, nearly suffocating you as you heave for enough air to cry. When he pulls out, you hear the disgusting sound of your blood mixed with his come before it drips onto the floor, and you hear him hum in delight as he shoves two fingers inside you earning a yelp before popping them into his mouth and moaning at the taste.

When his breathing calms down, he finally crawls up to look at you, your face stained with tears and snot and spit pooling underneath your flushed cheeks.

“Better get used to it, babe.”

ϟ

💛 [taglist: @pr300877, @cowboysnbugs]

[hearts-hunger]

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: You don't like haunted houses. When you get scared by a big huge werewolf, you find you like the man behind the mask.

Pairings: Danny x Reader | Genre: halloween fluff, hurt/comfort | Word Count: 7k (yikes) | Warnings: smoking, anxiety, general Halloween spookyness

A/N: This is my fic for the GVF Fic Writer's Halloween Event! I used the prompt “carnival haunted house”. I hope you like it! ♡

“Come on, it’s not gonna be that bad! You’re being such a baby.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, half defensive and half warding off the chill of the autumn night. You couldn’t exactly argue with your friend; you were kind of being a baby about the haunted house she’d dragged you to with her boyfriend and a bunch of his Greek life pals. Still, she knew you weren’t particularly adventurous, and you figured she should have known you would be wary of doing something like this.

“I’ve never been to a haunted house,” you protested. “And the reviews said it's supposed to be the scariest one in the state.”

“Well, yeah,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Why would we go to some lame ass haunted house? We’re here to get scared.”

You have a doubtful hum as you looked over the front of the house. They’d certainly done the place up — the actors that milled around in the sharp lighting set the scene, and the house was realistically run-down and looked on the verge of structural collapse. The screams punctuating the soundtrack of ghoulish music that came from inside didn’t do it any favors, either.

“It’ll be fun,” she insisted. “You always do this. Frat parties, horror movie marathons, literally any hookup I try to get you... You always chicken out at the last second.”

You winced at a particularly shrill shriek that came through the boarded-up window. “Yeah.” You found yourself wishing you’d decided to stay home with a good book and a hot toddy.

“Just stick with Ben,” she said, gesturing to the one single guy in your group. “Who knows? You might even get some action later — if you're not too scared, that is.”

You gave her a dry smile. “That idea is even scarier than the haunted house.”

She scoffed. “Your standards are too high. Ben’s nice. And he's hot.”

You had to admit she was right about him being hot. But as for him being nice, well, you’d heard the rumors, and you didn't want to find out if they were true.

“Can’t I just stick with you?” you asked. You took her hand. “Come on, Ash. Girl’s trip through the haunted house.”

She untangled herself from you. “No way. I’m with Jackson.”

Before you could try and convince her not to leave you alone in a haunted house, the undead ticket taker ushered you to the door with a chilling moan. You felt a flare of anxiety as you came into the dark foyer and took a seat with your group in front of a hooded fortune teller.

“Welcome, my dearies,” she said in a cackling voice. “I’ve seen your fortune in my crystal ball, and I see many winding paths and dark shadows in your future. Some of you may not even make it out alive.”

The ouija board on the wall moved by itself, spelling out “doom”. You tried to relax; maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would even be fun.

Suddenly, a box beside the fortune teller popped open with a shriek and revealed a leering skeleton. You jumped and couldn't help a little cry of fear.

“Here we go,” Ashley said derisively. 

You frowned at her. “I thought the whole point was to get scared.”

“Yeah, from shit that's actually scary.”

You didn't have time to reply, moved along from your seat to a dark, winding hallway by a frantic actor in grisly makeup. You got shouldered to the back of the pack, behind Ashley and Jackson, and tried to keep your cool. 

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Ashley said, a tone of delight in her slightly hushed voice. Screams and creepy laughter echoed from farther off, and you all cautiously made your way down the dark hallway.

The hallway was narrow, and your group was moving slowly in suspense; a ghoul jumped from the hole in the wall you hadn’t noticed and howled at you. 

You bit out a curse and grabbed the back of Ashley's sweater, deciding right then that you didn’t like this at all.

“Get off,” she said, pushing your hand away. “Find somebody else to hold onto if you have to, geez.”

Stung, you withdrew your hand and hugged your middle. The frenzied atmosphere had your anxiety on high alert, and you jumped at every little thing, adding your frightened voice to the cacophony of shrieks and screams and rattling cages that lined the walls.

You made it through the house by sheer willpower alone, growing more and more agitated as actors jumped out at you, skeletons fell from the ceiling to dangle in front of you, and strobe lights disoriented every scene. When you finally made it through, you tried to catch your breath, and then remembered with horror that there was a haunted walk in the woods to get through next.

“Ashely,” you pleaded. “I really don’t like this. Is there any way — ?”

“Don’t ruin it,” she said waspishly, obviously annoyed and being pulled forward by her boyfriend. 

You felt close to tears. You weren’t trying to ruin it, and you were embarrassed that you couldn’t keep it together and hurt by her callousness. 

Unable to do anything else, you kept moving forward through the cemetery scene and shied away in fear from every ghost and mangled undead creature that leapt from behind the headstones. Your breathing was rapid, and you started to feel lightheaded as you tried to keep up with your group.

A few moments of quiet followed when you made it out of the cemetery, and you foolishly let your guard down. Then, without warning, an actor jumped from the woods into the path, screaming to beat the devil, right between you and the rest of your group. 

You froze, unable to see past the gruesome makeup and the awful screaming. When you finally found use of your legs again, you hurried past him and rounded a corner only to be scared by another actor in a horrible mask.

You were at your wit's end. You fled, stumbling down the dark wooded path, and found the trail completely empty. You looked frantically for your group; they must have left you behind, hurrying on to the next array of terrifying scenes. Your hands shook as you found yourself completely alone in the pitch-black woods, waiting in terrible suspense for the next thing to jump out at you.

You quickly came up on a dense patch of forest, skeletal branches tearing at your hair and your sweater. There was a figure ahead, a shadowed and huge werewolf, and you thought it was a statue; you had just passed it when it moved. 

You screamed as it ran into the path from behind you and came right up beside you.

“Wait! Stop!” you pleaded, unable to stop the tears from finally overflowing. You cowered and begged the actor to leave you alone. He reached a clawed hand out towards you and said something in a distorted voice, and you shrank back as he moved closer.

“Please,” you sobbed, beside yourself. You couldn't take any more; your heart was fairly beating out of your chest, and you couldn’t stop crying.

The actor swept off his werewolf mask, revealing a concerned expression and a bounty of curly black hair. He kept his distance from you but still had one hand outstretched. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you more after you said to stop — I should have taken my mask off sooner. I’m sorry.”

You inhaled in a choppy breath, still reeling from the overwhelming fear and now faced with the biggest, gentlest looking guy you’d ever seen.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, calm and kind. “And I won’t scare you any more.”

Your breath caught on a pitiful sob. “Do you promise?”

His expression was gentle. “Yes, I promise. My name’s Danny. I’m just an actor.”

You tried to collect yourself, working to steady your breathing and stop crying, watching as he looked around the woods. 

“Where’s your group?” he asked. “They’re not supposed to let people go alone.”

“They l-left me,” you managed. 

He frowned. “They left you?” He gave a disapproving hum. “Some friends they are.”

You didn’t say anything to that, figuring your emotional state was enough of an agreement.

“I’m just trying to get through this so I can go home,” you said miserably. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said kindly. “Is it your first time?”

You nodded, running your sleeve over your face to try and repair yourself. “My friends made me come.”

He sighed.

“Well, I can’t make your friends not be dicks to you,” he said apologetically. “But I can get you out without having to go through the rest of it.”

You looked up at him, so relieved you were almost dizzy with it. “Really?”

“Of course.” He extended his hand to the woods he’d come from. “Right this way.”

Despite his kindness to you, you still felt wary. He noticed and softened his posture towards you.

“I promise there’s nothing scary,” he said, and you knew he was being sincere. “It’s the way I get out, kind of like a backstage shortcut. I’ll take you right back to the front where you can wait on your group.”

You gave a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

You followed him off the main path onto another that cut through the woods, finally settling after a few minutes, the cold air stinging your warm face. Though you still heard the shrieks of people passing by, you felt more at ease walking beside Danny. He held his mask under one arm and trudged a little awkwardly through the brush in his big suit, making sure to stick by your side.

“I’m not going to get you in trouble, am I?” you asked, looking up at him. He was still a little imposing even without the mask, tall and broad, but you weren't afraid of him.

“No, you’re alright,” he assured you. “We can take people out if they use the safeword.”

You hadn’t even known there was a safeword, and figured that would have been a nice piece of information for Ashley to share with you.

“What is the safeword?” you asked. “In case I ever decide to come back in a fit of insanity.”

He chuckled, and the sound was warm.

“It’s ‘kitkat’,” he said. “Like the candy. Any time we hear it, we stop whatever scene we’re in and make sure that person gets out safely.”

“That’s nice of you,” you said. You had to step twice for each one of his long strides, and you were glad you had him with you as the sounds of the maze still rang out in the darkness.

He shrugged. “The owners are good people, and they want to make sure it's a safe and fun experience for everyone.”

You tried to listen to what he said, but you saw something coming towards your path; though you knew it was probably just another actor coming off set, you remembered one of them walking alongside you in the trees and jumping out at you.

“It’s okay,” Danny said gently. “They’re not going to scare you. I promise.”

The actor came into the path a few paces ahead of you and gave Danny a friendly wave in his undead getup. Danny tried to lift his hand to wave back, and both of you realized that you were holding on to his arm through the suit.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, blushing hot and quickly withdrawing your hand.

His smile was patient and unconcerned. “No worries.”

Sooner than you expected, you came up to the fence and saw a cheery bonfire and a few outbuildings just beyond.

He held the gate open for you. “Well, here we are,” he said amiably. “This is the staff entrance, but if you go around that building, you'll come around to the main ticketing booth. You shouldn't have any trouble, but if someone asks, tell them you safeworded out and Danny sent you back.”

You stopped halfway through the gate. “Thank you for your help, Danny. I'm sorry to have been a bother.”

He shook his head and gave you a friendly smile. 

“You weren’t a bother,” he said. “I’m glad I could help, and I’m sorry you didn’t have such a great time.”

Your returning smile was a little wobbly. “Well... have a good night. I hope you scare lots of people.”

He laughed. “Thanks. You have a good night too.”

He turned to go back to his shadowy wooded post, and you wended your way through the staff section, passing a few actors in various states of costuming. A security guard directed you towards the main entrance, and you found a spot to sit and wait for your group. 

Long minutes passed. You texted Ashley and told her where you were, but you didn't get a response; you wondered if they'd chosen to do the extra zombie maze and haunted hayride without you. You were cold, and you wished you had your own car so you wouldn’t have to wait for a ride.

“Hey, kitkat.”

You looked up at the familiar voice and saw Danny waving to you from the fence that bordered the staff area. You walked over and felt a sort of shy warmth at his smile.

“Hi,” you said. “Were you worried I might have died of fright?”

He chuckled. “A little. I just wanted to check and see if your friends had come back yet. They’re still not here?”

“I texted them, but I guess they must have gone ahead and done the extra stuff.” You huddled further into your sweater. “It’s really kind of you to interrupt your work to check on me.”

He looked a little bashful. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m actually done for the night; somebody else is being the werewolf for the last shift.”

“Ah, I see,” you said. “Passing on the torch of terror.”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

A breeze rustled through the trees, and you shivered. 

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“A little,” you admitted.

He gestured over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to come sit by the bonfire while you wait. A few of us are hanging out for a while.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, thinking it was a very sweet offer. 

“Yeah,” he said. “As long as you’re okay with seeing people with their makeup and costumes still on.”

“But they’re not, uh... working, right?”

He smiled. “Nope. We don’t scare off the clock, I promise.”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He opened the gate for you and led you to the bonfire, and the two guys already sitting there in matching skull makeup and tattered costumes looked up at you in uncanny synchronicity.

“I thought you said you don’t scare off the clock,” you whispered to Danny.

He laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “They’re just like that. It’s a twin thing, I guess.” He offered you a seat on a log bench by the fire. “Guys, this is...” 

Danny looked at you. “Shoot. I don't even know your name.”

You smiled and introduced yourself to the twins. They lost some of their spookiness as they introduced themselves as Josh and Jake.

“So you're Danny’s kitkat,” Josh said with a winsome smile. “Nice to meet you.”

You smiled back, a little sheepish. “Thank you. You both look... terrifying.”

Jake mimed a gallant bow. “Why thank you. We certainly try.”

Danny touched an unobtrusive hand to your shoulder.

“I’m just gonna get out of this suit,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded. “Okay. I’ll be here.”

He turned to go, but before he’d made it two steps, he turned back towards you.

“Do you like apple cider?” he asked.

You were a little bemused at the question. “Yeah. I love it.”

He smiled. “Okay. Sit tight.”

You watched him go, endeared to his thoughtfulness and the warm ease of his smile. You had the somewhat silly thought that it suited him to play what was essentially, in the light of day, a big shaggy dog.

“So, kitkat,” Jake said, and you guessed the playfully teasing nickname had stuck. “How did you like our little haunted patch of heaven?”

You gave a wry smile. “How many people that burst into tears and get escorted out seem to like it?”

He laughed, and it was an amusing contrast to his makeup. 

“Well, I guess you’re right,” he said. “But some people who leave early just didn’t know what to expect, and they come back again when they're more prepared. Some people flat don’t like this kind of thing.”

“I think I'm probably the second kind,” you admitted. “My friends brought me, and I knew I wasn't going to like it.”

Josh lit a cigarette and held it between his long fingers painted to look like bones. 

“You’re not with your friends now, though,” he observed. “Do they know you’re here?”

You shrugged. “I texted them, but they’d already left me behind by the time I got to Danny. I don't know when they’re going to be done.”

“They left you behind?” Jake asked, indignant. “I mean, no offense to your friends, but that’s kind of a dick move.”

“No, you’re right,” you agreed. “Danny was very kind to help me even though I was hysterical when he jumped out at me.”

Both twins lifted their gaze to something behind you, and Josh grinned. 

“Aw, Dan, you hear that?” he said. “You’re a very kind werewolf.”

You looked over to see Danny wearing a somewhat bashful smile and holding a mug wreathed with steam, a jacket draped over his arm.

“Just doing my job,” he said modestly. He sat beside you and handed you the mug, then put his huge jacket over your shoulders. “Here. This’ll get you warmed up.”

You took the mug gratefully and warmed your hands on the sides of it, breathing in the tart fragrance of apple cider as steam rose from the drink. His jacket, though you were practically swimming in it, was warm and smelled like sweet, spicy cologne. “Thank you, Danny.”

He smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

He stretched his long legs out towards the fire, and you admired how he looked in snug jeans and a rust-colored sweater. He wasn’t scary at all out of the suit, and you were curious as to how much his friends would change once they were out of their makeup.

“What part do you two work?” you asked the twins. “I don’t remember seeing you in the house, but then again, I was kind of trying not to see anything.”

They smiled, curving the black-and-white skeleton grins into something gentler.

“We’re past Danny a little ways,” Jake said. “There’s a section of the woods between Jason’s chainsaw attack and Elm Street, and we do a whole routine of following people and then screaming at the top of our lungs when we get close to them.”

“Josh is very good at it,” Danny said. “He’s got the pipes for it.”

You smiled despite the lingering unease of imagining being caught in their scene. “I’m glad I didn't make it to your section, then.”

They laughed.

“You should have seen Jake when he was the undead pirate in the swamp scene,” Josh said. “He’d sit completely still in the chair in the corner and then jump up and chase people out through the alligator swamp.” He looked to his brother. “What was that, two seasons ago? That was a big hit that year.”

“Have you played a lot of different parts?” you asked.

All three of them agreed.

“They move you around all the time,” Danny said. “It’s fun getting to play different characters and wear different costumes. Josh played this little dude with a pumpkin head that didn’t look scary at first, but it freaked people out when he stood as they passed by and just turned his head to watch them.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that one,” Josh said, fondly reminiscing on scaring the bejeezus out of people. “Weren't you Michael Meyers when I was doing that?”

Danny laughed. “Yeah, because I was the only one tall enough that year.”

“What was Sam doing then?” Jake asked.

Josh shook his head. “He was a zombie, I think. Maybe.” He looked to you. “Sam is our younger brother. He works here too.”

“He should be getting off any minute,” Danny said, glancing at his watch. He looked towards the woods. “There he is now, actually.”

You looked over too, and you gasped as you saw a huge four-legged stilt creature with mossy horns atop a deer skull head. 

“That’s just Sam,” Danny said quickly, wanting to reassure you.

You smiled in delight. “It's okay. I’m not afraid of that. I think it’s wonderful.”

A few coworkers near the fence helped Sam get out of his costume and off the stilts, and he shook his hair out of his face as he came over to your bonfire.

“Howdy, boys,” he said. He caught sight of you and gave you a curious smile.

“I didn’t know we were inviting lady friends to hang out,” he said. 

The twins laughed, and Danny’s smile was a little embarrassed.

“Danny just helped me get out of the woods,” you told him with a smile. “And your brothers have been nice enough to share your bonfire while I wait for my group.”

“Ah, a kitkat, huh?” Sam asked. “Sorry if I scared you coming out in all my regalia.”

“She said you were wonderful,” Jake teased. “Not scary at all.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m glad you liked it. It’s a bitch to get in and out of, but I think it looks cool.”

He sat catty-corner to the twins and sighed deeply as he stretched. “Cigarette.”

Josh pulled one out of his pack for him and tossed him a lighter. “So polite, Sammy.”

Sam smiled as he lit his smoke. “You know what some girl said to me? She said she wanted to take me home as a pet.”

Danny grinned. “As, like, a sexy pet? Or just a huge, weird dog?”

“Huge weird dog,” he agreed. “Though you’ve probably got me beat on that one.”

“Nah, Danny gets all the lonely Halloween housewives,” Jake said. “They like him all... wolfy.”

You looked over at Danny. “Do they really?” you asked, amused. 

You didn’t know for sure in the warm light of the fire, but you thought he might have blushed.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “They probably wouldn't feel the same if they saw me out of the suit, though.”

You thought that couldn't be true. If he hadn’t scared you, you might have been... intrigued by the werewolf costume. Certainly you were intrigued now that he was out of it.

You talked for a long time around the fire, learning some of their different parts they’d played, getting funny stories of their best scares, finding out some of the behind the scenes secrets that made it less frightening and more interesting to you.

“How long have you worked here?” you asked.

“This is our fourth year,” Sam said. “It’s just a seasonal thing — our real job is playing music, but, you know, gotta pay the bills before we land Madison Square Garden.”

You drew Danny's jacket closer around you, thankful for its warmth. He had moved closer, or maybe you had moved, so the two of you were shoulder to shoulder. 

“What kind of music do you play?” you asked.

“Rock n roll,” Josh said proudly. “Jake’s on guitar, Sam's on bass, and Danny's on drums.”

“Does that make you the mercurial lead singer?” you teased. 

He grinned. “I do what I can.”

You thought of Danny playing drums and felt something close to butterflies at the thought. 

“We’re doing local gigs, mostly,” Jake said. “We’re hoping to get a recording contract soon, but for now, we’re starving artists splitting rent and scaring people in the side.”

You smiled. “You should do a Halloween-themed concert here,” you said. “All decked out in makeup and costumes. I would come.”

“That’s actually a fantastic idea,” Josh said. “Hey, Dan, you picked a good one.”

You were a little embarrassed but mostly pleased at his lighthearted teasing, and you thought Danny felt the same. As the brothers started discussing what their spooky concert could entail, Danny checked a message on his phone.

“Brian lost his fake arm,” Danny said to the group. “Some moron thought it would be funny if he grabbed it and ran off with it.”

“Super,” Jake said dryly. “I assume the security guys are escorting the arm thief off property?”

Danny stood and pocketed his phone. “I reckon. But he asked me if I’d bring him a spare arm.”

 He looked down at you with a hopeful expression. “You want to come along?”

“On a zombie arm delivery through the quarantine zone?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Through the backstage, so no scary stuff.”

He held his hand out to you, and you took it.

“I might cry again,” you warned. “You never know.”

He squeezed your hand. “I won't let anything get you, kitkat. You stick with me and you’ll be just fine.”

You were happy to comply, enjoying the feeling of your hand in his as he led you to the prop storage building. He had to let go of your hand to sift through the array of knives, chainsaws, and tombstones, and you followed him through the winding aisles of shelves stacked high with all manner of fake blood and gruesome pumpkin heads.

You skirted a group of seven foot tall skeletons looming in the light of the bare lightbulbs overhead. “You guys have a lot of stuff.”

“This isn't even half of it,” he said, looking for a particular shelf. He rounded a corner and you followed, coming face to face with a leering clown mask that made you draw a sharp breath.

“You okay?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you said, a little embarrassed that you’d been frightened of a completely motionless mask. You moved close again and concentrated on him instead of the ghoulish props. “This stuff doesn’t freak you out? Even just a little?”

He shrugged, but he wore a tell-tale smile. “Not really. I’m used to it by now.” He found the shelf he was looking for. “Aha! Here we go.”

He pulled a grisly arm in a ripped sleeve from the collection and held it up. “High five.”

You slapped your palm against it. “Is that all we need?”

“Yep,” he agreed. “We’re all set.”

He took your hand again and led you back outside, walking along the fence until you reached a different entrance to the woods. You pressed closer when you started down the path, and he smiled down at you in the dim light of the half-moon.

“You’re okay, kitkat,” he said sweetly. “Remember what I said?”

“You’re not going to let anything get me?”

“Right. I gotcha, don’t worry.”

The woods were almost pleasant without the frantic haunts and jumpscares, and you noticed the lush sounds that filtered through the sound effects and various shrieks and screams that drifted through the darkness. 

A trilling, haunting bird call caught your attention. “Is that part of the ambience?”

“A natural one,” he said. “That’s an eastern screech owl. They sing all the time out here.”

He pulled you to a stop. “We might be able to see this one. Hold on.”

His hand was warm in yours, big and callused, and you watched his face as he studied the trees. He was handsome, there was no denying it; his curls were brushed by the breeze, and you couldn't help but do the same when you saw the excited curve of his smile.

“There it is,” he said quietly, pointing to a tree a few paces ahead. “See it?”

You looked where he directed, and after a moment of searching, you saw a small brown owl perched on a branch. It called again, a waterfall of notes, and you watched the feathers on its head stand up like little horns.

“Spooky,” you said.

He smiled. “Isn't it pretty?”

“It’s beautiful,” you agreed. He squeezed your hand, pleased you’d liked it.

“Let’s go deliver this arm,” he said. “Shall we?”

“Lead on, good sir.”

You reached the quarantine zone section of the maze, and you started to feel uneasy again as the screams of happily frightened patrons and dedicated actors got louder. Danny shouldered a side door open and took you inside, winding through the narrow walls with an ease born of practice.

You came up to a little room open to the backstage side with a barred window of the opposite wall. A guy in all his zombie finery cracked a smile that was slightly marred by his macabre makeup.

“Brought me a snack, huh?” he joked.

“Just an arm,” Danny said, handing it over. “Sorry yours got snatched.”

He rolled his eyes. “It was a bunch of frat guys. Idiots.”

You wondered grimly if it was one of Ashley and Jackson’s troupe that had taken the arm. You wouldn’t be surprised. 

“See you around,” Danny said, squeezing his broad frame back through the entrance. He took you back down the maze to the place you’d come in from, and you were about to ask him if he’d ever worked as a zombie when an actor slammed against the bars his jail cell beside you.

You yelped and moved behind Danny, feeling your heartbeat pick up again.

“Hey, Cindy, hold up,” Danny said to the actor, holding you hand tightly and putting himself between you and the actor. “I got a kitkat with me.”

She immediately let up on her routine and peeked through the bars of the cell.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I didn’t see that it was you. Are you okay, hon?”

You tried to find your voice, tucking yourself safely behind Danny. “I’m fine, thanks. You’re very effective.”

She laughed. “Thank you. Sorry again for scaring you.”

You followed Danny out, trying to get your heartbeat to settle into a normal rhythm. When you were through the back door again, Danny turned to face you.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, and you heard how much he meant it. “I forgot there was a spot there. I should have warned you.”

“It’s okay,” you said weakly. You looked up at him. “You didn’t let her get me, so I guess we’re good.”

He gave you an apologetic smile. “Still, I feel terrible. Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Yes. Sorry you got stuck with the wimpiest girl in the whole world.”

“I don't mind,” he said kindly. He squeezed your hand. “Let's get you back to civilization, yeah?”

As you walked, you felt your phone buzz. You read the text from Ashley, and from the number of odd typos, it seemed like she’d gone back to the car and gotten into the frat boys’ stash of weed or alcohol or both. She didn't seem remotely concerned or apologetic that they’d completely abandoned you, and the demand to come back to the car for a ride home didn’t exactly make up for it.

“Is that your friends?” Danny asked.

You gave a doubtful hum. “I’ve decided ‘friends’ is a bit of a strong word, but yes. They're finally headed back to the car.”

Danny didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he seemed to work up his courage with a deep breath.

“Okay, so, before I say anything,” he said, “I want you to know you can absolutely turn me down and it won’t hurt my feelings. I’m happy to walk you back to your friends’ car and leave it at that.”

You felt a spark of something eager, something curious. “Okay,” you agreed. “What’s behind door number two?”

His smile was shy. “Well, I was thinking, if you don’t live nine hundred miles from here... I could drive you home. Maybe we could grab some dinner.”

You wanted to say yes immediately, but you made yourself think it through. It was a little crazy to be accepting a ride home from a guy you’d just met at a haunted house — a lot crazy for you, considering you were the opposite of adventurous or risk-seeking — but there was something about Danny that you knew was trustworthy. He’d been nothing but kind to you and hadn’t done anything that made you even vaguely uncomfortable, and you wanted to get to know him better.

“I’d like that,” you said, and you felt yourself blush when he smiled.

“Really?” he asked. “Like I said, I don’t mind taking you over to your friends. But if I do, I... I would like to get your number, and ask you out for something in the daytime if you want.”

You’d never had such genuine, conscientious attention turned your way before, and you found you very much enjoyed it. 

“I would love to go out sometime when it’s not pitch black,” you said, teasing a little, and he laughed.

“And tonight?” he asked, cautious of seeming insistent.

You smiled. “I would be grateful if you could drive me home, if it’s not too far out of your way. I live at the university.”

“That’s not out of the way at all,” he said. “Our house is right around the corner.”

You liked the thought that meeting up with him again would be easy, almost like it was meant to be. As you made it back to the bonfire where Sam, Josh, and Jake were waiting, you texted Ashley to tell her your plans; just as a precaution, though you didn’t think you’d need it, you shared your location with her.

“I gave her instructions to let them do a documentary on me if I get murdered,” you said.

Danny laughed. “Okay. I can promise you that it won’t be me, at any rate. I do think we should get some killer pumpkin waffles, though. I know a good place.”

“Are you going to the diner?” Sam asked. The three of them had been shamelessly listening in on your conversation, and they gave you three matched smiles as you came up to the fire.

“Can we come too?” Josh asked.

Jake elbowed him. “They’re going on a date, dummy.”

Josh scoffed. “It’s not really fair of him to bring up the diner and not invite us.”

“We’ll sit at a different booth,” Sam promised.

You laughed. “I don’t mind if you come,” you said. “And we can sit at the same booth.”

You looked up at Danny. “Unless you mind.”

His smile was equal parts fond and exasperated with his friends. “No, I don't mind. The more the merrier.”

The boys were thrilled to hear that, and they left to get out of their costumes so you could leave. You and Danny sat by the fire in a bashful, quiet companionship. 

“I would like to go out sometime, just us,” you said. “If... if you want to. You four seem kind of like a package deal, though.”

He chuckled. “We are, kind of. We’ve been friends since we were kids — they’re really more like my brothers. But yes, I want to go out sometime too, just us.”

“Even though I'm a kitkat?” you asked. “It’s been quite a first impression.”

He smiled and brushed your hair behind your ear in an affectionate, innocent touch. “It wasn't so bad,” he said. “I’m glad you were my kitkat.”

You blushed and tried to hide your smile. The boys came back and rescued you from doing anything foolish, like kissing a guy you’d just met, and the five of you made your way through the grass to the staff parking lot.

“You two look downright friendly without all your makeup,” you said to Jake and Josh. You saw their differences more clearly now, noticing how Jake’s face was softer and Josh's features were in sharper relief. They were still a matched pair, and Sam clearly took after them in their good looks, but Danny was the one who really held your attention with his tall, broad, and dark aspect.

You all piled into Danny's car, and as they let you have the front seat, you learned that they usually rode together since they were all coming from and going to the same place.

“It’s my turn with the aux,” Jake said, reaching for it.

“No sea shanties, please,” Sam said dramatically. 

“Let kitkat have the aux if she wants,” Josh chided. “She’s the guest.”

“Oh, um...” You took the cord when Jake handed it to you. “Are you sure? What if I pick something you hate?”

“Try us,” Danny said. “Between the four of us, we have a wide variety of musical interests.”

You pulled up your Halloween playlist, thinking it was appropriate, and played “Werewolves of London”.

“Oh hell yeah,” Danny said. “Turn this up.”

“Hey, Dan,” Jake said. “This could be your theme song.”

He smiled. “I'll just put a Union Jack on my costume somewhere.” He glanced over at you. “You like Warren Zevon?”

“I love him,” you said. “Excitable Boy is my favorite album of his.”

“That’s because you have excellent taste,” he said seriously.

You were pleased that he liked what you’d picked, and all of you sang along as he drove past rolling farmland back into the city proper. He pulled up to a diner you’d always wanted to try but had never had a chance to, and the five of you found a booth in the corner and placed your orders for a variety of classic diner food and a round of coffee.

You talked and laughed as you had your late-night dinner, and the more you got to know Danny and his brothers, the more you liked them. When you were finished, you lingered over your coffee and waited for the milkshakes you ordered; you hadn’t wanted a whole dessert to yourself, and Danny offered to split his with you.

Your pumpkin pie shake came with two striped straws, and you giggled when Danny’s nose brushed against yours as you both took a sip. You saw Sam, Jake, and Josh watching you with amusement and affection and couldn’t help but blush.

“Sorry if this is too early to say,” Josh said, “but you two are cute together.”

Danny blushed too, but his smile was pleased. When you were done, he stood and said he was going for a cigarette.

“You want to come?” he asked.

You took the hand he offered and smiled up at him. “Sure.”

He led you outside, and you thought you heard the boys talking about the two of you as you left them. The night air was chilly, and you moved close to him for warmth and maybe something more.

“I have a pack in my jacket,” he said, and you realized you were still wearing it from when he’d given it to you earlier. 

“Oh, I totally forgot,” you said, making to take it off and give it back. “I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s okay,” he assured you. He pulled it back on your shoulders and made sure it was snug. He smiled. “You look better in it anyway.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket, along with a lighter, and his face was all sharp angles and warm colors in the light of the small flame. 

“You want one?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said, taking the one he offered you. “Thanks.”

He lit it for you and closed the lighter with a little click. He brushed his thumb over the surface of it in an absent, thoughtful touch, and you wondered what he was thinking.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me,” you said.

He smiled. “You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”

“Do you ever go through the haunted house?” you asked after a moment. “Not as an actor, I mean.”

He shrugged. “I’ve never had the chance to. I guess I would like to, just to see if from the other side.” He grinned down at you. “Why, are you thinking of coming back in a fit of insanity?”

You gave a soft laugh. “Maybe,” you said. “If I had a big werewolf bodyguard with me to keep me safe.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, but he looked at you with such tenderness and attention you could hardly believe it was directed at you. You didn't consider yourself pretty, certainly not someone to attract such a look from a boy as pretty or as kind as he was, and you felt beautiful under his gaze.

“Can I have a fit of insanity too?” he said. “Just for a second?”

You unconsciously tipped your face up towards him. “Just for a second.”

His smile was impossibly affectionate. “Can I kiss you, kitkat?”

“Please,” you said softly.

He moved slowly, giving you time to pull away, and when he kissed you it was gentle and warm and undemanding. Your whole body felt warm and tingly with something you didn't think you’d ever experienced before.

You sighed when he let you come up for air, and you were glad that he stayed close, his nose brushing against yours.

“I really like you, kitkat,” he said, quiet and sure.

You twined your fingers with his, thanking your lucky stars for haunted houses and big, scary werewolves and everything that was going to come with them.

You smiled and kissed him again. “I really like you too, Danny.”

danny taglist:@tearsofbri@busybeingtrash@myway-late@gotavansleep@gretavanbri@stardustchxrds@pxppylove @bajabule69 @radmads-gvf@sunnykiszka@audgeppp@ageoffleeet@stardustjake @for-ur-love @aspenkiszka @aspenchosetheroad

gvf taglist:@malany-gvf@spark-my-nature@eearevee@madneedshelp@demonrat444@josh-iamyour-mama @honeyandsweettae @mydarlingdanny@gretavandann@sacredjake@myleftsock@joshskittytickler21@hellowgoodbye@watchingovergvf2@fearfulspirit@mywaysoon@carbondancingthroughtime@caprisunsister @eraofstardustchords @sacredthefran@shesawomaninadream @serendipiti @demonrat444@wildflowerxx-x@tearsofdanny @iluvjoshkiszka @jordie-gvf-admin@demolitionndann @hi-hi-hello11@wildbluesorbit@nessie-glorpa@laneygvf

@gvfrry@ohhey1293@the-chaotic-cow@mountain-in-springtime@xserenax-13@stardustjtk @brooke-gvf@weightofdreams-gvf@jakeydoesit@gretasmokerising@hayley1623@doodle417@finestoflines@brokenbellz@bowievanfleet@s0livagant@strugglingtodoshit@s-u-t@kay-jordan@gretavanfleas@jakeyboiiiiiii@gretavansteph@gretavanbitches@myownparadise96@luverleaver@weightofdreamz@greatervanfleet@maedesculpaeusoubi@jakekiszkasbestie@pineapple-photographer@baguettejuliette@alexxavicry@levi-wants-ur-bones@carlybubs@cowboysamkiszka@dannyandthekiszkas@jordierama@slutforsteve@starshine-wagner@quartzzzzzzz@edgeofdreams@writingcold @lostoverseer @catharu77 @mackalah@jaketlove @haileygvf @blacksoul-27 @ur-m0ms-blog @hi-hi-hello11 @wildbluesorbit @nessie-glorpa @laneygvf @madneedshelp @dreamsingxld

[quiet-admirer]

Devotion

As promised, here is a little excerpt from Chapter 3 of my current work-in-progress, an enemies-to-lovers M/M queer weight gain kink and feedist story, Devotion, about 2 hardcore punks in 1979 :) Enjoy!

The walk home from the 7-Eleven was tantalizingly, excruciatingly long at first, but once Ira threw out a “How d’you think that bassist tonight got tone like that?” they got to talking shop, and it was like Diego blinked and they were at his apartment door.

Diego flopped onto the futon with the box of SusyQs on his lap and unwrapped his third of the night while Ira unlaced his boots across the room.

“Want a drink? There’s beer in the fridge.”

Ira slid off one boot then the other and stood them neatly by the door. “I don’t drink. Or smoke,” he said with unrestrained disdain. “I don’t do anything. I’m not going to waste time and money poisoning my body and my mind. I want to actually experience my life.”

God, Ira being not only totally straight but also a self-righteous snob about it made so much sense that Diego didn’t know why he’d even thought to offer him a beer in the first place.

“I don’t. Grab me some mind poison, will ya?” Truthfully, he was more in the mood for a Dr. Pepper, but giving Ira a hard time was more satisfying.

Ira pulled a face. “Get it yourself.” He sunk into the couch next to Diego and nudged the box of snack cakes with his foot. “Keep eating, SuzyQ. When you get through this box I’ll order the pizza.”

Diego had never before met anyone who gave him a truly carnal desire to throttle them and yet at the same time kiss them to within an inch of their life. It was as if this one shorter-than-average man single-handedly generated so much irritation that it flooded Diego’s brain and had nowhere to go but to overflow directly to his dick. And somehow he’d also enjoyed every minute he’d spent with Ira in the days since they’d made up. Only Meena could’ve made Diego smile more than he had in the past few hours.

With so many opposing emotions flooding his veins, all Diego could manage was to stuff the cake into his mouth pointedly before retrieving both a beer and a Dr. Pepper for himself, and knocked into Ira maybe a little more than was necessary when he returned to the futon. It took him two more SuzyQs to feel levelheaded enough to resume his questioning.

“So, how does this eating part usually work? Do you handcuff me to the chair and make me eat? Blindfold me? Spoon-feed me like a baby? Am I supposed to act like I don’t like it – is making someone eat how you discipline them – or are you more of a praise guy? Or do you just jerk off while you watch?”

“Hm, well… Any of those, I guess. There isn’t one way to do it, everyone’s different. Just depends on what gets ya hard – and gets you eating, you know?” He looked at Diego thoughtfully. “You’re kind of creative, when it comes to weird sex stuff.”

“Thanks for specifying that the creativity is for weird sex stuff in case I got confused and thought you meant I was a creative person generally, or as, say, a musician.”

“You’re welcome,” Ira said with a nasty sarcastic smile. “With the guys I’ve been with, a couple of them did want me to tie them up and act like I’m forcing them to eat. That’s fine, I don’t mind that. My favorite is probably just feeding someone, though. So, basically I keep giving them food until they physically can’t eat anymore.”

“Huh, okay.” Diego was no stranger to that feeling, and it sure wasn’t a bad one by any means. He mulled the logistics over in his head. “Let’s try that. So, you’ll just keep handing me slices of pizza until I tap out?”

“Yep. And if you’re too full to keep feeding them to yourself but you want to keep eating, I’ll feed them to you,” Ira explained.

“Too full to keep feeding myself but want to keep eating…” Oof. Okay, this was sounding more and more like Diego’s kind of sex. “You know, I can really put it away under the right conditions, but… you’ve been with some serious eaters, huh?”

Ira laughed. “You could definitely say that.”

“And is there any roleplay or anything? Are there certain things you want me to say or things you want to say?”

He shook his head. “No roleplay the first time. Especially since you’re new to all this. I want you to get a feel for what it’s like eating that much. It can be a lot for some people.” Ira reached over Diego’s lap and retrieved the Dr. Pepper, and Diego let him even though it had definitely been for himself. Ira cracked open the can with a hiss and took a long gulp. “And you don’t just want to eat: you want to put your 30 pounds back on. But the thing about gaining a lot of weight is that it’s not like other pervert stuff where you can just put on a costume when you’re feeling horny; it’s not something you do here and there. You have to eat more on a regular basis.” Ira stood and paced halfway across the room before turning back again.

“Not everyone likes doing it this way – the eating a lot at once way. Some people prefer eating a little more at meals and snacking throughout the day,” he gestured in the air with his can of Dr. Pepper like he was a professor giving a lecture. “So, tonight we’re just seeing if you’re into this kind of eating. I’m going to be responsible for your weight gain, and– well, you already know putting weight on and keeping it on isn’t as easy as it looks, so I like to play to a guy’s strengths to get that to happen. That’s why I want to see what your real reactions are when we start out. We can add the fun stuff as we go.”

It sounded surprisingly sweet when Ira talked about it in a practical way and not just in a heat-of-the-moment ‘I’m going to be the one to put all this weight on you,’ cue evil laugh, kind of way. He was dominant in the sense that he was looking out for Diego; taking care of him. Not just fattening him up, but helping him gain weight. A dictator maybe, but a benevolent one, which on Ira was ridiculously endearing.

“I think I get it,” Diego smiled. “‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”

Ira looked at him with distaste. “Is that from the bible or something?”

Diego snorted. He grabbed the phone off the upturned milk crate beside the futon and shoved it into Ira’s chest. “Just order the damn pizza.”

Diego finished the first box of SuzyQs and they’d moved to necking on the couch by the time two large pizzas arrived.

Ira opened the first box but paused halfway through reaching for the first slice.

“Oh, you said you were into leather, right? Do you have gear, or– anything you wanna wear while we do this?”

“Oh. No,” Diego scrunched his nose. “It’s all too big for me right now.”

“That sucks,” Ira said, with actual sympathy. He picked up the first slice of pizza, pepperoni, and offered it to Diego. “Maybe I can help you out with that.”

Diego took as big of a bite of pizza as he could fit in his mouth before taking the slice from Ira. “Please do,” Diego said through a full mouth.

“You should try them on for me so I can see what we’re starting with.”

“Sure.” He crammed in the rest of the slice and stood, kicking a box out from under the futon. Still chewing, he dug in the back of the closet for his jacket and pants.

They weren’t anything fancy, no bells or whistles, just a pair of black leather pants and a simple leather jacket; vintage, but he took a sense of pride in them all the same.

Diego stripped, then pulled on the pants without bothering to unbutton them. Kneeling, he removed the lid from the box.

“Boots. Harness,” he pointed. He slipped the harness on, then the jacket, and stood again. He had to widen his stance a little to keep the pants from sliding down.

Ira had another slice of pizza in hand as he joined Diego in the center of the room. Same as the first slice, Diego took a bite as Ira held it up for him before taking it for himself.

Ira circled Diego like he was inspecting him, appraising him. It sent a little thrill through Diego’s stomach knowing that as fat as he already was, it was clear from some of the things Ira had been saying that he still thought of Diego as pretty small.

Good. Diego never wanted to be this size again. Ira had better get a good look now.

After a final turn, Ira hooked a finger in Diego’s waistband and tugged a little, exposing about an inch gap between the leather and Diego’s skin. He did the same with the harness: a hand-me-down from a guy who probably had about a hundred pounds on Diego, so Diego had already been on the smallest holes of the buckled straps before he lost the weight. It would be easy to have a bootblack add in another set of holes, but that thought always made this size seem long-term, permanent.

So here he was: harness hanging limp off his chest, leather pants loose through the thighs, shoulders and biceps not quite filling out his jacket. But he couldn’t bring himself to be self-conscious. Ira’s hungry gaze roaming over him, and the quickly vanishing second slice of pizza infused the buzz of potential into the air. The space between himself and his leather wasn’t feeling quite so large tonight.

Ira was smiling as Diego finished slice number two. “You look hot. I’ve never really been that much of a leather guy, but… you might’ve sold me.”

“You should see me when they actually fit.” He brought his hands to his hips and gave Ira a cocky smile. “My ass looks really great in leather.”

“Already does.” Ira stepped in. His hands slipped past Diego’s jacket, fingers ghosting along Diego’s sides. “I can’t wait to get you filling these out again. C’mere.” He dropped back down next to the pizza box and beckoned.

Diego shed his gear. He didn’t bother with a shirt but pulled on a pair of well-worn, comfy sweats – a larger pair; tonight was calling for eating pants.

He settled on the couch next to Ira, making himself comfortable.

“I see somebody knows what he’s doing,” Ira poked at Diego’s elastic waistband.

With a smile, Diego reached for the next slice.

[loveharlow]

Omg I almost died reading She Can't Know! It was so good and I'm so excited to see more from you! Speaking of that I have a request. Ik it might take a bit but if you could can you make a smut or fluff alphabet with Ajax? If not I totally understand but if you do tag me!

ty, -Help

SMUT ALPHABET

PAIRING ‧₊˚ Ajax Petropolus x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS ‧₊˚ [1.7k] Basically headcanons on what it would be like to get down with Ajax.

WARNING(S) ‧₊˚ characters are of consenting/legal age! swearing, depictions of smut/sexual acts

A/N ‧₊˚ Just a small thanks to everyone showing love to the Ajax content, I've been busy and it helps to remind me and keep me motivated. I'm working on all of the requests so hold tight.

˗ˏˋ ajax masterlist ˎˊ˗

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Ajax is caring but in a casual way if y’know what I mean? Like he’ll clean you up and toss you a shirt of his and kiss your forehead, toss you a bottle of water too, maybe. He’d probably ask to smoke a joint with you if you hadn’t already before having sex.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His own favorite body part would have to be his arms. He wears hoodies and jackets a lot of the time so no one really knows that he has a lot of muscle under there and it took you by surprise the first time you saw him in a regular t-shirt, you literally turned around were like ‘damn.’ and he just looked confused.

His favorite part of yours in general is your legs. He loves your thighs and loves to have his hands on them and loves it when you sit on his lap. He says it brings him comfort. But…he also may have admitted, under the influence and in front of like all your friends, that he loves your boobs.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

So, he likes to cum inside you. But he loves to cum on your thighs, you don’t know why because he himself can’t explain it. He just says that they look pretty covered in it. It’s hell for you to clean up but it leaves your thighs oddly soft after.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He gets himself off when he’s on the phone with you. At first, you didn’t know, or didn’t care enough to notice. But at some point during your relationship, you heard him moan, so clearly, and just asked and he tried to cover it up but eventually gave up and admitted it. You’re under the impression he still does it but he’ll never fess up again.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He isn’t too experienced. Truthfully, Ajax is a bit aloof, so relationships and sex weren’t really on his mind until you two got together. He’s gotten to know you, personally, and what you like. So, when it comes to you? He’s decently experienced.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Cowgirl. That boy is pure filth when he wants to be. He likes to see you above him, he thinks you look like a goddess. And when you come down from your high and smile down at him, all out of breath, he just adores it.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

I feel like there’s an in between but definitely leaning more towards the humorous side. Like he has a dopey smile on his face, I don’t think it’s humorous or serious, he just wants to have fun in the moment. Experiment, make you laugh a few times, but still manage to make you feel good.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

I don’t think he cares too much. He’ll probably trim it up because he has an irrational fear that if he lets it grow too long, it’ll grow snakes (which cannot happen, he's just ridiculously paranoid). But he doesn’t like to be bald down there because he says it feels weird and doesn’t look right.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Again, he wants to have fun but also feel good. He’s loving and gentle but still dominating in some aspects. He’ll let you have control if you really want it but he’s not overly rough. Demanding, less with words more through actions, but still gentle and caring.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He masturbates often. It’s typically when you’re not around and during the semester because you don’t see each other as often as you’d like. And it’s easy to get caught at Nevermore, so you can't be risky. 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

I feel like he most definitely has a marking kink. Like seeing bite marks and hickeys (and bruises if you’re into that) after a wild night makes him proud in a way. He just loves everything about you and the marks are a way to show everyone that you're his without being overly confrontational or affectionate because Ajax has a very laid-back personality.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

His dorm. He doesn’t like to do it in your dorm because the girls somehow always find out and tease the both of you non-stop. With the boys, they do the same to him but he’s used to their banter so he shrugs it off because he has no shame and you never have to endure their teasing because the majority of them are respectful towards you.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

He loves to see you in a skirt. It will get him riled up real quick. Seeing it sway as you walk, your legs out on display and glowing, it’s heaven for him. He also loves when you sit on his lap of your own accord. He knows PDA isn’t something that comes too naturally to you so the fact that you have no problem just placing yourself in his lap, no matter who's around, just gives him an overwhelming sense of pride and reassurance. Plus, you’re warm all the time so you're like his personal heater.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that would hurt you past the point of being pleasurable. Even if you tell him that it’s okay he won't do it.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He loves giving, don’t get me wrong. Like the act itself, being in between your thighs that he loves oh-so much and hearing the noises you make, seeing your hands grip the sheets to keep from grabbing his beanie, it’s all great and he could do it for hours. Seriously. But it's something about receiving that has his soul leaving his body. Like when you brush your thumb over his tip, the thing you do with your tongue and when you look up at him through teary eyes. It’s like an overload of emotions and feelings that he can’t get enough of.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

I feel like he’s slow in the beginning, gradually speeding up the closer you get to your climaxes until he’s basically chanting your name under his breath and gripping the headboard as his eyes close shut. His thrusts are long and drawn out but when he’s going back in, it’s a hard solid thrust that has your mouth opening in a silent scream.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

They aren’t his favorite because he can’t chill with you after like he normally would like but if it’s his only option then he’s kind of like ‘fuck it’, y’know? You both get satisfaction and that’s all that matters, but he prefers proper sex. It makes him feel closer to you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Depends on how far you plan on experimenting. He doesn’t do pure pain, like I said. But he’s up for trying new stuff. Putting his hand on your throat, spanking, hair pulling, anything you want as long as it’s pleasurable in some way.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

I’d say 2-3 rounds on a good day. If he doesn’t have too much energy, max 2. 

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Nah, he doesn’t. Getting some kinky shit into Nevermore is near impossible. The most y’all have got is a vibrator you managed to get in, by some force of nature, that he has used on you a handful of times. But if you want him to use it, he will.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh, he’s a big tease. He loves to see you get all needy and beg, one time he did it until tears started to form from how bad you were aching. He’ll always cave in and give you what you want, what he wants too.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’s not loud but trust me, he is not quiet either. He’ll bury his head into your neck and groan and moan and it’s not loud but it's so close to your ear that you can hear it clearly and feel the sound vibrating down your neck and trail down your spine and it just makes you 10x hornier.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

You’re the first person he had sex with face-to-face. He said he felt like it was too intimate, to see people’s faces and be that close, so anyone he slept with before it was always a position where they weren’t facing each other. Then you guys started talking and going out and he realized he was breaking his own rule when it was too late.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Thick. Hella thick, for sure. A little over average in length, though. I’d give him 6.5 hard, 4 soft. It’s real veiny, too. He’s got hair down there, no question. He’s cut, too. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

It’s a little more than average. He’s still pretty young in general so he got some stamina and pent up frustration from everyday life.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Soon, but not immediately. He doesn’t mind falling asleep before you but he has to make sure you’re good before dozing off. He usually uses your boobs as pillows and wakes up on your stomach because if he slept on your chest all night, they’d hurt like a bitch in the morning.

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[budbuddnbuddy]

Little obey me headcanons pt 7

A/n: It’s been a while since I came on with one of these babies huh? Well I’m here with a new one now back and better then ever! Enjoy!!!

The Little D’s have transformation powers nothing extremely powerful, they can only really turn into objects or small animals, perfect for sneaking around as that is what they were made for.

With this information in mind, Barbatos was the one to send a bunch of the Little D’s off into different parts of the human world to gain information for candidates, using their disguises as objects and animals to spy on various humans of various different backgrounds….totally not illegal.

While Lucifer and Satan are different looking at first glance they do look a lot alike in the face, the same nose, shape of the eye, the way their brows bend and curve with each and every expression they make, you get the deal.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about Mammon smoking, but after seeing a lot of art and reading drabbles with it, I really warmed up to the thought of it. Don’t get me wrong, it was definitely because of peer pressure and he’s not good at it at all. He just does it to put up his “Nonchalant Bad boy” persona. loser

Yes. There are infact Cliques in RAD, popular demons, Nerds, Jocks, Delinquents, Normies, Gamers, Loners, Social floaters, etc. You get the deal, it’s painfully obvious too. You see it all in the cafeteria like in a stereotypical 2004 highschool movie and yes you are the new kid.

I have a feeling that MC would put Luke onto human world cartoons. Powerpuff Girls, SpongeBob, Adventure Time. You get the deal, but I think his personal favorites would be Gravity Falls and Adventure Time. He gives off the vibe that he likes shows with deeper meanings other than your daily life lessons. Ya know?

Also same thing with video games, I have a feeling that he’ll take a real good liking to Minecraft and Undertale. (He’ll fall in love with the sound tracks.)

All Demons have sharp teeth yes however Gluttony demons tend to have longer canines and just sharper and stronger teeth in general. This is how Beel is able to bite and eat all the things that he does, other demons can’t really do that.

It is true that Diavolo had your D.D.D altered so that it would be able to work in the human world when MC left, yes. HOWEVER, MC accidentally left the charger for it in their room in the Devildom so like after 2 days it died. It was mailed back to you after like a week but…I think you can imagine how that week went for the brothers…

“Why the heck ain’t MC returning any of my calls or texts?! It’s been a whole week!”

“lmafo, maybe they finally realized how annoying you are.”

“Shaddup!!”

“As much as I hate to agree with the idiot of all people, it is a tad bit concerning…they don’t usually go longer than a few hours returning a text…”

“Maybe they’re busy?”

“Yeah, Beel’s right…they have a life too ya know. They’re probably catching up on work.”

“Everyone!!! Look what I found!”

“…Is that, their charger?”

“Yeah! I found it in their room! It was still plugged on the side of their bed. Our human can be so forgetful sometimes. <3”

“Waitaminute! The heck ‘ere ya donin’ in there room anyways!”

“Yeah! The hell is up with that? Last time I checked I don’t remember MC’s last words to us being: ‘Asmodeus can come into my room anytime!’ So don’t think you get free reign!”

“Oh don’t act like you two any better.! Mammon, I’ve seen you digging around their closet! You too Leviathan!”

“!!!” “!!!”

“Well at least we found it, now hand it to me so I can mail it to them.”

“No way, I wanna mail it!”

“Nuh uh no way you’ll probably sell it, I’m gonna mail it to them!”

“Hello??? Are you guys forgetting I’m the one who found it? It only makes sense for me to send it to them!”

“I wanna send it to MC too.”

“Me too.”

“That’s enough. All of you.”

With Lucifer being the only one out of the seven to actually know where you live he ends up sending it to you in the mail. Along with some cash to spoil you for the next month of course. Lol.

There are royal guards on school grounds at RAD, though they mainly stay and guard the outside to make sure no intruders get in. If you aren’t wearing a uniform then you can’t come in!

Don’t let any of the brothers come with you to any sort of medical appointment you may have in the future. One cheeky joke from your doctor and they might be killed.

“Well MC your knee seems to be badly infected.”

“What will need to done doctor?”

“We might just have to cut off your whole leg.”

“……”

“Haha! Just kidding! We’ll clean ya up and have you bandaged and sent home in less than 15 minutes. It’s not that bad, don’t be so serious!”

MC’s just like “haha…yeah.” while patting their slightly growling demons leg in a “He didn’t mean it, he didn’t mean it.” fashion. As he’s literally determining the best way to kill the doctor you had for the past 4 years, Sorry doc.

[milkyplier]

I,, don’t really have a reason to hold this back and I’m too impatient to do it just in case so here’s another Rescue Ranch AU snippet

@skyloftian-nutcase it isn’t much but here, maybe it will help ease your misery :’) also @telemna-hyelle you wanted to know who I killed? Well, read on and find out :)

TW: Mentions of death/war, general trauma :’)

Numb.

That is the only word to describe what Warriors feels as he rides through the village he once called home. It’s now little more than debris and ashes, shrouded the burned and collapsing shells of houses and stores. He wants to urge Royal into a gallop, and get to his house as fast as possible, but he knows that won’t do. Royal is unafraid as he picks his way carefully through the wreckage. He’s served to faithfully, Warriors can’t bring himself to make the horse sacrifice care for speed. He might get hurt. That, and a part of Warriors knows his family is dead. Granny and his half siblings, Wind and Aryll…he knows they can’t have made it through whatever hell befell their home. He won’t be satisfied until he knows for sure, until he sees their house and…and them…and that’s why he doesn’t urge Royal faster. The longer he stays away, the longer he can hold onto the shred of false hope that says they could still be alive.

It’s foolish hope. And he knows he must squash it, because he has to know. Give them a proper burial, if he can. Honor them in whatever way he can manage, after failing them so badly.

The small seaside house comes into view and sure enough—it matches all the others. Half-destroyed, still smoking, a little. Warriors dismounts Royal, and somehow his legs hold him up. Heavy, mindless steps carry him towards the wreckage. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Behind him, Royal whinnies. Warriors spins around to face him—that whinny means someone is there and usually “someone” is a monster. Royal is standing there, ears and eyes open off Warriors’ left. He sees a flash of bright yellow and sea blue out of the corner of his eye and his gaze snaps towards it.

Wind, his little half-brother, stands frozen a few yards away. He must have been standing behind the far side of the house. That wall was mostly intact, which explains why Warriors didn’t see him.

They stand there for a solid six seconds, just staring at each other. Warriors doesn’t dare move. What if this is a dream, or a hallucination, and moving breaks it. He’s stuck in time. His breath is stolen from his lungs.

Wind takes a step forward, and then his second step launches him into a sprint and he barrels towards Warriors with more speed than an angry lizalfos. Warriors is unable to do more than fall to his knees and catch Wind in his arms, wrapping his little brother in a hug so tight his arms ache. He is unable to stop the tears from falling, especially when he hears Wind start to sob. He knows he’s supposed to be strong for him, but Wind will just have to forgive him for it later because in that moment Warriors has no strength for anything else.

They eventually run out of tears, and just sit there on the ground in some degree of shock. The silence carries unspoken terror, of everything they’ve seen, and the only freshly broken grief that they were alone.

“I thought you were dead,” Wind whispers after a long time.

A dozen replies drift through Warriors’ head. “I thought you were too.” “But I’m not. I came back for you.” “I feel dead.” But when he opens his mouth to say something, no words come out. He settled for squeezing Wind even tighter.

“…Grandma and Aryll didn’t make it.”

Ice replaces the blood in Warriors’ body. Did he watch it happen? Hylia, please say he didn’t have to watch.

“I just finished burying them.”

Goddesses. He’s only 14. Why? Why?

Yet more tears blur his vision, and he presses his face into Wind’s shock of yellow hair.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The words become too wracked with sobs to distinguish them. Wind is silent the entire time. Warriors is ashamed of the way it seems more like Wind is comforting him than the other way around, but four years of ignoring it all finally bubbles to the surface and he is helpless to stop it.

It feels like they stay that way for hours before Warriors finally, finally runs completely out of tears to cry. He allows himself a few minutes to collect himself, before giving Wind one last squeeze and rising unsteadily to his feet. Wind grabs his hand, and he grips it without the intention of ever letting it go.

“We’ll pay our respects to Grandma and Aryll.” He says. “And then we’re getting the hell out of here. They wouldn’t want us to stay.”

Wind nods, and the brothers make their way to the pair of graves on the far side of the house, facing the ocean. Warriors doesn’t remember his legs ever being this stiff and achey. Regardless, they spend another hour gathering wildflowers and seashells to decorate the graves with. The sun is setting by the time they find themselves standing in front of the duel mounds, staring down at the little messy bouquets and colorful shells. They’re both completely silent, shocked and numb and exhausted.

A chilly breeze directs Warriors’ gaze up to the sky.

“…Let’s go. It’s getting dark.”

Wind doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t resist when Warriors starts walking away from the graves and, still holding hands, gently pulls Wind with him.

They walk silently back to wear Royal still stands in front of the house, having moved only a few yards further in order to graze. Warriors decides it will be more comfortable for all parties if they ride bareback, and removes his old and worn military-issued saddle off Royal’s back, abandoning it on the ground a few feet away without a second glance. He mounts first, and then helps Wind up, settling his little brother in front of him. With a softy click of his tongue and a squeeze of his heels, Royal starts walking. Warriors turns him northeast, away from the sea.

They’ve only traveled a few yards when Wind lets out an ear splitting wail, laden with grief and sheer exhaustion. Warriors lets him, even though his instincts say noise will attract monsters. He lets Wind scream and cry until be can’t anymore, and he slumps against Warriors, fast asleep.

Warriors sighs gently through his nose, feeling his own anguish swirling in his chest, threatening to escape in a similar manner. He forces it all down, down, down as far as it will go, locking it there with a promise to keep Wind safe.

As long as Wind needs him to be his pillar, he will not shed another tear.

[trigunwritings]

Names and Things

Rating: General

Relationship: Fem!Reader/Vash/Wolfwood

Summary: On the way home, Vash and Wolfwood argue.

Written by @blood--hunter

Note: A continuation of Bad Habits, but it’s not necessarily canon unless you, the reader, want it to be. The reader is married to Vash and Wolfwood. Implied to be pregnant. Never shown.

“Can’t believe you forgot the car…” Wolfwood grumbled, adjusting the rope over his shoulder. It was one thing to have to carry his weapon, but something else entirely to drag a man halfway across the desert.

Vash has the decency to at least look a little ashamed.

“Well, forgot is a strong word.”

“You got it fucking stolen. Didn’t you?”

His husband reamains quiet and Wolfwood can only shake his head. “You’re the reason I need to smoke.”

The leader of the Glass-Gang is still passed out, so there’s that. His luck wasn’t all bad today and there was the thought of returning home to their wife with full pockets and a job well done. That—at the very least—lifted his spirits.

“So,” Wolfwood says, trying to focus on something other than the near unbareable heat, “I was thinking Leon D. Wolfwood.”

Vash bulks, swinging his blond head around to look at him. “Who says he’s gonna get your last name!”

“Because I’m the only one who has one! Dumbass!”

“Well!” Vash stalls, obivously trying to think of a comeback as he pouts, “What about Kevin the Stampede?”

“Kevin? Really.”

His husband nods resolutely, “Or maybe—maybe something like Colton!”

“You just really want a hard ‘K’ sound, don’t you?”

“Yeah! I think it sounds cool!”

Wolfwood rolls his eyes and looks back as the man he had been tugging across the sand begins to stir.

“Looks like our bounty is waking up.”

Vash eyes the man as well before looking at Wolfwood with a smile, “Why don’t we ask him? Hey! Do you like Leon or Kevin?”

“Huh?” Is all the gang leader says.

Nicholas shakes his head, passing the rope to Vash.

“I’ve been dragging him for half a mile now. You take him.”

“No way!”

“You’re the one that lost the car!”

Vash takes the rope, pouting. Nick can only watch him, one brow raised. He didn’t dare slip a cigarette into his mouth, knowing that it would just end up flying into the desert like a piece of paper. Though, his fingers did itch for the lighter in his pocket.

“And if it’s a girl?” He asks, not thinking.

Vash gets that far away look on his face, the look he gets when he or their wife accidentally trips on something from his past. She’s always better at soothing him, but Wolfwood doesn’t know what to do in these situations, too used to being “tough” and not letting these things get to him.

“Rem. We’ll name her Rem.”

He’s silent for a few moments more, letting the sun beam down on the back of his neck. “Yeah. I think I like that.”

“I think Kevin sounds good.”

Both Vash and Nick swing their heads around, staring at the man half unconcious in the sand, a rope firmly around his middle.

“Yeah, maybe Leon isn’t so bad…” Vash murmurs, beginning to walk once more, the gang leader slowly being dragged after him.

“Told you … Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Ask her and find out! But I don’t think she’ll go for the middle initial.”

“D is not that bad!”

“…What does it even stand for anyways?”