#now i Cannot seem to write shorter than like

[seveneyesoup]

i’ve GOTTA start writing shorter segments

[novaursa]

The Cold Embrace (2/2)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: As time passes, snow begins to melt.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: @missisjoker So, here is the second and last part straight from the oven that was being baked all night. I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you guys like this conclusion of this two part story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @jellybeanstacey0519 @strengthandstay @anne-mary-1d @lovelyteenagebeard

The crisp chill of autumn clung to the air, painting the landscape of Winterfell in muted shades of orange and gold. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, and the days had grown shorter, yet despite the changing season, little had thawed between you and Cregan Stark. The cold inside the walls of Winterfell seemed to mirror the tension that still lingered between the two of you, each day marked by stilted conversations and, more often than not, sharp exchanges.

Today was no different.

"You speak of duty as if it’s something noble," you spat, your voice tight as you stood across from Cregan in the courtyard, your cloak billowing in the wind. "But this—this life you’ve trapped me in—it’s a cage. You call it honor, but what is honorable about ripping me away from my family?"

Cregan, his expression as hard as the stone walls surrounding you, stood tall, arms crossed over his chest. The northern winds blew through the yard, stirring his dark hair as he met your gaze with his own unflinching one. "A cage? Is that what you see this as? I have given you more freedom than many would expect from a lord. You come and go as you please, and I have not demanded anything of you that you have not been ready to give."

"You think freedom means letting me roam these cold, barren lands?" you shot back, your voice rising. "I am a dragon, Cregan, not some northern wolf content with howling at the moon. I am bound to the skies, to fire and wind, and every moment I am here, I wither. You cannot understand that."

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with frustration. "I have done everything to make this a home for you," he said, his tone dangerously low. "But it’s clear that nothing will ever satisfy you. You’re too busy yearning for something you’ve lost to see what is right in front of you."

You scoffed, turning away from him, your steps hurried as you walked toward the godswood, needing space, needing air. "There is nothing here for me but snow and silence," you muttered, though you knew he heard you.

Cregan watched you go, his heart heavy as the weight of your words settled in. He stood there for a long moment, the wind tugging at his cloak, his expression unreadable. Inside, however, there was a storm brewing—a storm of disappointment, frustration, and something else, something deeper that he had been trying to deny for months.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned and made his way back into the keep, his mind racing with thoughts he could no longer ignore.

In the warmth of the solar, the fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across the room. Grand Maester Kennet sat across from Cregan, his wise old eyes studying the lord with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"You’ve been quieter than usual, my lord," Kennet said, folding his hands in his lap. "Something weighs heavily on you."

Cregan leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. He had kept his feelings bottled up for so long, unwilling to admit to anyone, let alone himself, how much this situation had affected him. But now, with the distance between him and you growing each day, the burden felt too great to carry alone.

"She doesn’t want to be here," Cregan said quietly, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely let show. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to make this place a home for her, she only sees Winterfell as a prison. She longs for Dragonstone. For her family."

Kennet nodded thoughtfully, his expression sympathetic. "It is not uncommon for one to yearn for the place of their birth, especially when it’s been taken from them. The Princess... she is like her mother, strong-willed and fierce. The North is a different world for someone raised among dragons and fire."

Cregan exhaled slowly, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. "I know that. I’ve known it since the day she arrived. But... there’s more. It’s not just that she can’t find a place here." He paused, his voice dropping, as if the words themselves were difficult to admit. "I care for her, Kennet. More than I thought I ever would. When Jacaerys first came to me, he spoke of her with such passion and admiration. He told me stories of her strength, her spirit, how she was a woman who could stand beside any man, even one like me. And I believed him. I admired her before I even met her."

The Maester listened in silence, his brow furrowed in thought as Cregan continued.

"And when she arrived," Cregan went on, his gaze distant, "I saw it. Everything Jacaerys said was true. She’s fierce, and proud, and... gods, she’s beautiful in her own way. But she looks at me like I’m the reason for all her misery, like I’ve taken something from her that she can never get back. She’ll never see me as anything but the man who keeps her from the life she wants."

Kennet sighed softly, shaking his head. "Love is a complicated thing, my lord. You cannot force it, nor can you expect it to bloom in a place of resentment. The Princess... she is grieving the life she left behind. She may yet come to see what you offer, but it will take time."

Cregan’s eyes flickered with doubt as he looked at the older man. "Time may be something we don’t have. The war brews in the South, and her family is at the heart of it. She feels trapped here while her brothers and mother fight for the throne. I’ve heard her speak of it—how the North is no place for dragons, how she feels as though she’s losing herself in the cold."

The Maester tilted his head, considering Cregan’s words carefully. "It is true that the North is no easy place for a soul like hers. But perhaps... perhaps if you can show her that she can still be who she is, even here, she might come to find her place."

Cregan stood from his seat, pacing the room, the weight of his frustration palpable. "How can I show her that when she refuses to let me in? Every time we speak, it turns into an argument. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want to be here, and she certainly doesn’t want to be with me."

Kennet rose slowly, his hands resting on the table as he regarded Cregan with a calm, steady gaze. "Then you must be patient, my lord. If you truly care for the Princess, you will have to endure her fire, much like one endures the harshest winters. But winters pass, and even in the North, the snow melts. Perhaps in time, her heart will soften."

Cregan sighed deeply, staring into the fire once more. He wished it were as simple as waiting for the snow to melt, but as the days passed, he feared the rift between him and you was growing too wide to ever close.

He wanted you to see him, truly see him, not as the man who kept you here but as someone who could stand beside you, strong enough to weather the storm of your spirit. But until then, all he could do was wait.

And hope.

The halls of Winterfell buzzed with an unusual energy, a hive of activity that Cregan hadn’t expected so soon after the summer's end. The brisk wind of autumn howled through the open courtyards, and yet the chill in the air was not the only sign that winter was approaching. Men and women rushed through the keep, arms filled with supplies, voices rising in quick, urgent conversation.

Cregan furrowed his brow as he observed the flurry of work. His bannermen and servants seemed to be following orders, yet none had come directly from him. His curiosity piqued, he caught sight of one of his men, Ser Roland, directing a group of stable hands with a sense of urgency. Cregan made his way over, his long strides carrying him across the courtyard.

"Ser Roland," he called out, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "What’s all this about? I don’t recall ordering preparations for winter just yet."

Ser Roland turned quickly, bowing his head in respect before answering. "Lord Stark, it’s not your orders we’re following. The Princess has taken it upon herself to make sure Winterfell is ready for the long winter ahead. She’s been directing the stores, making changes to the rations, and ensuring that all livestock are accounted for."

Cregan’s brow lifted in surprise. "The Princess? I wasn’t aware she had taken an interest in such matters."

Ser Roland nodded, his expression a mixture of admiration and confusion. "Aye, my lord. She’s had us reorganize the grain stores and instructed that additional salt be used to preserve meats in case the winter lasts longer than expected. She also had some of the women gather herbs and berries for medicinal stocks—said it’s something her mother did on Dragonstone. Even ordered new tunnels to be dug beneath the walls, should the snow block access to certain parts of the keep. It’s... impressive."

Cregan was silent for a moment, taken aback by the level of thought and strategy that had gone into the preparations. The Princess, who had made it clear she despised this place, was ensuring it would withstand winter’s cruelty. And yet, she hadn’t spoken a word of it to him. His initial surprise gave way to a grudging respect.

"And where is she now?" Cregan asked, his tone more curious than demanding.

Roland hesitated before answering. "The Princess took to the skies a short while ago, my lord. She went flying on Silverwing."

"Flying," Cregan repeated, his brow furrowing. It wasn’t unusual for you to seek solace in the skies, but the flicker of worry began to creep in. "And who accompanied her?"

Roland shifted, his expression turning sheepish. "Your son, my lord. Young Rickon went with her."

Cregan stiffened, his heart quickening at the thought of Rickon riding atop Silverwing. His instinct was to feel alarmed—to think of all the things that could go wrong with a boy so young riding a dragon, even one as gentle as Silverwing. For a moment, the image of his son, small and fragile, atop such a powerful beast made him want to storm out and demand answers.

But then he stopped himself. Rickon was not some fragile boy. He was his son, a Stark, raised to face the wild north and the dangers that came with it. And more than that, Silverwing was under your command, a dragon bound to your will. His mind raced with the desire to scold you for being reckless, but something held him back. Rickon had begged for a chance to fly, ever since he had seen the dragons for the first time.

"Thank you, Roland," Cregan said curtly, turning away from the bustling activity of the courtyard and heading toward the godswood where he knew you often landed with Silverwing.

The cold air bit at Cregan's face as he walked through the open fields behind Winterfell. The godswood stood tall and silent in the distance, but it was the open expanse of land beyond it that caught his attention. There, just returning from the skies, was Silverwing. Her massive form settled gracefully on the ground, her wings folding in with practiced ease as you and Rickon dismounted.

He could see Rickon from afar, his small figure bounding toward the keep, his face lit up with sheer joy. As Cregan approached, he heard his son before he saw him up close.

"Father!" Rickon shouted, running full speed toward Cregan, his excitement bubbling over. "I flew, Father! I flew on Silverwing! She let me ride with her, and we soared above the trees! You should’ve seen it!"

The boy’s face was flushed with exhilaration, his cheeks red from the cold wind, and his eyes sparkled with uncontainable glee. He practically bounced in front of Cregan, his enthusiasm infectious.

Cregan knelt down, placing a hand on Rickon’s shoulder. "Did you now?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "And you weren’t afraid?"

Rickon shook his head vigorously. "No! The Princess told me not to worry. She said Silverwing wouldn’t let anything happen to me." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, eyes wide with awe. "And she didn’t. I felt like I was part of the sky. Can I go again, Father? Please?"

Cregan looked down at his son, his heart swelling with pride at the boy’s bravery. The initial urge to reprimand you, to accuse you of putting his son at risk, faded as he saw the pure joy on Rickon’s face. How could he take that away from him?

He stood up, his eyes drifting toward you. You were brushing snow from your cloak, your gaze turned elsewhere, as if trying to pretend you hadn’t noticed him approaching. But you had noticed. You always did.

For a moment, Cregan was silent, the tension between the two of you palpable. He could have said something. Could have warned you against taking such risks with his son. But instead, he let out a quiet sigh, looking back down at Rickon.

"You can go again," he said softly, ruffling the boy’s hair. "But only when the Princess says it's safe."

Rickon beamed and immediately ran off toward the keep, his excitement carrying him as fast as his legs could take him. Cregan watched him go, then turned his gaze back to you. You still hadn’t spoken, but your eyes met his, guarded as always.

"I should scold you," he said, his tone measured. "You had no right to take Rickon flying without asking me first."

You straightened, your chin lifting slightly. "He wanted to go. And Silverwing wouldn’t have harmed him."

Cregan nodded, but his expression remained serious. "I know. But he’s still my son. And as much as he may adore dragons, I need to know he’s safe."

The tension hung between you for a moment longer, but Cregan couldn’t help the way his heart softened slightly. Despite everything—despite the constant bickering, the distance between you—he could see that while you might not want this marriage, you cared for Rickon. The way you had taken him flying, giving him the one thing that had brought him so much joy, didn’t go unnoticed.

"Perhaps," Cregan added quietly, his tone softer now, "you don’t want me. But you will be a good mother to Rickon. I can see that."

For a moment, you didn’t respond, your expression unreadable. Then you gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ll keep him safe," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan watched you for a long moment before turning and heading back toward Winterfell. The coldness between you two remained, but now there was a small crack in the icy wall that had stood between you since the moment you arrived.

The cold air was sharper here, beyond the walls of Winterfell, biting deep into Cregan’s skin as he led his men through the thick snow-covered wilderness. The northern winds howled, carrying with them the scent of pine and frost, mingled with something far more sinister—the smell of smoke from a Wildling camp. They had been tracking the Wildlings for days now, ever since word came that a raiding party had crossed the Wall, attacking isolated settlements and stealing what little food and supplies they could find before winter’s full grip took hold.

Cregan’s blood thrummed with the familiar tension that came before battle. His breath formed clouds in the cold air, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword as he and his men closed in. They could see the crude campfires in the distance, flickering like beacons in the darkening forest.

"Stay low," Cregan whispered to his men, his voice barely audible above the wind. The Stark bannermen, seasoned and loyal, followed his command without hesitation. They fanned out in a loose line, their cloaks blending into the snowy landscape.

The Wildlings had set up in a small clearing, their crude weapons and fur-lined tents marking them as a desperate group. There were perhaps a dozen of them—armed with spears, axes, and the occasional rusty sword—but they were not to be underestimated. Wildlings were fierce, survivalists hardened by the lands beyond the Wall. This fight would be bloody.

Cregan motioned to his men, and in unison, they surged forward, the snow muffling their approach until they were nearly upon the camp.

The first clash came fast and violent.

Cregan’s sword met the steel of a Wildling’s axe, the sharp clang of metal ringing out into the frigid night. The raiders shouted in surprise, their camp erupting into chaos as the Stark men descended upon them. The Wildlings fought back viciously, their crude weapons swinging wildly, aiming for any vulnerable flesh they could find.

Cregan swung his blade with precision, cleaving through a Wildling’s chest, blood spraying across the snow like ink on parchment. He turned just in time to parry another blow, gritting his teeth as the impact jarred his arm. Around him, the sounds of battle raged—shouts, screams, the wet thud of bodies falling into the snow.

But then, something sharp and hot bit into his side.

Cregan gasped, stumbling back as a Wildling spear pierced his flesh just below his ribs. The pain was immediate and blinding, spreading like fire through his body. His grip faltered on his sword for a moment, but he didn’t let go. With a roar, he swung his blade in a brutal arc, slicing through the man who had struck him. The Wildling crumpled to the ground, but Cregan was already weakening, his vision blurring at the edges.

The fight continued around him, his men cutting down the remaining Wildlings, but every movement Cregan made sent waves of pain crashing through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright, even as the blood began to seep through his furs, staining the snow beneath his feet a dark crimson.

At last, the battle was over. The Wildlings lay dead, their bodies scattered across the snow like broken dolls. Cregan’s men stood victorious, though bruised and bloodied themselves.

One of his men, Ser Vayon, rushed over to him, his face pale with worry as he saw the blood. "My lord! You’re wounded."

Cregan waved him off, trying to mask the severity of his injury. "I’ll live," he growled, though his voice was weaker than he intended. "But I can’t make it back as fast as the rest of you. Take the others and ride ahead. Get help."

Ser Vayon hesitated, his eyes darting between Cregan and the rest of the men. "We can carry you—"

"No," Cregan interrupted, his tone firm despite the pain. "I’ll slow you down. If you ride ahead, you’ll reach Winterfell faster. I’ll follow behind." His vision blurred for a moment, and he had to steady himself against a nearby tree. "Go. That’s an order."

Reluctantly, Ser Vayon nodded, glancing back at the other men. "As you command, my lord."

With that, they mounted their horses, casting one last worried glance at him before spurring their mounts and riding off through the snow. Cregan watched them go, the sound of hooves fading into the distance, leaving him alone in the quiet, snow-covered forest.

He took a few shaky steps, but each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His hand clutched his side where the blood still flowed, staining the white snow beneath his boots. The world around him tilted, and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to rise, but his strength was failing, his body too weak to carry him any further.

Just as his vision began to swim, he heard a sound—a distant, high-pitched screech that cut through the silence like a knife.

Cregan blinked, his vision blurring as something massive appeared in the sky above him. He squinted through the haze of pain, trying to focus, and then he saw it—Silverwing, her silver-scaled body descending from the clouds like a gleaming specter. The dragon landed with a soft thud, her wings folding as she approached him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Cregan cursed under his breath, trying to wave her off with a weak motion of his hand. "Go on, beast," he muttered, his voice slurred with exhaustion. "I’m not your rider."

But Silverwing ignored him, her massive head lowering as she nudged him gently with her nose. The touch was surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome creature, as if the dragon knew he was on the brink of collapse. She nudged him again, more insistently this time, her warm breath washing over him as if urging him to stand.

Cregan tried to push her away, but his strength was gone. "Damn dragon," he rasped, his body trembling from blood loss. "Leave me."

Silverwing let out a low rumble, her large eyes narrowing as if in disapproval. She nudged him one last time, and when he still didn’t move, she took matters into her own talons. With surprising care, Silverwing wrapped her claws around his body, lifting him effortlessly from the snow.

Cregan groaned, the world spinning around him as Silverwing took flight, the sensation of being carried through the sky both terrifying and surreal. His body was limp in her talons, the wind whipping through his hair as they soared above the treetops, Winterfell a distant shadow on the horizon.

His eyelids grew heavy, the pain in his side fading as numbness took over. The world below him grew smaller, the sky a dark blur above.

As Silverwing’s wings beat rhythmically, the wind howling in his ears, Cregan's consciousness began to slip away, the edges of his vision turning black.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was Winterfell’s walls in the distance, growing closer with every beat of Silverwing’s wings. Then, nothing.

Cregan Stark knew no more.

The courtyard of Winterfell was a storm of chaos as you pushed through the throngs of servants and guards, your heart racing, breath short. The cold northern wind stung your face, but you barely felt it. All you could focus on was the sight ahead—Silverwing, her massive silver form crouched low on the snow, her head lowered protectively over a motionless figure sprawled at her feet. You shoved past a startled servant, your voice rising above the din of panic.

"Move aside!" you barked, pushing through the crowd until you finally reached the clearing where Cregan lay, blood staining the snow beneath him, his face pale and ashen.

Silverwing rumbled softly as you approached, her enormous eyes watching you, but she made no move to stop you. Her wings shifted, creating a barrier between the man she had carried home and the gathering onlookers.

Your heart leapt into your throat. The sight of Cregan—your husband, though it had never felt real until this moment—bleeding and unconscious before his own keep sent a surge of fear through you that you hadn’t expected.

"Where is Rickon?" you demanded, whirling around to one of the women standing near the edge of the scene. Rickon’s nanny stepped forward, worry etched on her face.

"He was playing with the other children when we heard the commotion," she said nervously, glancing toward Silverwing. "Should I—?"

"Find him," you interrupted quickly, your voice firmer than it had been in weeks. "Keep him away from here. I don’t want him seeing his father like this."

The woman nodded, clearly relieved to have something to do, and hurried off into the crowd. You turned back toward Cregan just as Maester Kennet knelt beside him, his hands moving with the steady calm of a man who had seen too many battle injuries in his lifetime. His fingers probed at the wound beneath Cregan’s furs, his face grim.

"Will he live?" you asked, unable to keep the edge of desperation from creeping into your voice.

Kennet didn’t look up, his attention still fixed on the blood-soaked gash. "The wound is deep, but he’s strong. If we can stop the bleeding and keep the fever from setting in, he has a chance. But we need to get him inside—now."

Already, several of Cregan’s men were lifting him carefully onto a makeshift stretcher, their faces pale with worry. You followed as they carried him toward the castle, your feet moving without thought. The icy wind cut through your cloak, but you ignored it. The only thing you could focus on was the sight of Cregan’s lifeless form being carried through the halls of Winterfell, his breathing shallow and labored.

As they reached his chambers, the men gently placed him on the large bed, stepping back to allow Maester Kennet to work. You hovered just beyond the bedside, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, helplessness gnawing at you. Despite everything—despite the constant arguments, the coldness between you—you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him like this. The stark realization struck you hard, knocking the wind from your lungs.

You didn’t want him to die.

For what felt like hours, Kennet worked over Cregan’s body, stitching the wound with deft hands and applying herbs to stave off infection. You stood nearby, your eyes never leaving Cregan’s pale face. He was so still, too still. The sight of him like this made the cold inside Winterfell seem even more unbearable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kennet finished his work. The room was filled with the scent of medicinal salves and the sharp tang of blood. The old Maester wiped his hands on a cloth and turned to you, exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

"I’ve done all I can for now," he said quietly. "He will need time to heal, but whether he wakes or not depends on his own strength."

You nodded mutely, your throat tight with unspoken fear. "Thank you, Maester," you managed to whisper. Kennet gave a small nod, then gathered his supplies and left the room, leaving you alone with Cregan.

For a long time, you stood there, staring at the man who had become your husband, the man you had fought with, resented, and yet now feared to lose. His breathing was shallow, but steady, the rise and fall of his chest a small reassurance in the overwhelming uncertainty that hung over the room.

Without thinking, you moved closer to the bed, sinking into the chair beside him. Your hand reached out almost instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, your fingers closed around his. His hand was rough and calloused, larger than yours, but in this moment, it felt fragile.

"You stubborn, foolish man," you whispered, your voice breaking as you held onto him. "You always have to be the hero, don’t you?"

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to give in to the fear gnawing at your insides. Instead, you lowered your head, closing your eyes as you prayed softly in Valyrian, the words flowing from your lips in a desperate plea to the gods of your ancestors.

"Grant him strength," you whispered, tightening your grip on his hand. "Give him the will to fight, to wake up."

The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the warmth of the flames doing little to thaw the cold dread that had settled in your chest. You stayed by his bedside, refusing to leave, your heart pounding with every passing second.

Despite everything, you weren’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

And so, you stayed, waiting, praying, and hoping that Cregan Stark—your husband—would find his way back to you.

Cregan awoke slowly, his mind swimming through the thick fog of pain and disorientation. The world around him was hazy, the room spinning as he tried to make sense of where he was. His body felt heavy, weighed down by a deep, aching fatigue that seemed to seep into his very bones. He blinked, his vision clearing little by little, and as the soft flicker of firelight came into focus, he realized he was back in his chambers, the familiar scent of burning wood and herbs filling the air.

It was then that he noticed her.

You sat beside his bed, your arms crossed, your expression a mixture of concern and irritation. The furrow in your brow deepened as you noticed him stirring, your lips pressed into a thin line that barely masked the relief you must have felt. Despite the heaviness in his limbs and the sharp pain that shot through his side with every breath, Cregan couldn’t help but find it almost... amusing. There you were, the Dragon Princess, always so fierce and untamable, looking as though you were about to scold him, even now.

"You're awake," you said sharply, though there was a tremor of emotion beneath your voice that gave you away.

Cregan tried to sit up, wincing as the pain lanced through his side, but before he could make much progress, you were leaning forward, pushing him back down with a firm hand on his chest.

"Don’t even think about it," you warned, your tone brooking no argument. "Maester Kennet said you shouldn’t move. Not unless you want to tear your stitches and end up back in this bed for even longer."

He lay back with a grunt, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the discomfort. "Well, I wouldn’t want to upset the Maester," he muttered, his voice gravelly from disuse.

You gave him a look that would have wilted lesser men. "You almost died out there, Cregan."

The smirk faded from his face as he looked at you more closely. There was something in your eyes—something raw and unguarded. The irritation, the frustration—it was all there, but beneath it, there was a depth of feeling that surprised him. You were angry, yes, but not just at him. You were angry because you had been scared. Scared of losing him.

The realization hit him like a punch to the chest, and for the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. It was warmth, not from the fire in the hearth, but from the way you were looking at him—fierce and tender all at once. It had been a long time since anyone had cared for him in that way, and now, seeing it in you—the woman who had resisted him, who had fought him every step of the way—brought a strange sense of peace to his heart.

"You care," he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You scoffed, crossing your arms tighter as you sat back in the chair. "Of course I care. You’re my husband, for better or worse." Your tone was sharp, but the emotion in your eyes betrayed you.

Cregan couldn’t help but chuckle, even though it sent a sharp pain through his side. "I didn’t think you’d admit that so easily."

You glared at him, though the fire in your eyes wasn’t the same angry blaze he was used to. It was different now—softer, though no less fierce. "Don’t flatter yourself," you shot back. "I’m only here because Rickon can’t see you like this. He’d worry too much."

Cregan’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "So, you’re saying you’re here for Rickon, not for me?"

You opened your mouth to retort, but then you stopped, your eyes flicking away for a brief moment before returning to his. "I’m here for both of you," you admitted quietly, your voice losing some of its edge. "You were reckless, Cregan. Going after those Wildlings in your condition was foolish. What were you thinking?"

He sighed, his hand moving slightly to rest against his bandaged side. "I was thinking I needed to protect the North. To protect my people."

"At the cost of your life?" you shot back, incredulous. "Your people need you alive, not bleeding out in the snow."

There was a pause, and then Cregan gave a small nod, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that surprised you. "You’re right," he said, his voice low and steady. "I was reckless. But it’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always put others first. The North, Winterfell, my family... I didn’t think anyone would care if something happened to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken things. You stared at him for a long moment, your expression softening, and for the first time, Cregan saw something shift in you. The walls you had built between you—the ice that had kept you at a distance—continues to crack, again a little more than before.

"I would care," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I may not have wanted this marriage, but I don’t want you dead."

The warmth in his chest grew, spreading through him like a fire kindling to life after a long, cold winter. He had known you were strong, had admired your spirit from the moment Jacaerys spoke of you. But now, seeing you like this—caring, vulnerable in your own way—it was more than he could have ever expected.

"I never thought you’d stay by my side like this," he said, his voice soft, his dark eyes searching your face. "But you did."

You looked away for a moment, your fingers tightening in your lap. "I stayed because I couldn’t leave you like that. No one deserves to be alone when they’re hurt, not even you."

He chuckled softly, wincing at the pain it caused. "You have a strange way of showing concern, Princess."

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was laced with exasperation. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"

"I’ve been told," he muttered, still smiling despite himself.

The tension between you seemed to ease then, the space between you no longer as cold and vast as it once had been. Cregan felt it—the change, subtle but undeniable. And though he knew things wouldn’t be easy, though you would likely bicker again and clash as fiercely as you had before, there was something different now.

For the first time in a long while, Cregan Stark felt something stir inside him—a warmth, a sense of hope. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but for now, he was content with the knowledge that you were here, by his side, and that perhaps, just perhaps, you cared for him more than either of you had realized.

And that was enough.

The godswood was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon sun, the ancient red leaves of the weirwood tree rustling in the cool breeze. Cregan walked beside you, his stride steady now, fully recovered from his near-fatal wounds. It had been months since that day when Silverwing had saved him from death's grip, and in that time, the distance between you and Cregan had shifted. You still bickered, your sharp words clashing like swords, but there was something different now. Beneath the teasing, the arguments, there was a warmth that neither of you could deny.

"I still think you're insufferably stubborn," you muttered, your arms crossed as you walked along the path beside him. "Charging into battle like a fool—next time, I won’t be sitting by your bedside."

Cregan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your irritation flare even hotter. "Ah, but you did sit by my bedside," he said, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "And I seem to recall you staying there for quite some time. Worrying about me, even."

You shot him a sharp glare, though it lacked the real venom it once held. "You should be thanking the gods you survived, not teasing me for caring whether you lived or died."

"I do thank the gods," he replied, his voice quieter now, more serious. "But I also thank you. You stayed with me, Y/N. I haven’t forgotten that."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt the familiar defenses you had built around yourself begin to crumble. You glanced away, your gaze falling on the gnarled roots of the weirwood tree, trying to ignore the way his words made your heart flutter.

"You’re still a fool," you mumbled, though the edge had left your voice.

Cregan stopped walking, and you felt him gently take your hand, pulling you to a halt. You turned to face him, and in the quiet of the godswood, with only the wind rustling through the leaves, you found yourself caught in his gaze—those deep, grey eyes filled with something you hadn’t allowed yourself to see before. There was no frustration, no anger—only warmth, only want.

"And you’re still the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met," he said softly, stepping closer. His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine despite the cold air. "But I wouldn’t want you any other way."

You opened your mouth to retort, to say something biting, but the words never came. Instead, you found yourself closing the distance between you, your breath catching as his hand cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, and the last remnants of the ice between you began to melt.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though both of you were testing the waters. But the moment your mouths touched, the fire that had been simmering beneath your bickering flared to life. His hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Neither of you spoke; there were no more words left to be said. The cold air around you seemed to disappear, muted by the heat that surged between you. His lips were warm and insistent, his body pressed against yours with a need you hadn’t known you could feel.

Without breaking the kiss, Cregan’s hands moved to the ties of your cloak, loosening them with deft fingers. You tugged at his own furs, pushing them from his shoulders, and soon the cold was biting at your exposed skin, but you didn’t care. And neither did he. The warmth of your body, of your fire, was all that mattered to him now.

Your cloak fell to the ground, forgotten among the roots of the weirwood, and Cregan’s hands were on you, pulling at the fastenings of your gown. You gasped as the cold air hit your bare skin, but his hands were there to chase it away, his touch rough and gentle all at once. You tugged at his tunic, eager to feel his skin beneath your hands, and when he pulled it over his head, you marveled at the strength of him, the way his muscles rippled beneath the scars and callouses of a warrior.

Before long, the two of you were bare to the elements, the cold air forgotten as he lowered you gently to the ground. The soft moss beneath you was cool, but the fire in your veins made it bearable. Cregan’s body hovered over yours, his eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice husky with desire, but still full of the respect that had always been there beneath your bickering. "I won’t force this, Y/N."

You stared up at him, your heart racing, and for the first time, you felt no resistance. No walls, no barriers. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. "I’m sure."

With that, he kissed you again, slow and deep, as his body pressed gently against yours. His hands were everywhere—on your waist, your hips, trailing down your thighs, sending sparks of heat through your entire being. When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, deliberate tenderness, his eyes never leaving yours.

The brief flash of pain as he broke your maidenhead made you wince, but he was there, soothing it with soft kisses, his hand tangled in your hair. And then, as the discomfort began to fade, the pleasure took its place, warm and insistent.

You moved against him, your body finding a rhythm as you urged him on with the softest of moans, your hands gripping his shoulders, your legs wrapping around him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his control slipping as he gave in to the fire between you, the primal, unspoken connection that had been building for months.

The cold wind whispered through the trees, but it could not reach you. The warmth of your bodies, entwined beneath the ancient weirwood, was enough to drive it away. Cregan’s movements grew more intense, his lips never straying far from yours, his hands gripping you as though he feared you might vanish.

Your moans mixed with his groans, the air between you thick with the sounds of your love-making, the passion that had been hidden behind walls of ice and words for so long. Every touch, every thrust, brought you closer to a place neither of you had been before, and when the moment came—when your bodies finally reached the peak—you clung to him, your breath ragged, your body trembling with the force of it.

He followed you over the edge moments later, his own release marked by a soft growl that sent shivers down your spine. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind quieting, the godswood holding its breath as the two of you lay entwined, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

Cregan didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered your name. You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the moment settle over you, your heart still racing from the intensity of it all.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt truly warm.

The day was crisp and clear, the sky a bright blue canvas that stretched out endlessly above Winterfell. Silverwing, her silver scales shimmering in the afternoon sun, stood in the godswood, shifting her weight restlessly, her wings fluttering with barely-contained excitement. You stood beside her, hands on your hips, grinning as you watched Cregan approach, his expression a mix of wariness and resignation.

"You look like you're marching to your execution," you teased, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. Silverwing gave a low, eager rumble, her eyes fixed on Cregan as though she sensed his hesitation and found it endlessly amusing.

Cregan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share Silverwing’s enthusiasm—or yours, for that matter. He slowed his approach, eyes narrowing at the massive dragon before him. "I thought I was done with near-death experiences for a while," he muttered, giving you a sideways glance. "But here I am, about to climb on the back of something that could roast me alive."

You chuckled, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his chest. "Oh, don’t be such a Stark about it. Silverwing wouldn’t dream of harming you—not as long as I’m here." You flashed him a grin, though you could tell from the way his jaw tightened that he wasn’t quite convinced.

"I suppose that’s supposed to reassure me?" he asked, glancing up at Silverwing’s massive head as she tilted it curiously toward him.

"Well, it should," you said, rolling your eyes playfully. "Besides, she likes you. Remember how she likes to nudge you? If a dragon doesn’t like you, trust me, you’ll know."

Cregan swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back to Silverwing’s gleaming teeth. "Comforting."

You laughed, grabbing his hand and tugging him closer to Silverwing, whose tail flicked impatiently behind her. "Come on, brave Lord of Winterfell. It’s not every day you get to ride a dragon. You might even enjoy it."

"I highly doubt that," Cregan grumbled, though he allowed you to lead him closer.

When you reached Silverwing’s side, you placed a hand on her flank, feeling the familiar warmth of her scales beneath your palm. The dragon lowered herself slightly, making it easier for you to mount. You turned to Cregan, your smile widening at the sight of him standing there, arms crossed, clearly trying to mask his discomfort.

"Up you go," you said brightly, giving him a playful shove toward Silverwing’s side. "Ladies first."

He shot you a look that could have frozen the Wall, but with a resigned sigh, he began to clamber up the dragon’s side, his movements careful and deliberate. You followed him, slipping easily into the saddle behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist to keep both of you secure.

"You’re going to want to hold on tight," you whispered into his ear, your voice laced with mischief. "Silverwing can be...enthusiastic."

"Great," Cregan muttered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the saddle. "Just what I needed to hear."

Silverwing, sensing the shift in your posture, gave an eager roar, her wings unfurling in preparation for takeoff. The wind stirred around you, and you felt Cregan tense beneath your arms, his muscles coiled with nervous energy.

"Here we go!" you called out, laughing as Silverwing leaped into the sky with a powerful beat of her wings.

The ground fell away beneath you in an instant, the cold wind rushing past as Silverwing soared higher and higher. Cregan let out a startled curse, gripping the saddle with both hands as if his life depended on it, while you laughed, the exhilaration of flight filling you with a wild sense of freedom.

"Relax, Cregan!" you shouted over the wind, leaning into him. "You’re not going to fall!"

"I’d rather not test that theory!" he shot back, his voice strained as Silverwing dipped suddenly, her wings cutting through the air with effortless grace.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning your chin on his shoulder as the dragon steadied herself, gliding smoothly over the landscape. "See? It’s not so bad, is it?"

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, though you could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease as the flight became less of a frantic rush and more of a smooth ride. The wind was cold but invigorating, and beneath you, Silverwing hummed contentedly, clearly enjoying the chance to stretch her wings with both of you on her back.

"Alright," Cregan finally admitted, his voice quieter now, though still laced with reluctance. "Maybe it’s not as terrifying as I thought."

You grinned, tightening your arms around him as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. "See? I told you. You’re a natural dragonrider."

"Let’s not go that far," he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smile.

For a while, you soared together in silence, the vast expanse of the North stretching out beneath you—white fields, dark forests, and the distant peaks of mountains all bathed in the pale winter light. Cregan relaxed more with each passing moment, his breath steadying, though he still gripped the saddle firmly. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your touch, but it wasn’t the frantic rhythm of fear anymore. It was something else—something closer to excitement.

After a while, you guided Silverwing back toward Winterfell, and as the dragon swooped low over the godswood once more, you couldn’t help but tease him again. "I think you might have even enjoyed that a little."

Cregan shook his head, though there was a faint laugh in his voice. "Enjoyed? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Princess. I’m still deciding if I’ll ever do this again."

You smirked as Silverwing touched down with a graceful thud, her wings folding as she lowered herself to the ground. You dismounted easily, then turned to help Cregan down, though he shot you a look as if to say he didn’t need the help.

"I’ll give you credit for bravery," you said, watching as he finally stood on solid ground again. "You didn’t scream once."

"That’s because I was too busy clinging for dear life," Cregan muttered, though his lips quirked in a smile. "But I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s something."

You laughed, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You did well. Maybe you’re more suited for the sky than you thought."

He looked down at you, his expression softening as he rested his hand over yours. "Maybe. But for now, I think I’ll leave the flying to you."

You grinned, leaning up to kiss him softly. "Suit yourself. But you’re always welcome to join me."

Cregan chuckled, pulling you closer. "We’ll see about that. But if Silverwing’s happy, I suppose I’ll consider it."

Silverwing let out a soft, approving rumble behind you, and you couldn’t help but smile. "I think she likes having you around."

"Gods help me," Cregan muttered, though there was warmth in his eyes that told you he didn’t really mind.

And as the two of you stood there, with Silverwing watching over you, the cold air seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of your shared laughter and the fire you had ignited between you.

[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

[elixirfromthestars]

Here For You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Summary:  After being injured on a mission, you try your best to hide it from the team to continue fighting alongside them. However, one very perceptive super soldier makes hiding your injury an impossibility.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warning(s):  mentions + description of injuries / a bit of hurt—comfort / does not follow the canon timeline in the mcu / mentions of near-death encounters (from civilians) 

requested by @marigoldreamer

a/n: hello everyone! i started off on here as solely a Bucky writer, but it seems like i cannot get enough of Steve when I write about him ✨ this originally was much shorter and then I got carried away lol (which is one of the reasons why it took so long to get out, sorry 🥲) thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! ❤️❤️ feedback is much appreciated! ❤️❤️

birthday bingo masterlist 💙 // main masterlist 💙

“Oh, that does not look good,” you muttered under your breath, grimacing at the sight of your swollen skin. You were standing in front of your bedroom mirror, your shirt lifted, exposing the bruise coloring the area around your ribcage. You knew you had injured yourself on yesterday's mission, but you avoided visiting the infirmary, not wanting Friday to alert the team of the extent of your injuries. 

You knew it was bad—the persistent discomfort you felt with every breath you took told you so. However, the team was already spread scarce with multiple threats around the world, so they needed everyone available. 

The team couldn’t afford you not being available right now.

So although your body was telling you desperately it needed attention, you decided to push through the pain and help out as best as you could. You had a meeting with your team in about half an hour, so you had until then to figure out how to lessen the after-effects of your injury—and how to hide it for the time being. 

You went into your closet and scanned the rows of clothing searching for the perfect item. You ended up choosing an evergreen knitted sweater. It was big enough to hide something underneath it without raising suspicion—which is exactly what you needed right now. 

Lifting the sweater over your shoulders and through your arms caused an excruciating raw ache to reverberate within your chest with every movement. You mitigated your motion to lessen the toll this simple task was taking on your body. 

You didn’t want to think of how your condition could worsen within the field. 

You pushed those thoughts into the back of your mind and with your sweater on, you made your way over to the kitchen in the Avenger’s compound. Thankfully, no one was there to question why you were taking out a small bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapping it in a hand towel, and placing it under your sweater. 

You flinched at the sudden change of temperature, but quickly eased into it as it numbed your injury. This would have to do until you could sneak into the infirmary later and get your hands on painkillers. Then you could properly rest from the nagging discomfort in your lower chest. 

You interlocked your hands and lightly hugged them to the injured area to keep the frozen peas in place. Rarely did anyone ever show up to the team meetings early, so your next step was to get in there before everyone else and then ultimately leave after everyone else with no one noticing a thing.

A simple task of course. 

You made your way down the hallways of the compound slower than usual. You avoided making brisk or swift movements as it caused your chest to constrict more than it was capable of, causing a shooting jolt to go through you. Every time it did that you had to suppress a string of coughs that only added to your pain. 

At this point, your mind ruminated on the thought of you potentially not being able to make it through the meeting. It was a doubt that was now weighing heavy on your shoulders.

When you finally made it to the conference room, the beeping of a screen caught your attention. Taking a quick peek inside, you notice Steve is already there. He was tapping away at the large presentation screen, getting mission reports together for the meeting. 

Well, this just got a bit complicated.

Steve is a super soldier—a highly perceptive super soldier. He was going to notice your presence sooner or later, so you needed to get into the farthest seat from him before he noticed. This would be the seat at the other end of the table from where Steve was standing. Thankfully, this seat was a quick dash away. 

A quick painful dash away. 

Steve opened up a file on the screen and a video of a building falling to ruins began playing. The audio of the destruction echoed in the room and you took this chance to scurry over to the seat. You plopped yourself down just as the video finished, almost rolling away with the wheels of the black office chair. Your hands scurried to keep the frozen peas hidden beneath your shirt. 

Due to your injury, your movements across the room weren’t gracious. You had fumbled as you plopped down onto the seat causing your chest to contract and tighten more than it should have. This ignited a burning sensation to burst within your chest. You inhaled sharply before biting the inside of your lip as hard as you could to stop yourself from making any further noise. 

Steve’s head shot back to look at you in confusion.

“ Y/n? Everything okay?” Steve’s brows were furrowed, as he slowly turned his body around to face you. You cleared your throat before answering, “ Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just shocked at the destruction of that building. What happened to it?” You changed the subject of the conversation to something that wasn’t you. 

Steve’s eyes stared into yours for a few seconds before answering,“ I’m not sure yet. We received this video from the CIA and we’re being sent there to investigate. They think it was an attack by one of the terrorist organizations that worked closely with Hydra.” He finished explaining, his brows relaxing from their furrowed state. 

Steve handed you one of the mission reports before placing the rest in the middle. You opened the file and pretended to look through it. In reality, you were adjusting with one hand—as quietly as you could—the frozen peas beneath your shirt in a better position since the bag had slipped away from the injured spot when you sat down. It was now chilling your stomach, leaving your injured spot unattended to. 

“ Y/n, are you sure everything’s okay?” Steve was looking at you with a puzzled, yet concerned gaze. He was standing only a chair or two away—a little too close for comfort.

You locked eyes and paused for a moment to think of what to say. Steve was your team’s captain and your close friend. You knew, without a shadow of a doubt, you could trust him. However, trust in this case meant him taking you out of the field at a time when the team needed you most.

As you were contemplating on what to tell him, Sam, Bucky, and Natasha walked into the room bickering over what to order for lunch. Their entrance saving you from having to answer Steve. He shot you a quick look letting you know this conversation wasn’t over. 

Now you would also have to find a way to evade any future conversation about your well-being.

“ So, Bucky and I are craving some Japanese food right now, but Nat wants Greek food. What’ll it be guys?” Sam explained their current predicament as they all approached the table. The three of them stared back at you two in anticipation. 

“ Greek sounds nice,” Steve replied, sauntering over to the front end of the table. Natasha smiled in amusement as the voting was now at a tie. She sat closest to Steve while Sam and Bucky sat across from each other in the chairs directly to your left and right. Their proximity consequently causing your nerves to spike up. 

“ It’s up to you to break the tie. Don’t let me down, Y/n.” Sam pleaded in a lighthearted manner. If you were completely honest, appeasing your appetite was the least of your worries. However, your body was begging for some warmth as the frozen bag continued its icy attack on your skin. You thought maybe eating something right now wasn’t such a bad idea. 

“ Sorry, Nat. Sorry, Steve. Some miso soup sounds really good right now,” you smiled at Sam who basked in this small victory. Bucky was beaming beside you as well. Natasha playfully scoffed and shrugged at the loss while Steve put his hands up in a playful surrender. 

“ I knew we could count on you,” Sam turned to you and gave you a friendly pat on your shoulder. This caused a stinging prick to shoot through the left side of your chest. You winced, a small yelp escaping your lips.  

Everyone froze and stared at you worriedly. “ Are you okay? I didn’t pat you that hard did I?” Sam asked guilty, taken aback by your reaction. You shook your head profusely, “ No, Sam, it’s okay—I’m okay. It’s just I got a sunburn on one of our last missions and it still hasn’t healed fully.” You lied through your teeth, giving everyone in the room a reassuring smile. 

Everyone looked relieved—except for Steve whose suspicion you assumed was getting stronger by the second. 

“ Sorry about that, I didn’t know. My Titi always swore that soaking in a cool bath of baking soda and oats would soothe any degree of sunburn. You should try it,” Sam suggested. His thoughtfulness warmed your heart, “ You’re fine, Sam—really. I’ll have to try that out and let you know how it works out.” You send him another reassuring smile. You mentally cursed yourself for your outburst. Another slip-up like that and anyone on the team was sure to find out about your injury.

In no time, Sam was ordering everyone food and Steve began debriefing you all on the next mission that you all had to leave for in a couple of hours. You weren’t paying attention as the stinging in your chest worsened. The frozen peas beneath your shirt had melted and were adding to your discomfort instead of aiding it. By the time the meeting ended, and Sam told everyone to meet up in the kitchen for lunch, lifting yourself off of your chair felt like an impossible task. 

Everyone had gone off to eat except for Steve and you. Throughout the whole meeting, you felt his eyes watching you. You avoided looking in his direction and focused solely on the files and the screen behind him the entire time. You felt if you had looked into his pretty blues at any point during the meeting, your resolve would have crumbled. 

“ This time I’m not going to ask. I know you’re not okay and I know it has to do with yesterday. We need to talk about what happened last night,” Steve’s voice was gentle, yet serious as he approached you. The exhaustion of suppressing your pain was getting to you and his presence brought you much-needed comfort. Your determination to act like nothing was wrong was slipping away from you with every passing second.

“ What—do you mean?” your voice broke, swallowing hard to find the courage within you to admit you needed assistance. Steve took the seat next to you, “ Last night when we were rescuing civilians from the burning rubble, you went into the collapsing building against orders,” he reminded you. 

“ And saved the three people who were trapped inside,” you added. He sighed, his lips forming a tight line, “ Against orders. The instructions were that I was supposed to be the one to get the trapped civilians inside—not you,” his tone was heavy with frustration. 

You shook your head, “ You weren’t going to make it in time. I was the closest one. As soon as you arrived the building collapsed completely. If I hadn’t gone in they would have died. I might not be a super soldier, but I can do my job pretty damn well, Steve. ” You were getting defensive, feeling as though your abilities as an Avenger were being questioned. 

While your actions may have been defiant, they resulted in three lives saved. That had to count for something.

“ I’m not doubting your stance as an Avenger. You are amazing at what you do and we need you here. But that gets put into jeopardy when you jump into dangerous situations without thinking and get yourself hurt,” he further explained, your eyebrows shooting up at his words. “ All of the situations we jump into are dangerous,” you pointed out.  

His eyes narrowed, his exasperation at your stubbornness growing, “ We don’t bargain our lives out in the field, Y/n.” His tone was disapproving, making you feel like a scolded child. Irritation crawled its way up your spine. This coming from Steve of all people made it even worse.

” Okay, Mr.I-jumped-on-top-of-a-grenade-to-save-everyone,” you shot back at him. Steve would constantly make self-sacrificing calls on the field to save other people. Why was it okay for him to do it, but not you? 

“ That was different,” was all he managed to come back at you with. 

“ In what way?” you asked, curious to know the real answer. 

“ Well for starters, it was a world war. The mentality of everyone at that time was different. In the beginning, I was outcasted. No one worked as a team with me. The only person alive who cared for me was miles away on the battlefield. It was everyone for themselves,” he paused reminiscing the past with a solemn look before continuing, “ We’re a team here, Y/n. There are people here that care about you. We look out for each other and keep each other safe. That’s how it's supposed to be,” he stated with sincerity. 

You took a moment to gather your thoughts and let the weight of his words sink in. Steve had opened up about his past to you before, but the way he spoke of it now gave you a deeper perspective on things. 

“ I’ll stop if you do,” you proposed, tired of the arguing and understanding where Steve was coming from. A small smile fell on his lips,“ Okay, it’s a deal. Come on, let’s get you to the infirmary so Friday can scan the extent of your injuries.” He stood up bending down slightly offering his shoulder and arm as support. 

You reached out and let him take the brunt of the effort of getting you out of the seat. The more you leaned on his support, the less it took a toll on your own body. You kept one arm on his shoulder and the other on the now-melted bag of peas beneath your sweater as you lifted yourself off of the seat. The slight twist of your torso intensified the pain within your chest for a second before mellowing out to its usual tempo. 

Steve couldn’t hide the emotions behind his intense stare. His voice and touch were gentle, yet strong in the way they guided you out of the room. He was doing his best to keep you calm but by the look on his face, you could tell your injury had to be more serious than you previously thought.

The walk to the infirmary was easier with Steve by your side. When you arrived Steve helped you prop yourself onto one of the infirmary beds, calling out for Friday’s assistance. He then went over to one of the storage cabinets and grabbed a few white pillows to place behind you. He adjusted them so you could sit in a position that was easy on your injury. 

“ How’s that? Does that feel alright?” Steve asked as a blue robotic arm scanned your body. You nodded in appreciation,“ It’s perfect, Steve, thank you.” He sent you a small smile, his eyes still reflecting a worrisome look. You took out the melted bag of peas from your sweater and unraveled it from the hand towel. Steve let out a small chuckle of disbelief at the sight of it. 

“ What? I’ll have you know this little bag was a lifesaver,” you informed him. Steve’s eyes twinkled with amusement, his smile getting wider, “ Oh, I bet it was. You’ll have to explain to Nat why her Olivye salad will no longer have peas in it though.” 

Your eyes went wide, “ Oh no.” 

He held in a laugh, “ Oh yeah.” 

Friday’s Irish robotic voice suddenly spoke up interrupting the two of you,“ Body scan complete. Moderately bruised ribs detected. Rest is recommended for the next three to six weeks or until the injury is completely healed. Medication is on its way.” She informed you of your diagnosis causing you to let out a sigh of relief you didn’t know you were holding. For a moment there you thought you might have fractured your ribs or maybe even bruised your lungs. Those injuries were more severe and so was their treatment. However, having to rest for the next three to six weeks wasn’t ideal either. 

“ Steve, I’m so sorry. I didn’t listen and now I’m out of the field for weeks and I know the team was counting on me—” Steve interrupted your rambling by placing his hand on yours, “ There’s nothing to be sorry about. Our job is dangerous and this kind of stuff happens all the time. If anything, I should be the one that’s sorry.” You frowned not only confused at his words but also at how comforting the sensation of his hand on yours was. 

“ Sorry about what?” you tilted your head, unclear of what he meant. 

“ I'm sorry I wasn’t able to protect you,” he clarified, his voice full of regret.

Your mouth opened to form words, but nothing came out. Why would Steve be sorry about that? Did he shoulder the responsibility for everyone’s well-being because he’s the captain? Did he feel this way about everyone on the team? Your thoughts jumbled together, causing you to be unsure of what to think. 

“ Steve, please don’t put this on yourself. I made a call against your orders and while I did save a few lives, I took a hard fall, injuring myself in the process. There’s no need to worry or care beyond that. I’ll be fine,” you couldn’t take his crestfallen expression and did your best to dismiss your current situation. Steve was not happy about that.

“ Don’t say that. We all care about you—I care about you. I worry about you and I hate seeing you like this. I feel responsible for not protecting someone who means a lot to me from getting hurt,” there was a vulnerability in his voice that caused your heart rate to elevate and your features to soften. A new sensation was inching its way into your heart, and his words yielded you to see him in a different light. 

“ Steve I…” you trailed off not knowing what to say. Steve gave you a shy smile,“ You don’t have to say anything,” he removed his hand from yours and grabbed the bag of peas from beside you, “ I’ll go take this back to the kitchen and get you that miso soup you really wanted.” He left the room, giving you a chance to process what was going on. 

There was always something about Steve that was different in the way you interacted, but until a few minutes ago you had never thought of the possibility of Steve seeing you as anything more than part of the team. You were always partnered up on missions and got to know each other on a deeper level than you had with any other Avenger. Apart from a few playful exchanges here and there you had always assumed Steve only saw you as a friend. 

Not to mention he had a history with a CIA agent named Sharon, and you genuinely believed they would end up together. The thought of Steve having feelings for you was never on the table. 

Except now it was and that caused your feelings toward him to emerge from a place you didn’t know they had been hidden.  

Two red robotic arms appeared on your left, breaking you from your thoughts. One arm was holding a small cylindrical tin with a couple of pills and the other held a cup of water. You took it eagerly and consumed the medication hoping the pain would subside enough to get some sleep. You barely got any last night and the sleep deprivation was starting to get to you. 

Steve came back into the room, moments later, as the medication began to take effect—along with its side effects. 

“ Hey there…” you greeted Steve in a sluggish voice. The medication had increased your drowsiness, making it harder to stay awake. He approached your bedside, a bowl of miso soup in his hands, while Friday updated him on your current state. 

He placed the bowl on the nightstand next to the bed,“ Hey there, sleepyhead. Guess the miso soup is going to have to wait. Get some rest, the food will be here when you wake up.” You tried nodding as your eyes fought to stay open. Your mind was clouding, but what was clear to you was that you didn’t want Steve to walk away again without telling him how you felt.

“ No, don’t go, please,” you pleaded, your hand reaching out to him. He looked at you fondly, finding your actions endearing. “ I have to go soon, Y/n. I have to prepare for the mission before we leave in under an hour,” he explained to you. You yawned, your fatigued state making it harder to understand what he was saying. 

“ You can’t because I have to tell you…” your eyes were starting to close.

“Tell me what?” Steve asked you, entertaining this conversation a little longer. He couldn’t hide the affectionate grin you provoked on him.  

“ I have to tell you…” this time your voice was only but a whisper. If Steve hadn’t been a super soldier with heightened hearing he might’ve missed it. 

“ Get some sleep. We can talk later, okay?” He assured you, a softness in his tone you hadn’t heard him use with anyone ever. As much as he was enjoying this, he was adamant about you getting your rest.  

You lazily shook your head,“ No…you have to know how much you mean to me too…” you managed to coherently mumble fighting off the heaviness of your eyelids. Steve was pleasantly surprised by your response, his pulse quickening as yours had done in your previous conversation. 

This time he needed a moment to figure out what he was going to say. To know that maybe even a sliver of the feelings he felt for you were returned in any way was more than he had hoped for. He wasn’t sure how you felt about him, and while Bucky and Sam had profusely encouraged him to ask you out on a date, there was always something stopping him. The fear of ruining the friendship you two have was enough to hesitate from ever confessing anything to you. 

However, if what you said was true, then maybe he should be completely honest with you. 

He gathered his thoughts, taking a deep breath ready to speak them to you. That was until he realized you had fallen asleep. The time he took thinking was all you needed to drift off into a peaceful slumber. 

He laughed at himself, although albeit a bit relieved he would be able to have a heart-to-heart later with a more conscious you. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to pour his feelings out to someone who might think it was all a dream when they woke up. 

“ Sweet dreams, Y/n,” he whispered into the air, planting a small kiss on your forehead. He then exited the room and that afternoon while on the mission he was more enthusiastic than usual. This caused the rest of the team to speculate on the reason why. 

Interestingly enough all the reasons why involved you.   

Unbeknownst to him, your dream that same afternoon had revolved around a handsome blonde and blue-eyed super soldier. 

It was a very sweet dream indeed.  

[ifiguredyoudloveme]

Unhuman (NSFW)

paul atreides x female!oc

summary: in the dark, a woman shows up in paul's room unannounced and gives him something he'll come to crave.

warnings: 18+, p in v sex, creampie, unnatural amount of cum, slight dubcon ? (paul is put under a spell to make him horny and in a trance-like state so idk), mention of knives, pure smut.

words: 1,852

a/n: i don't know where this character came from lol i just started writing. this makes no actual sense in the dune universe btw i just wanted to write about paul. also this took me over 10 days to write cus i kept procrastinating and i still don't really like it but oh well.

Paul awakens to a feeling that he is not alone in the bedroom he lays. A sense of unease creeps up the back of his neck, hairs standing, as he scans the room for the movement of shadow.

He sees it: a static movement in front of the closed door. He is able to make out the shape of the figure as his eyes adjust to the darkness. It's small but only seems to be a few inches shorter than Paul, however does not have the frame of any man he can think of. A woman, most probably.

"Who are you?" Paul asks. His voice is calm but his mind and rapid heart are not as he reaches for the dagger that usually rests without use under his pillow. He stands, hiding the weapon behind his back, the cold steel pressed against his bare skin.

The woman walks towards him with confident strides. Paul holds in a breath and tightens his grip on the knife. When she's mere inches from him, she draws a knife of her own from her side and presses the tip against the underside of Paul's chin.

"Drop it," she demands. He obeys on command despite the Voice not being used. Paul doesn't feel as though she possesses the ability to use it, and yet, he feels an odd inclination to do as she says.

Paul huffs out the air from his lungs. Her eyes are large and almost seem to be glowing; they're dark as a starless night sky, though he can't make out the colour. Her lips are plump and inviting. She pushes the knife upwards slightly, nearly breaking the skin, before dropping it herself. It clatters against the floor though Paul barely hears it. He has the overwhelming desire, suddenly, to kiss her.

"Who are you?" He asks. He wishes to be assertive in this moment, threatening to the unknown intruder, but he finds his voice will not obey and instead every word he utters comes out as a beg of a higher pitch. What is he begging for?

"It doesn't matter who I am." Her voice is soft and comes out unhuman, like an echoed whisper in the wind. Paul wonders if she's an angel, or a spirit, with her unnatural beauty. "I know who you are, and I'm quite surprised this is working so well on someone like you."

"May I...May I know, at least, what your purpose here is?" Paul's voice is low and hoarse and he can barely get the words out. He's been hypnotized by her - his hands squeeze together behind his back so as not to give into the urge to touch. She needs to leave.

She grins and looks down over Paul's half-naked frame. She rests a warm hand over the right side of his chest. His breath hitches. "I've come to give you something," she replies, her voice sweet and intoxicating. "I'm sure you'll like it, as will I."

Paul, without thought, places his hand over hers. "Has somebody sent you?"

She sighs and drops her hand. Paul's eyebrows furrow in worry; he doesn't want her to leave before she gives him whatever it is she's here for. All worries disappear when her hand returns to touch his face. "Yes, Paul, but I cannot disclose by who."

Paul's name on her lips make him gasp and lean into her touch. She's turned him into an obedient puppy, his eyes hazy and wide with anticipation and his red lips parted lazily. In a part of his mind that is usually far closer to him than now, he's disgusted with himself, his lack of the authority that's expected of him.

"May I see what you have come to give me?" His voice is a whine now. He wants to slap himself for his stupidity. He should tell her to leave, draw the knife to her throat and demand to know who she is, but he doesn't. Instead, he twists his head towards her palm and plants a soft kiss in the middle of it. She smiles at this gesture.

"Yes, of course."

Paul inhales deeply as her soft fingers slide from the side of his face and down his neck, fluttering over his collarbone then over his nipple, down his stomach. Her fingers leave a tingle behind on the skin she's touched. She stops once her hand is rested on his lower abdomen, edging dangerously close to his stirring arousal. "Please..." Paul whispers, barely audible.

"Will you lay down for me, Paul?" She asks sweetly. Paul nods, over and over, until he's rested on his back, his hands drawn up towards his chest in remaining insecurity over his fragile frame.

The woman is straddled over his lower hips in seconds though he didn't see her move, as if she used some sort of teleportation. She leans down until their mouths are barely touching, her breath light against his wet lips. "You're very beautiful, Paul. So delicate."

She reaches between their bodies and lightly grips his erection. A soft oh leaves his lips in a moan and he lifts his hips on instinct in search for friction. The head of his cock is wet and stains the thin material of his pants. He can almost swear, through the daze of his brain, that his erection is far bigger than it typically is, barely contained in the fabric. What he knows, for sure, is that his sensation to touch is amplified to an intensity he is unsure he can handle.

She connects her lips to his and they are as soft as Paul had imagined. He groans deeply into her mouth and pushes his wet tongue between her teeth. Their tongues dance together and her hand grips harder, stroking him frustratingly slow. "Please..." It's as if please is the only word he knows.

She pulls away and smiles, nodding in understanding, and grips the waistband of his pants to slide them down. His cock frees and makes a dirty slap against his stomach, loud in the stillness of the room. Paul reaches for her and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back down so they lay skin to skin. She's so warm, and she's naked. Paul wonders if she's been naked this whole time, shadowed by the dark.

She leans into his ear, massages his curls between her fingers. "I'll make you feel good," she whispers so lightly Paul wouldn't have heard if it weren't for the deep silence of the room besides their breaths and his beating heart. He can't hear hers, nor can he feel it against his chest.

"Yeah?" Is all he can mutter, dizzy with desire as he feels her wetness slide over his cock, tip rubbing against her clit. Her pace is slow, too slow, so Paul grips her tighter and lifts his hips upward in a smooth rhythm, meeting her movements. She lets out a moan against his ear, so unhuman but so lovely he wonders if this is in fact a dream.

"Yes." With that, she lifts her hips and sinks down onto Paul's erection, filling her to the hilt. He shrieks an ungodly moan at the feeling and almost cums but manages to, somehow, hold it in. It's the best sensation he's ever felt.

"I can't, I can't," he repeats in huffs, "I don't think I'll last long, I don't—"

"Shh." She places her lips to his neck, sucking on the warm, salty skin. He goes pliant at this: arms slack and dropping to his side, his hands flexing and reaching for sheets to grip. He lets out a shaky whine. He wouldn't mind if his only purpose in life was to exchange pleasure with her, whoever she is.

Once she finally moves, her hips lifting slowly before coming back down again, his head pushes back into the pillow and a whimper escapes his throat. His neck is further exposed and she switches to the other side, sucking there. Paul lightly grips her hair, shorter than his own, and arches his back off the bed.

Her movements increase in speed and, against the sensitive skin of his neck where she's licked and sucked and nipped at, she asks: "Am I fulfilling my promise?"

A sobby whine vibrates in his chest as he nods, his cock leaking profusely with clear liquid inside of her. He's so blissed out he's unable to speak, eyes pricking with tears.

The noises that fill the room are unholy, wet slaps and heated groans of pleasure. She's mainly quiet besides the occasional soft moan when Paul bucks his hips upward to meet her in the middle.

She disconnects her wet, full lips from his neck and connects them to his lips once again, breathing in his steady flow of moans. She takes his cock fully and begins to rock her hips forward and backward, sucking on his tongue as she does so. He whimpers into her mouth at this sudden change of movement and grinds his hips to meet the rhythm of hers.

Paul turns his head to the side, disconnecting their lips, and throws his head back. He moves his hands from her hair to grip her ass and push her down, grinding harder with added force. He's close, and has a deep, forceful desire to cum inside of her.

"I'm gonna– Can I– Please–" Paul mumbles and whines against her ear, unable to form full sentences. His grinds become sloppy as his release climbs close and his grip on her loosens, hands flexed and shaking.

"Yes, Paul," she breathes against his ear, granting him permission. She plants a soft kiss against his cheek as he cums, calming him down with fingers through his hair as he writhes and moans loudly beneath her.

Tears run down his cheeks, cock pulsing inside of her heat and spurting out rope after rope of cum – an unnatural amount. He can feel the warm liquid seep out of her, pooling around the base of his cock and running down his tight balls. The feeling is so intense and delicious he knows that, if he is never to see her again, he may not be able to live with his craving for this. For her.

Once Paul has settled and his heart returns to a steady beat, she lifts her hips and his soaked, softening cock slides out of her and slaps against his thigh. More of his cum leaks out of her and onto his lower stomach. She smiles and places her hands on either side of his face, kissing him, then flips onto her back beside him.

Paul immediately rolls over and wraps his arms around her, unable to handle the lack of her touch. He rests his head against her chest and she lifts a hand to stroke his damp curls. "Don't go," he whispers.

The woman feels cruel knowing she eventually must. But she won't tell Paul this, not yet. Possibly she's been too harsh with her seduction, or Paul is far more sensitive to it than she assumed he would be.

"I won't," she fibs.

[wonder2realities]

cici's meditation guide 4 beginnerz <3

whether it's the void state or just guided meditations ; it seems like meditating is a pretty helpful thing to learn when wanting to shift/meditate. for some, they shift instantly and for others it helps them sleep better but noone ever really explains how to meditate so here's my attempt at a beginner's guide as someone who uses meditation 24/7 !

in my eyes, meditation is not only helpful for manifestation or shifting but is also just a good way to unwind after a really long day - it can be a bit scary if you aren't used to it so don't worry if you're a bit intimidated ~

as a disclaimer, i will say that meditation is all based on what works for you and what you can personally handle ! for some, they meditate for hours and for others they do 5 minute sessions - figure out what works for you and stick with it !

1. clearing your mind

this isn't a needed step but it's something that helped me a lot when i was first starting meditating and that's clearing your mind a bit before you start. you can listen to music or even watch a show, just relax a bit beforehand and don't think about anything that would cause you stress. my way of doing this is i usually write down what i want to achieve during the meditation first (am i shifting? am i just meditating to relax? am i planning on meditating and then sleeping afterwards?) and then listen to music to relax and address any thoughts or things that i feel like would distract me whilst meditating (ie : overdue assignments).

11. choosing ur method

do you like listening to music peacefully, can you focus well with it? — make a playlist of songs that you can meditate to. are you better at following instructions and can focus better on that? — find a guided meditation (personal tip ; go with a shorter one first that is just for the sake of meditation so you can get used to it). you can choose ambience, white noise or even just listen to nothing ! it's all based on what works for you ; if you don't know what works for you, test out different methods.

111. focus !!!

something that seems to be the hardest for most people is focusing, having to sit down or lay down in a position and focus can be a bit hard BUT one way of making it easier is some basic breathing exercises & i'm not talking about the ones where you hold your breathe for 20 seconds - i'm talking about the ones where you simply take deep breaths. spend as long as you wish, allowing yourself to relax until you feel like you're calm enough and then jump into what you're meditating for. for example , lets say you're meditating to manifest a day off school :

if you dont feel calm, take a few deep breaths until you feel a bit emptyheaded & allow yourself to get comfortable in that space (comfort is key !!!)

focus on wanting your day off & live in the end in whatever way you prefer (visualisation, affirmations etc) for as long as you wish !

you can drift away from your thoughts here and there and that's okay ! just don't panic and go back to focusing as you wish

remember that there's not one way of focusing , go with what vibes with you !

1111. don't think of time

now that you're focusing on what you're manifesting for, you may be thinking "how long has it been? am i on track?" — rather than worrying about the time, don't even think that time exists. allow yourself to live in a timeless space, it doesn't matter if it's been 5 minutes or 5 hours — time doesn't exist.

v. enjoy it

for whatever reason you're manifesting for, enjoy it. don't turn it into a stressful task, don't worry if you're doing it the "wrong" way — enjoy yourself & allow yourself to meditate. you cannot meditate wrong, so don't worry about that possibility and unwind.

EXTRA TIPS :

♡ if you're worrying about being disrupted during the meditation, meditate early in the morning/late at night

☆ scared of getting muscle cramps from lying down a certain way? do some stretches beforehand !

♡ struggle to be still for a set amount of time ? choose a repetitive motion and use that to replace being still (i personally rock side to side a lot, it won't make it harder for you to meditate)

thats all ~ if u have any questions feel free 2 inbox me <333

rmbr that you're forever limitless & changing ★

[mrsdesade]

hi, I loved your s4 writings (the one with sister sage and the other one with ryan). if you want to, can you write something with firecracker and ophera as rivals? maybe ophera wants to kick her out of the Seven or she protects Ryan from her. I'm sure anything you write will be great.

btw your art is gorgeous, I love your ophera design!! I'm a beginner artist, and your work really inspires me to learn and be better in this.

Sure!! I love exploring interactions and relationships with other characters from the series (any suggestions is more than welcome), but I suppose now is Firecraker's turn ❤️‍🔥

Btw, thank you for your kind words, I'm honoured! Keep going and never stop drawing! ✨

The fire inside;

Pairing: Homelander x fem!super (Ophera) + villain!Firecracker TW: dark themes, violence, blood, torture, revenge p**n and nsfw (mentioned), Herogasm situation (mentioned) Timeline: season 4 Words count: 6,2k

''I know what's better for him. And for his father too. Anything. I'll do anything for them.''

Firecracker's pedantic voice filled the Seven's common room, while you were the only ones there, waiting for the morning meeting. At first your interactions seemed to go well, there was a sort of mutual respect. She didn't get in the way of your plans. You didn't get in her way as well.

But for some reasons unknown to you, from the moment you were introduced to Ryan, something has changed. Jealousy. Horrible jealousy had begun to flow through the veins of the fiery new addition to the team. You are what she always wanted to be, famous, admired, probably loved.

''I don't expect the same from you. But have the decency to step back and make room for me, who knows what I'm doing."

''You don't know what you're talking about Firecracker. Stay away from Homelander business, it's better for everyone."

The coldness of your demeanor and the superiority complex you exuded, clearly touched a raw nerve.

She took a step closer towards you, trying to look intimidating. Though it felt more like an act than anything else. Firecracker's slender form was considerably shorter, the height difference making it even more ridiculous.

''Better for everyone? Including Ryan? Do you think you're good for him?''

You had no difficulty maintaining a cold gaze, your expression remaining completely stoic. You stood confident, exuding a sense of superiority over her, as if letting her know that you were definitely better, without a doubt. You hadn't appreciated Homelander's decision to make you responsible for Ryan, as if you were his ''mother'', but you decided that you would protect him at all cost.

Firecracker was taken aback by your cold response, not expecting such a confident and dismissive reply. She gritted her teeth, her fists clenching involuntarily at her sides.

"You really think you're something, don't you? Just because Homelander choose you as his public partner? You're just a clown performing on the stage. I bring the truth to people!"

You kept your composure, not showing any signs of intimidation or defensiveness in the face of her aggression. Instead, you let out a soft, mocking laugh, the sound dripping with disdain.

"Please, spare me the charade. You think I'm intimidated by this little act of yours? Things cannot change."

"Act?!" she replied, her voice taut with anger. "I could burn you alive without breaking a sweat. Do you really want to test me?"

You raised an eyebrow at her threat, silently amused by the level of her arrogance. You took another step closer, your confident smile refusing to waver.

''Your weak fire cannot destroy the metal in my body.''

Just as the tension between you was reaching its peak, the sound of the meeting room door opening broke through the air, interrupting the heated moment. Before any further exchange could take place, the door to the conference room swung open. Homelander and The Deep entered, breaking the standoff between you two.

They were deep in conversation, not even noticing the tense atmosphere in the room. Firecracker quickly composed herself, masking her annoyance with a forced smile, while you maintained your composure, watching the two as they approached.

"Ah, there you are. Arrived early this morning, good girls." Homelander said, finally taking notice of you two. He gave you a friendly nod before turning his gaze to Firecracker, his eyes showing annoyance at her big smile.

The Deep shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the lingering tension in the room. "Everything okay?" he asked, glancing between you and her.

Firecracker's fake smile remained plastered on her face, her voice dripping with faux cheerfulness. "Everything's perfect!" she replied, shooting you a quick, insincere glance.

And the scene ends like this, you took your seat beside Homelander and you really hope you've been clear enough with her. You hope it no longer intrudes on the extremely delicate balance you're trying to maintain between you, Ryan and his father.

The day quickly transitioned into night, and with most of the Seven dispersed for the evening, you were walking through the now-deserted hall when you heard footsteps approaching. Turning, you saw Firecracker walking towards you, a malicious smile on her face.

''No, not you again, please.''

"We're on the same team silly, did you forget already?" she said, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I was hoping I'd run into you tonight, I have something important to discuss with you."

Her tone was almost too sweet, the false cheerfulness making your stomach churn. "What do you want?" you asked curtly, keeping your voice cold and detached.

"Come on, no need to be so cold." She stepped closer to you, invading your personal space.

You roll your eyes, bored by his extreme closeness. And you decide to move the conversation with a sarcastic tone. ''If you get any closer, I'll start to think that you have some special interest in me. And I don't think Homelander would be happy about that. He is very jealous of his possessions.''

Firecracker's smile faltered for a millisecond at the indirect mention of Homelander. She clenched her jaws, her eyes narrowing slightly, before regaining her composure.

"Don't flatter yourself Ophera. I don't have any ''special'' interest in you." despite her denial, you caught the hint of defensiveness in her tone. Clearly, the idea of you being the object of Homelander's interest and not her had struck a nerve.

"Then what do you want?" you asked point-blank, crossing your arms over your chest.

"I got something about you.''

You raised an eyebrow, trying to appear unruffled. "Oh? And I'm curious what that might be?"

"I have a video. A video of you in… a very compromising position. That, If it were to go public..." she began, her voice dripping with venomous honey. "...would really damage your reputation."

A chill went down your spine as her words stung. You managed to keep your expression relatively blank, but inside you felt a wave of anxiety. How did she get a video of you? Your mind raced, trying to remember any situations where you could have been secretly filmed.

Or she was lying, maybe it's just a bluff, of course, it has to be like that. "Oh please, you're bluffing.''

"Bluffing? No, unfortunately for you, I'm not." she replied, her voice dripping with feigned sympathy.

''Then prove it. Show me this so-called video." you say with a confident grin on your face, keeping your arms crossed over your chest, still thinking she's lying.

"Sure, just to make things clear, let me show you…" Firecracker pulled out her phone, scrolling through the gallery to find the video. Your heart sank into your stomach as you watched Firecracker produce her phone. She was not bluffing. She really seemed to have something. A real video that would certainly cause a scandal.

She found the video and held the display towards you. You could clearly see yourself in the video. In one of your best Herogasm performances. You were always untouchable at that particular event, no one dared to touch you since you were Homelander's public partner. But someone's company wasn't necessary, you could perfectly satisfy yourself on your own, all you needed was an adoring audience watching you.

You had always been so careful, so meticulous in keeping your activities discreet. And yet, here was proof, captured on camera. HD. 4K.

Your initial reaction was anger, both at her for having the video and at yourself for being so unwary. But there was something else behind the anger, an even more primal feeling: fear. The fear of having your reputation and your place in the Seven ruined by one video.

She pushed the phone closer to your face, forcing you to look at the damning footage again. "Imagine this being leaked. How do you think the public would react? How would Homelander react?"

The thought of the whole America seeing this video, the idea of Hoemlander seeing it, his reaction, the damage it could cause - it was all too much to consider. The rage that had just barely been contained now exploded. You could feel your heart racing in your chest, your mind swirling with worst-case scenarios.

"Where did you get this?" you asked, your voice slightly shaky despite your attempts to keep it steady. "Who else has seen it?"

''I have my sources." she responded with a smile. "And don't worry, as of now only I have seen it. But who knows what might happen if this were to get into the wrong hands…"

You stared straight into Firecracker's eyes with a burning glare.

''You have ten seconds to give me just one good reason not to punch you in the face, and destroy your phone with that damn video inside.''

She had underestimated the anger beneath your cool veneer, and now she was taken aback by your threat. Her bravado waned slightly.

"Oh, look to you, all threatening and violence." she said sarcastically, trying to mask her momentary alarm. "Are you sure you want to do that? Even if you break my phone, I have the video backed up. Now, you, the American sweetheart, are about to do exactly as I say."

"I'm listening." you answered coldly and defeated, the anger in your voice barely leashed.

''Mmh. Rather than just listening, maybe you should pay more attention to your surroundings, danger can hide at every corner.'' she smirked, triumph radiating from her. She had you exactly where she wanted you.

You can sense something is wrong, a negative feeling invades your chest. It's too quiet around you, and the Tower of Seven never is. She gave you a smile as realization slowly dawned on you. You had been so focused on the confrontation with her that you hadn't noticed the silence that had enveloped the area around you. Her words, though vague, were starting to paint a more alarming picture.

''What the hell are you talking about?''

''You'll see. Very soon.''

Your worst fears were confirmed when unexpected hands seized you from behind. Strangers. They grabbed you from various points around your body, rendering you unable to struggle as they forced you to the floor.

You feel a needle prick your neck, and an icy liquid invade your veins, making your powers temporarily unusable. You struggled against their grasp, but it was in vain. Now the masked strangers were stronger than you, their grip on you unyielding. You were in the middle of what seemed to be a very well-planned and synchronized kidnapping.

"Don't even bother struggling. They've been paid a lot of money for this. And they're very professional." she said, approaching you as you lay helpless on the floor.

''Ah! Good luck trying to kill me, it won't be that easy!'' you reply, but the strength that usually coursed through your veins seemed to have deserted you, leaving you at the mercy of these unknown individuals.

"Who said anything about killing? Oh no, no. I have something special planned for you, love. I have more creative plans for you.''

''Fuck yourself, crazy ass bitch.'' you're spitting venom with your words, the desire to destroy them all is tearing you apart.

"You see Ophera, I know you're invincible, or that you like to think yourself of such." she continued, her tone mocking. "But now, thanks to that little injection of Compound V inhibitor they've just shot you with, you're quite defenseless."

''The effect of the inhibitor will not last forever, you know that?''

''Yeah, I know silly! But it will last long enough to make you disappear. Gone, forever. No more shows, no new albums, no afternoon with Ryan, no gala dinner with the Seven.''

Then Firecracker reached down and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her face.

"And Homelander won't be happy, when he comes back and finds out you're gone. Without any warning or goodbye messages. Oh, I can't wait to see the look on his face."

Despite the effects of the drug rapidly dulling your senses and your powers, a little smirk escaped your lips.

"Oh please… You really think that's going to work? You really think Homelander won't figure it out? He's not blind to obvious sabotage, trust me. He'll find me."

"You think you know everything, don't you? It's time for a reality check, love. This isn't just about a spot in the Seven, this is about making sure Homelander looks at me, me and not you. I want his attention, his praise, his everything. He's the one I want and nothing will stand in my way."

You locked eyes with her, your voice strangely calm despite the effects of the drug and your weakening state. You laughed bitterly.

"You think it's all sunshine and rainbows, being his favourite? Please, you're more stupid than I thought. Homelander's love could be a death sentence. To have his twisted obsession on you. His attention can be a curse as much as it can be a blessing. You're pathetic. And you don't know anything about the burden of being his beloved, trust me."

Surprise is clear on her face. The way you talked, the way you described being Homelander's favorite... for a moment, she didn't know how to react to your words.

"Oh, I bet it's soooo hard being Homelander's little sweetheart, getting all the fame and recognition while the rest of us have to fight for scraps." she spit with venomous sarcasm. "Boo-hoo, poor you, suffering under his terrible twisted obsession. You have everything! His love, his attention, his hands on you… Fuck, you're his damn public girlfriend! You have no idea what I'd give to be in your place."

There it was-the truth. The real reason behind her hostility, her jealousy, her attempts to bring you down.

''I don't think... I don't think you know... what it means to be in my place. His… isn't… love. You're going to...hurt yourself-''

Before you could finish your sentence, your vision began to blur and your head grew heavy with fatigue. The drug finally taking hold, you lost consciousness, sinking into oblivion.

Firecracker gestured to the group of men, and one of them picked you up effortlessly.

"Now. Time for the final act. You know the plan, take her somewhere isolated and secret. And make damn sure no one finds her. Respect the orders, no one will have to recognize her, ruin that pretty face as best you can.''

The masked men nodded in response, lifting your unconscious body with ease and proceeding to carry you to a waiting van outside the Tower. Once you were safely inside, the van doors shut with a loud thud, and the vehicle soon vanished into the night.

Firecracker felt a surge of triumph. Her plan had gone flawlessly. You were gone, out of the picture-at least for the foreseeable future. But the taste of victory was bittersweet. Deep down, she knew that once Homelander discovered your disappearance, hell would break loose.

Indefinite moments, minutes, hours pass. You can't say how much has passed since that evening.

Your eyelids flickered open, a disoriented groan escaping your lips. Your head throbbed with a dull pain, and for a few moments your vision remained a blurry mess. Then, slowly, your surroundings began to come into focus. You were in an abandoned warehouse, the air thick with dust and a musty scent. The walls were crumbling, and the silence around you was interrupted only by the sound of your own shallow breathing.

You tried to move, but quickly realized your limbs were tightly bound to a chair. You felt the bite of rough rope against your skin, the tight ropes digging into your flesh as you struggled. The abandoned warehouse was cold and eerie, the only company provided by the ominous figures that stood guard around you. They were all wearing masks, making it impossible for you to identify any of them.

"Oh great, this isn't a cliché scenario at all…" you muttered sarcastically, your eyes scanning the area for any potential escape route.

One of the men, the tallest one, stepped closer to you at the sound of your voice. He took a couple of seconds to assess your situation before speaking up in a low voice.

"Looks like our little songbird finally woke up. I hope you're comfortable." he said, a hint of mockery underlying his words.

"Well, this is a lovely place you've brought me to." you drawled, feigning nonchalance. "Not exactly the five-star hotel I booked last week."

Despite the situation, the guard chuckled at your sarcastic reply. "Oh, sorry to disappoint. Our five-star prisoner need another room? Unfortunately they're all booked.''

You rolled your eyes, silently thinking of the countless witty comebacks that were at your fingertips but couldn't be voiced at the moment.

Then the men leaned in closer, now mere inches from you. "Now, enough chitchat. We've been paid to keep you here and we have strict orders to follow. So, do us all a favor, stay cooperative and keep your pretty mouth shut."

Their cold demeanor and close proximity sent chills down your spine. It was clear they were not here to joke around. One of the other guys stepped forwards, standing almost directly behind you.

"We were paid for a specific task." he chimed in, his voice dripping with a mocking sweetness. "And that task is: to make you as unrecognizable as possible."

His words sent a new wave of fear coursing through you. Unrecognizable. What the hell did that mean?

You swallowed heavily, a sense of dread beginning to grow in the pit of your stomach. "What exactly do you mean by unrecognizable?"

''Just a few…adjustments to your lovely face, body and maybe hair." the man behind you said.

They really intend to disfigure your face? Ruin your body and fill you with scars? Of course. So that you are no longer fit to be in the spotlight. That's one of your greatest fears, even more than great heights perhaps. You struggled against the ropes binding your wrists and legs, trying to break free, but the only result was the ropes digging into your skin even more.

The man behind you chuckled at your struggles. "Don't bother trying to break free. You aren't going anywhere.''

Another man, the largest one, spoke up. "Yeah, so save your energy for what's coming next."

The tall man started to circle around you, examining you from different angles like a piece of meat on display. Each circle he made around you sent a new wave of disgust through your body, and you had to resist the urge to spit at him.

''So, what's coming next assholes?''

He stopped in front of you, a cold smile on his face. He pulled out a shiny little knife from his pocket, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light.

"Now, now, that's not a very nice way to talk to the people holding your fate in their hands." he warned, holding the weapon close to your face. Then the blade of the weapon traced a light, teasing line from your chin down to your chest.

The cold metal against your skin sent a fresh wave of fear coursing through you. You didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing your terror, though.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" you retorted, attempting to sound defiant. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you forced yourself to remain calm. You refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.

The group was momentarily taken aback by your apparent bravado. "Playing tough uh? But we'll see how long that lasts once we start carving up that pretty face of yours.''

When he moves the knife in your direction, you instinctively move your face and pull back in your uncomfortable sit, showing how scary this thing can really be for you. Fuck. How long does it take for your powers to return?

What you need now is just a bit of time, extra time.

''Wait- Wait! Just for a moment! If Firecracker paid you to do this, I can pay you a lot more, absolutely, no doubt!''

The mercenaries exchanged glances, clearly caught off guard by your attempt to stop them. The man holding the knife pulled back, a skeptical look on his face.

"You're really trying to buy us off right now?''

You mask your fear behind a ridicoulous smile, the same you use to charm your fans.

''Oh come on, everyone has a price. Just kindly asking what's yours.''

"You're quite the charmer, aren't you? I never would have guessed beneath all that sparkle and charm is just a desperate, bargaining diva.''

''Desperate? Me? Hardly. I just know how to play my cards and get what I want.''

The mercenary chuckled again, but his expression took on a more serious note. ''But I gotta admit, you're right about everyone having a price. Let's say hypothetically we were open to negotiation. Just hypothetically, of course. What's your offer?''

You took a deep breath, mentally calculating the worth that you could possibly offer to these men if it means they'll spare you.

"How does 25 million sound?" you said, keeping your tone casual.

The men all looked at each other again, clearly surprised by the amount you had just thrown out there. One of them whistled lowly.

"Sweet lord, that's a hefty sum. You're really willing to pay us that much just to spare that pretty face of yours, huh?"

As you talk with them, you feel the time ticking away, and you are still tied to a chair and unable to fight. Frustration would soon turn to anger and you would lose your temper. Then, all your diplomacy suddenly fails.

"What, you didn't think I had that kind of money to spare?! I'm a damn Seven! Of course I can afford it! Believe me, I'm worth much more alive and well than disfigured or dead."

Bad move, really bad move.

Your sudden outburst and loss of diplomacy did not go unnoticed by the men. They were clearly enjoying seeing the cracks in your composure. The idea that you were worth more alive, that they could get even more money from Firecracker to ruin you, was already setting in.

This was turning into a game of cutthroat negotiations.

"Well, well, well." the tallest man chuckled. "Looks like the little diva's mask is coming off. All this time, pretending to be so calm and collected, and now you're getting desperate. It's quite entertaining, isn't it, boys?"

As the men closed in on you, the situation was starting to feel hopeless. You had miscalculated, and now your attempts at bribery seemed to be backfiring. The reality of your predicament was setting in as the men circled around you like a pack of hungry wolves.

"No more deals. You're worth more alive for sure, and we'll talk to Firecracker to get more money to end this work, but in the meantime we can make sure you're not quite as perfect anymore..."

You quickly weigh the options. These men are more interested in doing their job than listening to you. You're tied to a chair. No powers. No escape route. All you can do is bargain, and hope to delay them long enough to get out of this mess.

''Fine...do your worst.''

You lower your head and close your eyes, your only option is to try to resist, until the Compound V inhibitor has finished its effect.

They began to pummel you, their fists raining down on your body. You tried to resist, to fight back, but your strength was fading. The Compound V inhibitor was still there. Each blow felt like it was tearing through your very being, pain radiating throughout your body like fire through a dry forest. You held onto consciousness by sheer determination and will, refusing to show weakness even in the face of pain. You gritted your teeth, refusing to let them see your weakness. Hiding your face, your most precious possession. Your uniform was stained with blood, your skin bruised and battered, but you managed to resist the urge to cry out.

You couldn't give them satisfaction.

Time passes, and your desperate plan finally takes effect. They wasted their time hitting you, without thinking about their main task anymore. How stupid humans are. And you bought the time you needed. The time it takes to regain your powers.

As the men's fists continued to rain down on you, you felt less pain, finally. With a burst of strength, you managed to break free from your bonds and pushing them back. Gaining a few meters of breathing space around you. Your vision was blurred, and your body ached, but you were free. You lunged at the nearest man, knocking him to the ground. The others were taken aback, their surprise momentarily stopping on their places.

The leader, the one holding the knife, was the first to recover. He quickly recomposed himself, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He quickly realize the situation has changed. You're no longer tied up and sedated, and you've already shown that you're a threat. He quickly pulls out a syringe with another dose of inhibitor inside.

"Grab her, don't let her get away!"

You stay dead silent. Full of fury. With fire inside your body.

As they rush at you, you spot the weapons they have on them. You feel the familiar pull and tug of your powers coming back to you. Taking a deep breath, you focus all your energy on the metal objects around them, using your powers to grab and pull on them. You can feel the weapons being yanked out of their hands, as if invisible strings were attached to them.

With a flick of your wrists and your powers now back in full effect, the weapons float around you, like obedient puppets waiting for your command. Metal barrels, knives, and a few firearms all levitate in the air, circling around you. A dangerous gleam in your eyes. You look like a terrifying sight.

A dangerous goddess dressed in red of her own blood.

Their eyes darting from you to the weapons floating around you. They look at you with fear, finally seeing you for the dangerous woman you truly are.

In the meantime, Firecracker stood before the massive glass windows of the Tower, looking out over the New York skyline. Her heart was racing, a feeling of triumph coursing through her veins. She had succeeded in her plan, you were gone.

Homelander was nearby, staring out at the city with a mixture of anger and confusion. The news of your disappearance had already reached his ears, and he was anxiously pacing back and forth, waiting for anyone to give him an update.

Firecracker approached Homelander cautiously, trying to mimic a concerned and empathetic expression. But it was evident that her words were nothing more than a facade.

"Hey..." she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know this must be hard for you. I can't imagine how much you care for her. But you know how she is, she's unpredictable, fickle, frivolous.''

Homelander turned his red burning eyes at her. "I don't need your sympathy, Firecracker." he snapped. "I need her back."

Taken aback by his harsh tone, she started caressing his shoulder. "I understand, I really do. But we have to be realistic here. Her role was heavy, she did this job for many years, maybe she was tired. But of course, it's horrible that she didn't tell you anything.'' she adds, to make him doubt your loyalty.

Homelander's face darkened at her words. "She has always done everything I asked of her. Never once did she waver. No, this isn't... right.''

She continued her act, feigning concern while trying to sow seeds of doubt in Homelander's mind.

"Maybe her loyalty wasn't as strong as you thought. Maybe she was just waiting for the right moment to escape.''

"You're trying to say she betrayed me? That she's a traitor?"

He hated the idea that you would betray him, but Firecracker's words were starting to sow seeds of doubt. She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, the seeds of doubt starting to take root.

But without warning her phone rings, and an unknown number appears on the screen. Her heart skipped a beat, and quickly she excused herself from Homelander, taking a step away and answered the call. She expected to hear the news of your complete disfigurement. So she spoke in a low voice to avoid others from hearing.

"Hello?"

''Kindly, could you accept my video call?'' a familiar voice answered on the other end of the line.

She froze. That was the last thing she expected to hear. It was you, asking for a video call? How? This was not supposed to happen. She quickly looked over her shoulder, making sure Homelander was still occupied and out of earshot.

''Did the cat got your tongue? Turn on that goddamn phone camera.''

She turned away again, her mind racing. She had no idea how to handle this situation. She had been so sure that the plan would be a success, that you would be disfigured and taken out of your position as a favorite.

This wasn't part of the plan. Now you're playing by your rules.

She reluctantly pressed the video call button, turning on the camera to reveal her worried face. Your face appeared on the screen, a small smirk gracing your bloody red lips. You looked exhausted, your face a bit bruised, with a small cut on your cheek. Your uniform, stained from head to toe with blood. And behind you, on the ground, the lifeless bodies of the men who had dared to harm you.

''How...?! How the hell are you-''

"Oh, you thought I'd be sitting quietly, waiting for my face to be carved off? How naive you are.''

Firecracker snap on the other line, realizing she had been outplayed. With anger slowly boiling inside her, she raised her voice. "Don't act so cocky. I still have that compromising video of you." she warned. "One click and your career is over."

''You know, while you left me with your nice masked friends, I had a lot of time to think. At the beginning I was very worried about that video, it would have really created a big scandal for my image...''

''And you should still be worried about it! Indeed, terrified!''

Your laugh echoed through the speakers.

''But then,I came up with a realisation. Maybe he will get angry at first. But Homelander won't take kindly to anyone who threatens me. He'll eliminate anyone who has seen that footage. And If you release it, you'll become public enemy number one."

Firecracker's heart sank as she realized the truth in your words. Homelander's protective nature towards you was a well-known fact. Anyone who had seen that footage, especially someone within the Seven, would quickly be targeted.

"You... you wouldn't dare. I'll deny everything." she stuttered, her confident facade starting to crumble.

A wicked gleam appeared in your eyes as you smirked again.

"Oh, I would. And Homelander will believe me over you any day. He'll tear you apart If you try anything. So I suggest you delete that footage, love. Because If it ever sees the light of day, you won't be able to save your pretty little face."

Firecracker's hands trembled as she gripped her phone tighter. Your words rang through her mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.

You started walking outside the building, still holding the camera, your voice calm. "And by the way, I found the phone of one of your mercenaries. And guess what I found there? Evidence of your little plan to ruin me. Messages between you and them, planning every detail. If you're still in doubt of what to do next, know that have all the proof I need to expose you."

Her blood ran cold as she watching you in horror. You had evidence, solid evidence, of her plan to ruin you. She could feel the walls closing in around her. She became ridicoulous.

"Wait! L-listen, we...we can talk about this! You're alright! You're fine, you're the mighty Ophera! Mine was j-just...a prank. Sure, a prank! You were never really in danger"

It was a desperate, last attempt to save her own skin.

And you are a merciful goddess, right?

''Mmh. An interesting way to spin things. A prank involving hired mercs, secret planning, blackmail attempts, and the risk of disfigurement. Just a little prank, right?"

"I…I…y-yes. A sick, twisted, and stupid prank. I never meant for it to go that far, really. Just a way to get back at you for…being so perfect all the time. I envy...I envy you, you know!''

Your eyes rolled at her attempts to rationalize her actions. She was really going all in, trying to save herself with excuses and half truths. You could practically see the desperation on her face even through the video call.

With a single wave of your bloody hand, you tell her to stay silent. And she stop with her rambling, confused.

You leaned closer to the phone, a lovely grin on your face. "Just a friendly reminder, Homelander can hear pretty well thanks to his powers. He might be listening to this conversation right now."

She had been so focused on her own survival that she had completely forgotten about Homelander's incredible sense of hearing. The thought that he might be listening in on this conversation sent a chill down her spine.

From her reaction you can guess that they're in that same room, maybe with Ashley and all the other super waiting for any news about you.

''Now, be a good girl and go to Homelander.''

"You…you can't…please, I-" she pleaded in a small desperate voice.

''And give him the phone, now.''

She slowly started walking towards Homelander and the others, the phone in her hands, hardly mantaining a smile on her face. ''Uhm- H-Homelander...I've some good news!''

''Spit it out, what's going on?" raised an eyebrow, dead serious.

"Uhm- I-it's for you." she held the phone out to him

The moment Homelander laid eyes on the phone, his emotions were a mixture of relief and anger. He quickly snatched the phone from Firecracker's trembling hand.

"Ophera?! Where the hell are you?!" he repeated, his voice echoing the frustration he was feeling.

"Hey, love. Sorry to worry you. I'm safe and well, just had a little unexpected adventure."

He clenched the phone tightly, his fingers leaving cracks on the device. "Damn it, woman. You had me worried sick. What the hell happened? Where are you? And are you covered in blood? Is that yours?!"

You felt a tingle of satisfaction as you heard the edge of worry in his voice. You can barely imagine Firecracker's defeated face at that moment.

''Don't worry, isn't mine. You know, the usual, anti-super criminals. I got my ass kidnapped, but don't worry, I took care of it. The morons have no idea what kind of trouble they stepped into."

"Why didn't you call me sooner? I could have come and rescued your ass.''

''I am an independent and strong woman. I never ask anyone for help.'' you smiled confident and charming on the screen.

Homelander couldn't help but smirk at your response. Despite his concern, he knew that you were more than capable of taking care of yourself. "Damn straight you are. Now. I'm coming to get you. I need to know everything about this absurd situation of yours.''

''Sure love, I've a lot of things to tell you. Like a good and all blooody bedtime story.''

Firecracker stood nearby, watching the exchange between Homelander and you on the phone. Her heart was in her throat as she listened to your conversation.

Her eyes widened as you continued to talk with him, your confident and charismatic persona shining through even in your bruised and battered state. She couldn't believe how calmly you were handling the situation, while she was the one who had orchestrated the whole disastrous plan.

''I'm at the old abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. You know, the one with the graffiti and the broken windows?"

"I'll be there in three minutes, don't move."

Admiration for you filled her, and jealousy as well as she observed Homelander's reaction to your words. The concern in his voice, the protectiveness he still had over you, it was all too evident.

As you hung up the phone, Firecracker couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. You were unfortunately safe, and he was on his way to get you back to the Tower. But she also knew that her actions had consequences. She had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

You ended the call, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. You had turned the tables on your rival, and now she was the one who was in trouble.

"Well, well, well. Looks like someone's in quite a pickle." you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "I suggest you start thinking about your next move, Firecracker. Because whatever it is, I'm one step ahead of you."

The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: the dynamic within The Seven had been irrevocably changed.

-------

ALRIGHT, WHAT A RIDE WAS THIS ONE?? I absolutely wanna write more with other canon characters! Thanks again for the request, it was really good to write, hope you like it! Kisses ❤️‍🔥

[moodymisty]

Oh boy I have been waiting to be able to put in a request! Wanna start of by saying, love your writing and especially your Cato fic ^^ A joy to read.

Im curious about if you would write in more details how Cato is sweet for his lady? Or maybe is 'sweet' not the correct word, but I will love to read you thoughts about the relationship that is not all about sweaty action. Are the couple able to be subtle or sneaky enough to flirt out in the open? How are they acting behind closhed doors, is it then you will seen the Cato acting more bombastic on his feelings toward the diplomat?

I hope you will like this request ^^ keep it up with the great writing.

Author’s note: Sure, lets have some of that sweet Cato action <3

Relationships: Cato Sicarius/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None really

Cato, once he gets over his constipated emotional crush stage, is a white knight. Maybe less so in the way Titus is, but he is still a bit dramatic. It's all in private though, or only around a few people he knows his reputation is safe with.

Offering his hand to help you down, shielding you from rain or sun with his cape are some examples.

But he does a decent job of making it just seem like he's being polite, abit perhaps having a bit of favoritism. So he isn't going to blow the secret by acting a fool.

In private, he's a bit more overtly romantic as you'd epxect. But he's also super confused and out of his depth; Being an astartes. The most he's heard about romance is from jokes from other astartes (not the best information source to begin with) of from the other serfs, whom he's found himself listening in on quite a bit more as of late.

That one male serf said that baseline women like...What? That doesn't sound right but maybe she will...

Though as sneaky as he is, he isn't totally perfect. Even his men, as emotionally stunted as they are have noticed the soft stares he'll give you while you talk, or while you're working on your dateslate and he simply watches. Similarly now you always sit right beside him, when before you would do anything to be away from him.

Loves to kiss your forehead. There's something about it that feels while romantic, also a bit protective. He is a captain yes, at times of your retinue, but he also is your protector at all times now.

He cannot flirt. It's not possible. You've tried to subtlety teach him but he is just not able to. The best you are able to get out of him is a 'your attire looks good today.', or that you look shorter than usual. You've just chocked it up to 'astartes speak' flirting and take what you can get. It's cute in it's own way, apart from the time Ventris told you that your small fingers would be good for poking eyes out, and Cato promptly smacked him? You assumed it must've been another weird astartes flirt.

You once joked with him while alone together that since he has two hearts, he must be able to love someone double the amount you could. It was a stupid joke and you promptly rolled your eyes at yourself and moved on, but Cato really liked it and always remembers it.

bonus: You begged him for like a solid 3 weeks straight to let you try a taste of his astartes gruel, before he finally caved and let you have a taste. You promptly threw up, making Sicarius laugh so hard the other marines though something was wrong with him, as they'd never heard the man let out more than an amused chuckle. To this day he still hasn't let you get over it.

"That tastes vile Cato! Why can't you just eat my food!" "Because you don't have 400 kilos of muscle and fat to maintain, my love."

[lemonflavoreddishsoap]

CAN I REQUEST LA SQUADRA WITH AN S/O WHO HAS A SWEET TOOTH?? (like they would be late at night just eating something sweet and they would get caught because of the candy wrappers making noise)

I cannot handle much sweetness in my food but for some reason i love writing about characters who have sweet tooths???? idk why. very cute request idea :3

-----------------------------------------------------------------

La Squadra with an S/O with a sweet tooth

Formaggio

He learns about this trait of yours when the two of you get a crap ton of sweet treats together, only for him to find 90% of it gone within a day. He's not pleased, the way he complains about it you'd think it was the cat crying if you weren't watching him.

He isn't actually mad, obviously. I mean, in all honesty he was probably overestimating how many sweets he can handle, but...but the betrayal!!

Great new information now, because you're getting a new treat for your stash practically every day! He'll even come home with some incredibly bizarre sounding treat for either you to keep or for you to watch him eat.

Illuso

Illuso learns when he finds you stuffing your face sometime around midnight. He plucks the sweet from your hands and holds it over your head (if you're shorter than him). "Having a snack right now? If you were planning to stay up for some sweets, you should've let me join you." He doesn't let you stay up for much longer though, just enough for your sugar buzz to end before dragging you to bed.

He's absolutely the kind of fellow to just steal some treats right out of your hand/bag. Make sure you aren't standing around any mirrors as you happily snack, unless you WANT to be jump-scared by an arm suddenly emerging from the wall.

He's picky with sweets, too, so not only is staying cautious keeping you safe from theft, but also from criticism. If you decide to start subtly eating more of his favourite sweets to avoid this, it definitely won't go unnoticed.

Prosciutto

He became aware of your sweet tooth before you ever told him, and before any kind of eating-candy-late-at-night incident. He probably realises by the first time he's brought to your place. Whether it be a dedicated snack-y area somewhere in your kitchen or a few too many colourful wrappers in a trash bin, he takes note of the detail.

Prosciutto stays up pretty late, so it should've been expected that he would run into you digging into some chocolate "secretly" like a raccoon chowing down on some garbage. He stares at you, just a bit surprised that you'd decide to eat something so sugary in the middle of the night.

He doesn't mind your affinity for sweets and sometimes likes to indulge you by buying you fancy little candies and chocolates he thinks you'd enjoy, but he is strict about when you can eat them (no messing up your appetite or sleep!) it makes him seem like a parent but he just wants his partner feeling alright.

Pesci

Shuffling through the kitchen with the lights off was an obvious challenge for you, but flicking on the light's would've been a surefire way to get caught at this late hour. Well, unfortunately that worry is thrown out the window as you end up crashing into something that...yelps?

So, yeah! You discover each other's sweet tooths and bad habits in that same moment. Your best survival strategy is to team up, becoming the Late Night Delicacy Duo - Pesci feels bad about his secret snacks but having you indulge in it with him makes it go from shameful to fun.

His favourite sweets are hard candies, but he'll have a try of anything the two of you manage to scavenge!

Melone

Dude. It's fucking Melone. You don't need to get caught doing jackshit, he tastes the sweet on your fucking lips and figures it out from there. He can tell your favourite chocolate brand just based on your body language or something.

Sounds weird but hey! At least you've got a partner who knows what you like incredibly well, and you often find your preferred treats either in his hands when the two of you are going out or laying on your bed when you return home. He's always right on the money.

He's far from a sweets person himself, save for a few exceptions (namely cake), so he has absolutely no qualms with you having any treats he ends up receiving. Probably likes feeding you a bit. Not in a kink way or anything but like, listen, I think it'd be nice to have his gloved hand gently place chocolates in my mouth while he watches with those beautiful eyes. No don't leave no listen please-

Ghiaccio

He's grumpy enough when he wakes up in the morning, why would you even risk waking him up in the middle of the night? No matter now, because he's ripped the sweet from your hand, tucked it into a cupboard, just nearly slammed the door shut, and is dragging you back to bed.

But as long as you aren't snacking late at night, he's fine with it. He can be a tiny bit strict about it though; doesn't want you overdoing how many sweets you eat, and he does not like trying other people's food so don't ask him.

Just as with most things about you, he loves the trait subtly. His love for this one lies in how he glances at you when the waiter asks if the two of you want dessert after your meal, or the way he taps your arm if the two of you pass a colourful candy store mid-stroll.

Risotto

He likes licorice doesn't he. He does, doesn't he. Look me in the eyes, don't you see what i see hes a LICORICE LIKER

"I really hope your body goes through sugar well. That crash will not be pretty," is a very stupid thing to get jumpscared by, but in your defence you were MINDING your OWN BUSINESS and it's TWO AM- DOES THIS MAN SLEEP!???

Pleaseee ask him to share sweet treats with you, this man doesn't let himself have as many treats as he probably wants to. Beyond just the intimacy of sharing a moment together, you get to see him smile at the flavors. and isn't that what life is just all about.

Honestly if you're really really really in love with candy, he may get or make one one of those candy/chocolate bouquets, y'know the ones?

[misguidedasgardian]

The Winter Sun (12)

12. Winds of Winter

MASTERLIST

Summary: Winter was coming but there was an important mission you needed to accomplish before it 

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, medieval and asoiaf customs, AGE GAP, Cregan is 12 years OLDER than reader), arranged marriage, SMUT, oral sex, (m and f receiving), might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3.0 k

Notes: Our favorite couple is taking a little trip

“We cannot tell them by writing, it’s too risky”, said Cregan severely, “but traveling this far into autumn, is dangerous”

“We can fly to Dragonstone”, you said gently, Sara, the maester and Cregan looked at you, your husband had summoned them to discuss what to do about Aemond’s threat. Cregan seemed nervous as he looked at you, “I was thinking that during Winter, it would be best for Vhaelar to rest in the Dragonmount, extreme cold isn’t good for dragons”, you clarified

“She is right”, said the maester, “this cannot wait, you need to go now”

“But if the dragon will stay in Dragonstone, we should speak to Lord Manderly in White Harbor!”, said Sara, “he could send a ship to retrieve you both in Dragonstone, take you back to the harbor, and you can come from there, it is a shorter ride”

“That is a good idea dear sister”, said Cregan, and then he looked at you, “are you comfortable with the idea my love?”, he asked, Sara smiled widely at his nickname, and the maester smiled as well

“Having to sail through shivering seas and freezed roads with my husband keeping me warm?”, I asked teasingly, “Can’t wait”, Cregan smiled

“I will send the letter to dragonstone at once to let them know of your arrival”

“I will make the proper arrangement, we will departure in a week, is that alright?”, asked Cregan

“Most appropriate my lord”, said the Maester nodding

the three of you, the maester, Cregan and you redacted the letter letting your family in Dragonstone know of your visit, and you smiled and you signed it as

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell

The raven flew away and you looked from the tower, you smiled when you felt Cregan’s arms surrounding you, hugging you, his face by the side of yours

“I can’t wait to have you all to myself for a whole moon”, he whispered in your ear

“You already have me all for yourself”, you said giggly

“There is something exciting about a trip…”, he explained, “a guest room just for us, a small cabin on a ship, then a small carriage, just us two…”, you giggle, feeling your skin tingly, you also find it exciting

“I can’t wait”, you giggled 

“How do you make your old husband feel like a teenager again? uh? the only thing I want to do is take you in our bed, all day, and all night”, he said huskily, kissing your cheek

“You are not that old dear husband”, you giggled, and he squeezes you tightly in his arms making you shriek

“You brought me back to life”, he whispered in your ear, so quietly you thought you had imagined it.

“I doubt it”, you whispered

“Stop that”, he said quietly, “stop diminishing yourself”

“Sorry”, he chuckled, kissing you again

“I love you”, he said, so faintly you thought you dreamed it

“What?”

“I love you wife”, he said more firmly

“You do?”

“I do”

“I love you too”, you admitted 

Cregan wanted to make sure he left everything prepared before your departure, so he went to the maesters and lords to continue the preparations for the coming snow storms, the roofs of Winterfell and Winterstown needed fixing….

So as you stayed in your chambers, Sara visited you, with a wide sneaky smile

“Sooo… I saw my brother smiling stupidly as he walked about”, she started, and you blushed, hiding your face from her.

“I don’t think he looks stupid”, you said mindesly

“Ohhh you two did it, didn’t you?”, you mocked, and you chuckled

“Kind of”

“Kind of?”, she teased

“Alright, we did, we… made love”, and she shrieked

“I KNEW IT!”, she said, smiling widely, “I can’t wait to have nieces and nephews!”, she giggled, “I’m so happy for you both” 

“I’m happy as well”, you clarified, and she smiled even widely

“You both deserve to be happy”, she whispered with a reassuring smile, “and now you are taking a small vacation”

“Yes, to Dragonstone, we will be back next moon”, you reminded her

“Take all the time you need”, she winked at you, “even better if you come back with a swollen belly…”

“enough of that”, you chuckled, but with your cheeks heated. Were you allowed to dream? Will you be able to give Cregan children? you really hoped so, you wanted to have babies, you knew it would make him happy, and you felt warm by only imagining to be pregnant with Cregan’s child, but it was too soon. So you shake your head and smile at Sara, who was looking at you with knowing eyes

Sara had this thing to her, she always seemed to know what you were thinking, it was almost like she know what was going to happen…it was an odd feeling… a silly one perhaps, in the book that Cregan had sifted you all those years ago, there was a chapter about some people the northerners called “Greenseers” 

You didn’t know what you made the connection, but anyways

You resumed your tasks as the Lady of Winterfell, like you had been before Aemond rudely interrupted, helping to receive groceries and supplies for the coming winter. According to the maesters in the Citadel, it was going to be a long one, and very cold. 

That weird feeling of excitement filled you again and smiled as you with the maesters where counting down the portions of wheat, in comparison of the people of the town. 

Soon night fell over the North, and you were seated in front of a dresser Cregan brought for you, brushing your hair, waiting for your husband who was helping with the roofs in the town, and you smiled when you heard him come inside the room.

“Good evening Lady of Winterfell”, he greeted, 

“Good evening Lord of Winterfell”, you mocked back, you let out a small giggle when you turned and found him leaning over the door frame, looking at you with a smirk

“Did you know you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on?”, he asked

“I don’t believe you”, you said back

“You hurt me”, he said, placing his hand on his chest dramatically, and you giggled, “If you don’t believe my words I will have to prove it to you”, he said, faking the seriousness that he displayed in his voice

“How?”, you asked innocently, and you shrieked when he lounged at you, he grabbed you and held you in his arms, raising you from the floor

“NO!”, you giggled, “leave me!”

“One second wife”, he said, and he threw you in the bed

“Cregan!”, you shrieked

“Perhaps I didn’t eat you out good enough to make you think that you are not the most beautiful woman on the planet!”, he said, his tone worried

“No no no no it was fine!”

“I don’t think so”, he said, and he let himself drop between your parted thighs, he grabbed your dress and raised it until it was over your belly, your bottom half naked for him

“No!”, you giggled

“I have to do this wife”, he said, 

“You don’t have to”, you giggled, and then he stopped and looked at you, alarmed

“You don’t want me to?”, he asked, real concern now on his voice

“No, I do, is just, you don’t have to if you don’t want to”, you said, and then he smiled

“Oh but I do want to, wife, you don’t know how delicious you taste, and how good it feels to make you squirm and cum with my tongue alone, it just so good”, he moaned, he grabbed your thighs with his big hands, again, and he parted them for him to have complete access to your already wet pussy.

He ate you out, with even more energy than the first time, it felt so good he made you cum so easily when he used only one of his fingers to find inside of you the weakest point of them all. 

“I want to please you too”, you whined, as you recuperated from the intensity of your orgasm, long minutes laters.

Cregan licked his lips as he released you, looking at you with hooded eyes

“You don’t need to do that my dragon”, he said calmly, and it was your turn to smiled wickedly

“Oh but I do want to, husband”, you mocked back, you grabbed him by his vest, and you made him lay on the bed, he used his elbows to lean over to look at you, in marvel, as you accommodated yourself between his legs, and your trembling hands went to the laces that kept his breeches in place

“Are you sure? Fuck”, he cursed as soon and you sneaked under his pants and grabbed his cock, it felt so weird in your palm, so soft, yet firm, so warm… it felt like velvet. You bit your lip as you looked at Cregan’s face and you felt it twitch in your hand, it was odd.

You took the liberty of squeezing him a little and Cregan moaned wantonly, so you guessed you were doing a good job.

“That’s right my love”, he said, with a strangled voice, “move it a little, up and down”, he directed, and you did, you pumped him a little, and you felt it twitch again.

It was almost embarrassing for Cregan to want to cum so fast but, it was you that was touching him, and that was driving him mad with lust. 

You on the other hand, wanted to use your mouth, just like he had done, so you lean in, your fist in his shaft, and you took a small lick, over his tip

“Fuck!”, he cursed, and you savored his salty taste. You took him in deeper, your lips adjusting to his girth.. “You are going to kill me”, he whined. 

You didn’t know what you were doing, you guided yourself with your instincts, so you started bobbing your head up and down, taking more of him on each movement.

He was long and thick, it was surreal that he had been inside you so many times, it felt so good, but in your mouth well… it felt more good knowing that he was enjoying it. 

You were pleasing him, as he drew moans and whimpers, his hands grabbing tightly the furs underneath him

“Yes, my love, just like that”, he begged so sweetly, one of his hands traveled to your head, you could tell that he refrained himself from grabbing you, still he only placed his palm on the back of your head. You continued to do as you were doing, your hand squeezing him softly what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you sucked his cock, hollowing your cheeks and that is when you felt him shake

“Wait”, he begged, his hand on your cheek, you released him, seeing the slippery mess you had make of his dick, you looked at him wide-eyed

“Did I do something wrong?”, you asked, fearful

“No, in fact, I’m so close… but I want to cum inside you wifey”, he said needily. You smiled, raising from your position, “come here, ride me”, he grabbed your hand and helped you accommodate on top of him, your pussy lining up with his cock. He grabbed himself, placing his tip on your entrance, “now lower yourself love, gently”, he said, placing his hand on your hip, and you did as he said.

You moaned when you felt him splitting you open. It was always a stretch, but it felt so good

You had never been on top before, but seeing Cregan, looking up at you, naked under you, made your belly tingle, you placed your hand on his chest as you lowered yourself even more, impaling yourself on his thick cock, until he was comfortable tightly inside you

“Fuck”, he whined, when his tip hit your cervix

“Mmmm Cregan”, you whined, you felt him in your belly, that is how deep he was lodged inside you

“Move please or I will die”, he begged, his hand on your hips. He helped you raise again, until only the tip was still inside you, and then he guided you down again. When you got the hang of it, you ride him slowly but sensually, snapping your hips, he was a moaning mess under you, biting his lips… you weren’t any better, your eyed rolled to the back of your head, you weren’t able to think straight, and you wonder if you ever going to be able to think in something else that wasn’t your husband’s dick

You doubted it

Your climax hitted you like lightning, making you squeeze him even tighter, he didn’t last much longer after that, cumming inside you.

You collapsed on top of him breathing heavily, as he recuperated his own breath under you, hugging you tightly against him.

“Stay like this”, he commanded, his dominant demeanor resurfacing, “I want it to stick”, you giggled softly

“It will”, you promised, even though you had no power over it. he caressed your naked back gently, making you tingle 

“I don’t mind if it doesn't”, he said then, “I don’t want to pressure you, don’t feel pressured, alright?”, he asked, and you nodded

“I know it scapes my control”, you said gently, and you heard him hum

“That is right”, he said

“I was thinking about our coming trip”, you said

“Yes?”, he encouraged 

“I was thinking…”, you said gently, your finger tracing imaginary figures on his naked chest, “we could fly towards the White Harbor… spend the night, arrange everything for our return, and then make the jump to Dragonstone early in the morning”, you whispered

“I think that is a brilliant idea”, he whispered, kissing the top of your head, “Lord Manderly is one of the most important men in the country and I would love for you to meet him”

“Great”, you smiled at him, happy he was agreeing with you, and he smiled back. 

“You looked so beautiful like this”, he whispered, his hand cradling your cheek, caressing you with his thumb. 

Your silver long hair was loose, and now a little wild, your pupils blown out, like the eyes of a kitten in the dark, your cheeks heated, your lips parted, for him you were the most beautiful and wild creature in this world.

“If we have children I hope they look like you”, he whispered, and you smiled warmly, leaning in and kissing him softly, he held you in his arms, caressing your back gently.

. . .

The week went by quickly… the nights… even quicker, your blood moon didn’t come, and you were so excited, but maesters said that was common, so you didn’t dare tell Cregan yet, you wanted to be sure. 

But he clearly noticed you had this dreamy smile on your lips.

The preparations were made hastily, there wasn’t much to take with you, only what you could fit in the mount in your dragon. Lord Desmond Manderly was expecting you in White Harbor, and you were excited to see it

They said it was a beautiful port, it was the biggest city in all the North, and the key to trading in the entire country. Many things that were coming to your storages for the winter came from the White Harbor, and though the White knife river, just a few miles from Winterfell.

You felt nervous when you suddenly realized you were about to make your first “appearance” as the Lady of Winterfell and in the arms of your husband. 

“We leave North in your gentle hands, my dear sister”, he said, grabbing Sara’s hands in his, she smiled, surely

“Of course brother”

“Anything you need, Lord Cerwyn is closest and he can assist you”, Cregan said, and Sara just smiled

“I am aware of that dear brother”, she said mockingly, Cregan just smiled, Sara knew as much as all the castles and houses as he did, everything and everyone was going to be fine

“Very well then”, he whispered, and he kissed her forehead.

When Cregan released her, it was your turn to hug her tightly

“Have a safe trip, please don’t let my brother fall of the dragon”, she giggled

“I wouldn’t dream of it”, you said back, smiling widely.

“I hope than when you came back you have some good news”, she said, and winked, you only blushed and nodded

“Let’s hope”, you said with a smile. 

Cregan and you left the safety of the walls of Winterfell, Vhaelar was waiting, looking at your every movement as you approached her. She looked at Cregan and showed her teeth in warning, and he stopped and look at her, nervous

“māzigon va, Vhaelar”, you reprimanded, “ao gīmigon zirȳla” [Come on Vhaelar, you know him]

Vhaelar whined

“ziry iksos ñuha valzȳrys”, [It’s my husband] 

She then lowered her head, in a sign of submission, you had to turn back and grab Cregan by the hand

“She doesn’t seem to want to…”, he said nervously, but Vhaelar stood still as you placed his hand on her snout.

She sniffed him, and then purred

“See? she was just playing hard to get”, you mocked. Once you got Vhaelar’s “permission”, you walked towards the mount, she had grown so big you had a small rope ladder to reach the saddle

“You first”, you invited Cregan, and you knew he was nervous, but he climbed that ladder anyway, and you followed closely.

He sat in the big saddle, and you in front of him, once you tied up the leather straps firmly, one around each thigh, and another one around his waist, and then you took your palace and strapped yourself.

He hugged you tightly, chuckling darkly

“You look so hot in your riding gear sweet wife”, he whispered kissing you under your ear - one of your weak spots-, but you just giggled and you nudged him

“Not silly business on top of my dragon”, you warned, and he only laughed

“Just a little bit?”

“No!”, you laughed, grabbing the reins, “ready?”

“Always”, he said

“Sobes Vhaelar!”, you commanded, and she used her strong legs and opened her massively big wings to raise herself from the ground.

Soon you were in the skies, Cregan’s armas tightly against you, and as you looked down, you saw all the people of Winterfell and Winterstown, certainly wanting to catch a glimpse of their Stark Lord riding a dragon.

And you left, for your first diplomatic mission. 

taglist! ❤️❤️

@severewobblerlightdragon @missusnora @stargaryenx @poppyreader @chainsawsangel @court-jester-stuff @batprincess1013 @eddiepicker @lyannesworld @arujee @kamisunshine @​​mss-nthng @partypoison00 @grimistangel @elleclairez @may-machin @prettykinkysoul @justagurlwithships @champomiel @laura-naruto-fan1998 @zoleea-exultant @devotedlythoughtfulanchor @zoleea-exultant @llleon666 @dark-night-sky-99

[thus-spoke-lo]

Hi hi! I hope ur doing great:> so here is a req for ur writer's block, I wonder of u could do a crocodile + age gap/size kink kinda vanilla-ish🧎🏻‍♀️I rarely ask for this man but since you are very good at writing I really like to see smth in your style of him, aaand feel free to ignore if you're not ok w it! Thanks<3

you're my fave so do take care !

Ahh my second request for Sir Crocodile! He's soo fun to write for, so thanks for this--hope you enjoy <3

CW: NSFW/18+; afab!reader, no pronouns used; implied age gap [no specific ages mentioned]; size kink; piv sex WC: 592

If there is one thing Crocodile cannot resist, it’s a sweet, young thing like you—fresh-faced, all smiles and good manners, every sentence punctuated by “yes, sir,” and “thank you, sir,” a tremor of nervous laughter filling the spaces in between. He likes the way you seem so eager to please, how your voice is tinged with hints of an unexplored yearning as you ask if there’s anything else you can do for him, anything at all he needs from you; he quickly grows to adore the way your hands tremble when he meets your gaze and holds it, just enough to rattles the edges of the papers clutched in your hands as you placed them on his desk. You’re the perfect prey, he thinks as he lights his cigar and watches the way your hips sway as you leave the room, and an uncontrolled desire sweeps through him like a storm.

Crocodile is a patient man, willing to lie in wait for the perfect opportunity to strike, but you make it easy for him, yielding long before he thought you ever would. He’s almost surprised at how you practically present yourself to him on a silver platter: the hem of your skirt seems to be growing shorter every day, your longing glances becoming less furtive and more overt, your fingertips brush wantonly against his large hand as you pass him his lighter and stand in his looming shadow, his body practically eclipsing you. His sense of restraint grows more tenuous as the days pass, and it becomes almost impossible to contain the twitch of his aching cock against the fabric of his trousers as your every lustful “yes, sir” sounds less and less a sign of respect and deference and more a declaration of your willingness to surrender.

It only takes one carnivorous look from Crocodile, one gruffly uttered, “Bend over, sweetheart,” and your quaking hands are flat on his desk and the tip of his hook is flipping up that damned little skirt of yours, his wide hand exploring every inch of you while thick, rough fingertips pinch and grope at your exposed flesh. His large, muscular form cages you in, surrounds you completely until there is nothing else but him, and you moan in anticipation as you hear the unbuckling of a belt and the rustle of fabric behind you. The thick head of his cock glides along your pussy lips, collecting your copious slick, and his low voice growls, “Don’t worry, doll, I’ll give you everything a pretty little thing like you deserves—but right now, this is about me.”

His immense strength is evident as he thrusts into you, hard and deep, stretching you almost beyond your limits with every stroke, the clenching and fluttering of your tight cunt quickly pushing him closer and closer to the edge. There was nothing in this world he couldn’t have, nothing that was out of his reach, yet burying himself inside your drenched cunt was, in this moment, more of a victory than any battle he’d won. A satisfied groan reverberates in the vast expanse of his lush office as he spills himself into you with a shudder of his hips. His breath is heavy as he leans down into you, almost engulfing you with how his body rests upon yours, his broad chest pressed against your back.

He chuckles softly as he murmurs into your ear: “I hope you didn’t have any plans, sweetheart, because I think it’s going to be a long night for you.”

[vvmylove]

Just a little thought (headcannons?) about my man Jichang

He is the type of guy when he first greets you, he bows a little, takes your hand in his, and kisses your knuckles. "What a beautiful woman/handsome man I have presented in front of me," with a small chuckle. It isn't exactly a smirk, but just the corner of his lips goes up a little. He seems classy, but not too classy. It's just in his mannerism, especially the way he sits.

Even though he may be classy, he makes goofy jokes. He isn't one to stay quiet at dinners with the rest of the first generations. He usually makes comments about Jaegyon, just teasing him for fun. He would say some shit like "Jaegyon's car is more damaged than that James lee kid."

He's very protective and very willing to give it his all. No matter what situation he is in. He is very loyal, as you can tell by the way he was loyal to his "old man." He did everything in his power to protect the old man and was disappointed with the outcome of the situation.

Speaking of protectiveness, if he was ever in a relationship with you, he would NEVER leave your side. This man the type to have his hands on you always. He isn't very expressive, but his actions show more than his words. He is generally quiet. His hands are either on your lower back, on your shoulder (if you're shorter), on your wrist, or your thighs. He cannot keep his hands off you. He also has his guard on 24/7.

Did I mention that he is also very attentive? This goes with the fact that he isn't as expressive. He may not say it in words, but he remembers that one day you mentioned that you've always wanted to go to this place. Or for a split second, you mention how this piece of jewelry has caught your eye, and he would save up just to buy you it. Along with a pastry and coffee. This man thinks jewelry, coffee, and sweets go along together (I do too.) He would gift it to you at a cute cafe, or by some sort of flowery scenery.

GOOD AT ADVICE. Idc this man may be quiet, but he can spit facts. But its only every once in a while. Someone will be ranting to him, as hes listening carefully, then all of the sudden hes like "Stop letting the addiction of immediate gratification get in the way of success" (yes I made this up on the spot, hes just like me fr). And then cross his legs, leans back, smokes a cigarette like its nothing.

I have more thoughts about him but i gtg to the doctors now BYEEE

Idk why i dont write these at all they are much better than writing out a whole fanfiction. Let me know if yall wanna hear more and for which guy

[hulhudhonado]

Petty Crimes

Synopsis: Wriothesley just can't seem to get a certain journalist off his back. But to his surprise this journalist is very thorough with their work and it seems they aren't willing to give up just yet.

CW: -

HC: Reader is gender-neutral and uses They/Them pronouns, Reader does not have a vision. Reader is a journalist working at The Steambird.

Characters: Wriothesley, Sigewenne, Mentions of Neuvillette,Furina, Traveler and Paimon

Note: Ok, I promise I'm writing the Neuvillette one, it just is much longer than I expected so I apologise for that. Instead have this one which is shorter but I am still proud of it. I love Wriothesley's design and attacks and LORE but had to skip the banner because I wanted Furina so badly. So think of this as me coping with that. There are going to be some Fontaine spoilers but honestly, it is so little I don't think most people would notice it. As always please make sure to interact with the post, I love seeing the tags or comments I get in the posts, and I'm glad people like my silly ideas about characters I like. Enjoy!

The first time you ended up in the prison was by accident. You just happened to be with a kamera at the wrong place and time and ended up being accused as a stalker. Since the judgment was decided by the Iudex and the court now, the easiest solution was to throw you in prison until the actual perpetrator had come to light. At the time you were cussing and throwing hands with the guards but the minute the Duke came into your vision you couldn’t help but halt.

You couldn’t believe it, this was every Steambird employee’s dream. To be able to meet the Duke and have a proper interview with him would reach the headlines in an instant. However, to no one’s surprise, he had rejected your proposition. Before you could make any more moves to convince him, the actual culprit was found with the help of the traveller and his flying partner and you were forced to say goodbye to the Fortress of Meropide. Just like you had entered, you were kicking and screaming when they threw you out.

So you had to make a plan to somehow enter back inside. Being an esteemed journalist at The Steambird, it was no surprise they refused to let you in and casually stay in the prison. Most criminals tend to stay there even after their term is over but you didn’t have an actual reason to be there. But if you wanted to get a scoop before Charlotte could beat you to it, you needed to take some desperate measures.

- - -

“So, you were sentenced to 30 days in the Fortress of Meropide for taking a picture of Lady Furina while she was chasing her hat that was blown away by the wind?” Wriothesley could only raise an eyebrow at the statement. It wasn’t a surprise that some people ended up here for ridiculous reasons, but the amount that you had accumulated over one year was just unbelievable.

There was the time you decided to release a bunch of birds inside the Opera Epicles. It wouldn’t have been an issue to get them out, but somehow you managed to train them so they could coordinate their movements to somehow re-enter the Opera Epicles after they were thrown out.

 Then there was the time you filled all the water fountains in the district with Fonta and to this day people still cannot figure out how you got your hands on such a large shipment without any suspicions arising. 

To put it simply, the list was endless and at this point, you had probably been in and out of jail more than any citizen he had met. He honestly would not have cared the slightest about you if it wasn’t the fact HE was the reason you were acting like this.

You beamed at him in glee, notebook and pen ready in your hands. He could also see the kamera peaking out of your satchel, probably filled with a brand new film. He tried not to scowl. He couldn’t help but be a bit annoyed by your persistence.

“You know with a track record like this, everything you have done up to now is going to sound more interesting than whatever comes out of my mouth.” He sighed, dropping the papers onto his desk and to no one’s surprise, you immediately began to write down everything he said.

“Maybe for another journalist, but what point is it for me to write about my own stories? I write scoop about celebrities, not my memoirs. ” You answer, pen on your chin trying to figure out which category his statements could fit.

Wriothesley could only sigh. Every time he did all he could remember was Sigewinne’s words. 

‘ Don’t sigh too much, you’re going to end up sighing away all your happiness!’

It was a shame he couldn’t keep his promise, but honestly, the only one he could blame was the columnist who sat right across him. “ I am no celebrity. My answer remains unchanged. No interview.” He reached over for his cup of tea, which had turned cold at this point. He didn’t realise that time had passed so suddenly. It seemed you were just capable of taking over a person’s life just like that.

He tried to stand up to make a new cup only for you to halt him. “Oh did your tea get cold? Sorry, let me make you one.” Before he could react you already took his cup and made your way to the kettle. He blinked in confusion before settling back into his chair. “Are you even sure you can make it right?” He decided to humour both you and himself. He knew you were just trying to suck up to him so he might change his mind, he wasn’t dumb though. Maybe he could use it to his advantage and kick you out of his office. As he tried to wrack up another reason to kick you back outside, a fresh new cup of tea was placed before him. 

And it was perfect.

The tea was infused almost too well. It was pure black with no random additives that Sigewinne insisted were better for his health. No sugar, creamer or milk. There weren’t even any tea leaves left in the brew.

He took a sip, surprised with how it wasn’t boiling since you had just prepared it. A suitable warmth reached his lips as he took a sip of it. He had to stop himself before he could chug it down. He wasn’t an animal, he knew proper tea etiquette.

“Are you a fan of tea, Journalist?” He asked unconsciously. He wished he had shut his mouth, you already write down everything that comes out of his mouth and he didn’t need to give you any more leverage. To his surprise, you didn’t immediately go and reach for your notebook once again.

Instead for once, you looked away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. “I do partake in tea sometimes but I wouldn’t say it’s my favourite. I prefer sugary drinks usually.” You answer, sheepishly brushing your hands together, continuing to look away. Wriothesley squinted at you, unsure whether you were acting shy due to embarrassment or because you were a bad liar. “This tea is steeped far too well for you to be saying that.”

You almost immediately beamed up, your shy demeanour leaving in an instant. “Oh! That’s because I learnt how you liked to brew your tea!” Your eyes reached his and he wondered if you realized what you had just admitted to.

“Isn’t it a bit suspicious you know that?” He asked, taking another sip, it was certainly good tea. You again turned embarrassed. “Well, you tend to pick up some things when you stay around a certain place often.”

“Oh?” His curiosity getting the better of him, leaned towards the desk to fully take you in. “Please do tell me what you have collected thus far.” 

“Well, a journalist can’t show everything they have gathered, unless it’s properly published.” You mumble, trying to slowly back away from his desk. For once you were trying to get away rather than him trying to get rid of you. It intrigued him a bit, what else were you hiding? “Well, unless you do have permission, I doubt you will be going around publishing articles. That is unless you were a scandalous reporter?”

He was shocked to see how wide your eyes grew, for once your usual reporter nature had gone from your face, now looking like any normal citizen living in Fontaine. “I would never! It is unethical!” You defended yourself, you would never dare to publish articles without people’s permission. “Then you wouldn’t mind me reviewing what you have unless you have something to hide?”

And that was how Wriothesley ended up with all your documents, which were now scattered on the desk alongside your prison testaments. You only handed him the documents relating to him but he was surprised to see that you have accumulated quite a number of them. It made him wonder why even bother with an interview if you already had so much knowledge about him.

“This is everything? You have been working hard it seems.” He said. His teacup was now empty, but he needed a new brew if he had to sit all day just to read through everything that was left. You had already collected his entire existence on these papers. His best and his worst moments.

“You know, now I’m starting to doubt that your first imprisonment was a mistake.” He chuckled to himself, which only made you feel red hot with embarrassment. “This is all public knowledge. Sure some were a bit harder to find but if you know what you’re looking for it gets easier” You mumble, fidgeting with your hands. He wondered why you were so embarrassed.

Everything written here was all about him, but you acted as if you were the one on full display. He continued to flip through what you had written. The words you had articulated were quite intriguing, if you did write a scoop about him he was certain he would have had his nose in the papers as well. All your points had thorough evidence with the times and dates it was recorded. There was even certain information he completely forgot about himself.

“You know, with such extensive research you have done, you can pretty much write a whole article about me. Hell, you could even fake an interview with me and I would honestly think I did an interview with you and forgot about it.” He said, placing down your work on the desk once more so he could fully take you in.

He wasn’t one to pay attention to the little details if he wasn’t interested but when he took another look at you, it felt as if he was seeing a completely new person. Your notebook was tucked into the little front pocket of your shirt, and he could see scratches and marks on the visible part that stuck out. Some corners of the pages were dog-eared while others had little sticky tabs poking out from them. Your pen was now tucked behind your ear, it was blue, the colour that usually was smudged on the palm of your hands which you were currently fiddling with. Lastly, your Kamera, the film may have been brand new but the Kamera was fairly old, a dent was visible on the top and he could see a sticker of a Melusine on its side, the same one he would see stuck on his gauntlets from time to time.

You suddenly didn’t seem like the annoying tenacious reporter on his back. You were a journalist, a writer. You had something you wanted to work on. A passion which seemed to exceed expectations. You were not worried to ask questions over and over until you got an answer but you were embarrassed to showcase your work, afraid of the judgment that others give. 

“You know you don’t need to have an interview with me? You can just write whatever it is here and get it done.” He answered, collecting all your research together to hand it back to you.

You shook your head, sighing. You finally turned to look at him. The prison was not known for its lighting but the way the light reflected onto your eyes made it shine with a passion he couldn’t seem to grasp. It almost distracted him from your words.

“It isn’t the same. I want it to be authentic. All of this-” You pointed at your work, which was a full stack at this point. “ was just from the ‘grapevine’ as some may say. I want to hear about your experiences and thoughts from you.”

He thought about your words. It bounced in the walls of his head, like an unstoppable echo. No one up to this point had ever bothered to go directly to him to ask about certain things. It was always the rumours. 

The Duke bought his title. 

The Duke would snap your neck if you looked at him wrong.

The Duke is under a permanent sentence in the Fortress of Meropide.

And here you were, asking him directly, even though everything written in your documents was fully true with proof, whether he could give some time of his day just to ask the same questions all these papers could answer.

He could only chuckle, one that wasn’t in a joking tone. “You like me quite a lot don’t you, Journalist?”

He watched as your sincere reporter's face morphed into what he could only describe as pure embarrassment. He was only shocked with his words but your expression completely delayed his bashful reaction. Instead, he smirked, a bit satisfied for once you weren’t on your high horse.

You grabbed the documents, stuffing them into your satchel and shutting it so quickly he could hear how crumpled they were getting.

“Well, it seems since you aren’t willing to do an interview today I’ll come again another time.” You almost yell, trying your best to close your bag so none of the papers would slip out.

“You’re right, aren’t you glad you have more than 30 days to ask me again?” He retorted, only to see your eyes grow wider. He was certain if he could touch your face, it would have been burning up with how much blood had rushed to your face.

Before anything else could have been said, you turned around rushing yourself out the door. He watched as you scattered down the stairs, making sure not to fall before finally hearing the door shut loudly, the metal clamps echoing in his office. However not a second later the door hinges squeaked once more, and you peeked your head a bit from the staircase.

“Um, goodbye, for now, Sir.” 

And with that you rushed back down once more, door shutting as loud as it did the first time you left. And Wriothesley could only laugh, he wasn’t sure if he had laughed so much before his entire life. Who would have thought that the pure journalist might have a slight crush on him? It intrigued him a bit.

You were here but the only proof of your essence was in your prison statements and the teacup which you brewed tea for him. You were careful not to leave any of your documents or items around, it prevented Wriothesley from coming after you because technically he had nothing to hold against you.

However, he knew he probably would not be able to see you for some time unless you finally got the courage to come to him again. He fiddled with the empty teacup once more. Well, who knows, maybe he would finally come around to doing that interview with you, perhaps he will answer one question at a time while you brew him another cup or for a change of pace he could brew a cup for you instead. You would like sugar in yours, wouldn't you?

It seemed now he had to do his little research on you and maybe, just like you, be a little petty just to be able to see you every day during your 30-day prison sentence.

[idontplaytrack]

I love your writing so much!! Can I please request needy!lilette x reader. Reader decides to wear a shorter skirt than normal and it keeps distracting Lilette to the point that she has to drag you away bc she can't stand it

Thank you!!

Desperation

Lilette Suarez x fem! reader

Warnings: MDNI, smut— fingering, some oral, slight degradation, spanking(reader receiving), pet names

In which Lilette absolutely cannot keep her eyes off of reader, and soon fantasising alone wasn’t enough.

With summer approaching, the weather was turning warm, it gave you the perfect opportunity to show off your new skirt. Skirts weren’t something you wore often, but today you were just in the mood to do so. Unlike Lilette who wore a pretty nice balance of pants and skirts, you gravitated towards pants most of the time. So whenever you did wear a skirt, Lilette had a specific reaction. Usually nice and shy, she’d be extra touchy once she sees you in a skirt. You weren’t going to complain about the extra affection and attention from your girlfriend, but it made it very difficult for you to stay focused.

You drove by Lilette’s to pick her up, like you always do. The girl stopped dead in her tracks the moment she opened the passenger seat’s door. Her eyes go wide for a moment, “Oh. Wow.”

“So subtle, Lil.” You teased, “Like what you’re seeing?”

“Sure do.” Lilette grins, getting into the seat and shutting the door.

“Not that look.” You sigh with a laugh, about to give in to the urge you were feeling. “We have a half day, could you just…wait till we get out of school for the day?”

She could tell you were frustrated, but went with your request anyway and left you to drive in peace. Your skirt wasn’t too short— you didn’t get dress-coded. But some people looked a second too long and Lilette got a little bit upset about it. Your relationship wasn’t under wraps, you two were pretty open. Both of you showed some affection publicly, but never anything over the top.

Except for those days that you’ve worn a skirt: her kisses lingered, she’d have an arm protectively around your waist, she’d lean on you while standing beside you, her touches also weren’t innocent— you’d know she was trying to tease you and rile you up. Usually, you fought the urge. Only letting her have her way with you after class. But it seems that today was going to be the exception. When break time rolled around, it had been two hours since school’d started. Your question was answered when Lilette came up to you frantically and just pulled you away into a janitor’s closet the. locked the door. You smirked, knowing exactly what she wanted.

“You’ve been distracting me.” She says, arm reaching to your back to wrap around you, “Can’t get you out of my head.” Lilette sighs softly, hand going up your face to cup your cheek, “Do you mind if I just— did it, here?”

You shook your head silently, leaning forward to kiss her first. Lilette kisses back with fervour, tongue so quickly sliding into your mouth kicking up the intensity rapidly. She had pressed you up against the wall, pushing your skirt and underwear down to your ankles roughly. You whined at her eagerness, feeling the ache in between your thighs already.

“Fuck.” You mumbled, the word almost instantly getting swallowed by Lilette’s hungry kisses.

You feel her two fingers rubbing your clit and effectively riling you up, applying just the right amount of pressure. You whine, legs going apart a little more on reflex. Lilette grins, almost pervertedly, sliding her fingers lower smoothly. They enter you without you even realising. Her pace was relentless, and her gesture was rough as she repeatedly hammered your g-spot making your knees buckle.

A hand of hers was now firmly holding onto your hip to keep you standing. The discomfort quickly dies down and gets replaced by pure pleasure, feeling the slick dripping down your thighs. You whined softly, hand on her shoulder for more support, but Lilette moved fast— now kneeling before your cunt and swiftly started circling her tongue around your clit to give it the attention it was so quickly craving. “So wet, y/n…what a needy little thing you are.” Lilette says while massaging your inner thighs and watching your face contort and your body react as expected…right in front of your eyes.

“Shut up.” You said in a pant, head leaned back slightly against the wall.

“Really?” Her eyes flicked up to look at you, “Are you sure?”

“Are you seriously going to just stop like this after being so touchy since the minute I saw you? You know what you were doing.” You sigh, vexed.

“No.” Lilette stated, “I can edge you. Make you so soaking wet you’ll be ready to take anything and everything once we get home.”

“Fuck’s sake, Lil.” You exhaled harshly, “What the fuck.”

She smirks, burying her face in your cunt again, teasing your clit with her tongue. You bucked your hips upward, pushing yourself closer to her face. Her hold on your thighs tightened to keep you from moving any more.

You whimpered feeling your climax approaching so ridiculously quick. But Lilette was an expert, or so she claims. She knows the difference in your taste when you were close. She detaches herself from you then started to clean you off with a pack of tissues she had in her pocket. Once she was the one in control, you couldn’t resist letting her use you however she wanted. You were okay with it— so okay with it. Because you knew how intense the eventual release would be and you were more than happy to suffer a little bit and have that much pleasure later on.

"Okay, fuck. Fine. I'll— I'll wait."

"Good girl." She flashes you sweet smile, finishing her task of cleaning you up then let you get dressed again.

————

After lunch, all your classes were with Lilette and she always sat beside you so you were in hell for the last...nearly three hours. Shifting uncomfortably in your seat every once in awhile, and especially when you felt her eyes on you. You glared at her every time, but she only got more happy about it seeing your frustration amp up so easily. "Book report, due next Wednesday. No exceptions." The teacher says, "Any questions?"

The teacher waited a little bit, no hands were raised.

"Lilette, eyes up front."

You looked down and couldn't help but smile, she sees it though. But hey, she stopped staring at you for the remainder of the class. Which...wasn't long but at least she stopped and made it easier for you to sit through the class. Ten minutes later, the class concludes. Mrs. Wallaker dismisses you all. You left the classroom before anyone could stop you, with Lilette right behind you, holding onto your hand. Both of you hurried into your car and you just drove back to yours without a single word being uttered. Once the car started moving, so did Lilette's hand. It finds its way under your skirt, pushing your underwear aside to slip her fingers up and down your folds.

"Excuse me?" You squinted at her. Lilette only grins, knowing you'd fold in 3...2...1. Your features relaxed, focusing your attention on the road while she carries on teasing you. "If I crash the car, it's on you." "Pull over. I'll drive." She says, fingers still moving. You did and quickly switched seats with her so Lilette could finish the remainder of the drive. Twenty minutes. During which, you finally got your release. Completely just soaking the leather beneath you. "Needy." She says with a smirk, pushing her fingers into you one last time forcefully just to see you squirm and hear you yelp. "Do you think you're done yet?" She asks in a quiet voice. There was a right answer she was expecting.

"Mm—" Your breathing hitches as she caresses your thigh, you flinch, "No. No, I'm not."

Once she parks your car in the garage, the both of you scrambled out of the car and entered the house through the door in the garage. Quickly stumbling into your room, Lilette shut and locked the door even though no one was home. Better to be safe than sorry, after all. You'd barely kicked your shoes off before you got pushed onto your bed. Almost toppling over, she stops you and removed your jacket, then your tank top, and your skirt. Leaving you, almost entirely naked. She admires you for a little while before the remaining articles of clothing get removed by her as well in a hurry.

You lay flat on your back, her hand— one fondling with your breast while the other traced your body then found its way back in between your thighs. You cried out, shocked by how sensitive you were. Lilette knowingly went soft and slow, but your wetness returned with a vengeance and spread quickly. "Holy shit, baby." Lilette laughs, almost huskily, sending a shiver down your back. "What?" You ask breathlessly.

"You look heavenly." She says, holding your nipple between two fingers and twisting it.

You whined, desperate for her to fuck you again.

"So sweet, so pretty..." She whispers into your ear, kissing a trail downwards while her fingers were stagnant inside you. You squirmed, "Lil, please...please."

She hums, tugging your sensitive nipple between her teeth. You whimper, much to her delight. She loved how you were sounding right now. Loved it. She also knew what you wanted, but she wanted you to say it out loud. "Please, what?" Her fingers twisted in you as she asks. A tear slips down your cheek, your frame trembling.

"Fuck— fuck me. Fuck me please." You beg, breathing irregular.

Her fingers started moving, steadily increasing their pace. You entirely matched up to her speed, your noises too, letting her have that enjoyment of hearing you curse and swear, making all sorts of noises for her and moaning her name as she pushes you closer.

"Mm— ah— ah— my god..." Your voice was so shaky as you fought the tears welling up in your eyes.

"You're making such pretty noises for me right now, love. How could I have you stop?" Her voice was still low, which you adored in these moments. It helped in making you climax and this girl knew it, that's why she was talking like that. You yipped when you felt her thumb pressing against your clit while her fingers poked your g-spot continuously. "I need to come...please, Lil." You felt like you were about to burst.

"Okay, go for it." She shrugs, her fingers still working your sensitive spots. "Come now."

You unravel on her command, body shaking as you finally got forced into tears. You feel the absurd intensity of every single sensation you experienced at you rode through your second high. You head was giddy with pleasure, your vision blurry being clouded by the tears. "Keep going, I know you can take it." Lilette urges, her pace quickening again to coax another climax. You were fully sobbing as another wave of pleasure over took your entire body. You felt it, you heard it. You also saw her looking at you through it all. That made your cheeks flush and you avoided her gaze. "Look at me." Her voice gentle, but authoritative. You licked your lips, inevitably tasting your tears. Your head slowly turned back to face her. Her free hand strokes your cheek, you vaguely saw her smile. "Can you give me another one, y/n? Or do you want me to stop?"

You shook your head no on reflex, pleasure overtaking everything. You needed that release. You wanted to give it to her. Her fingers retract and you felt a slap, then another. You started clenching around nothing. She goes again, then her fingers slip inside, slamming into you unendingly. You backed up, but not for long. Lilette yanks you back down, focused on making you come for the third time. Right before you came, you feel her mouth on you as her fingers carried on fucking you. You filled it up, and was finally feeling your body relax once her pace became languish. Your tentative hand in her hair lets go, falling to your side lazily as your chest heaved, desperate to catch your breath.

She removes herself from you soon enough, then was laying next to you, brushing the hair out of your face and pressing tiny little kisses all over it. “Did I go too rough?” Lilette asked.

Still in tears and somewhat breathless, you shook your head and continued to take in some slow, deep breaths. “No. I would’ve told you to stop if you were.”

She pulls you closer and you snuggled against her chest, finger fiddling with her silver necklace. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.” You muttered.

“I’ll order us some food? What do you want?”

“Tacos.” You told her.

“Yum, okay.” Lilette agrees, pressing a kiss to your forehead before breaking away from the embrace to go locate her phone so that she could order the food. You laid sleepily in your bed as you watched her find her phone and scrolled through the delivery app to place an order for what you wanted. Placing your favourite order, she was quickly back by your side giving you cuddles. “I’ll wake you up when the food gets here.” She says while stroking your hair. You hummed, nodding against her chest while one of your arms was wrapped around her in the front. “Okay.”

“Mhm.” She answers, then playing with your hair till you dozed off, “Get some rest, sweet girl. I’ll stay right here.”

🏷️ Tag list:

@ashecampos @auliisflower @cheesysoup-arlo @frogs00 @reneeswif3 @ludoesartnstuffs @pda128

💭A/N:

As promised, here’s one last fic before I leave for the cruise😭 I still have some time so I’ll try to finish up one more and queue it to post over the weekend while I’m away😗

[notdefendingtaylor]

the most worrying thing to me about the asylum aesthetic

aside from the clear co-opting of mentally ill and disabled people's historical abuses under a broken, underfunded, and at times deeply unscientific system....

is that mental healthcare available NOW can be a profound help, life changing AND life saving.

but the asylum/love made me crazy/'female rage' imagery of ttpd is provoking a lot of discussion about historical abuses and the actual benefits are getting somewhat lost in that discussion. (scientology, THE anti-psychiatry organization, must be thrilled.)

here are some facts about recovery under appropriate and professional help:

bipolar: "Shorter duration of illness, higher social class, and treatment compliance were associated with higher rates of recovery and more rapid recovery." (source)

borderline personality disorder: "One study found that 77% of participants no longer qualified for the DBT diagnosis [of borderline] after one year [of DBT treatment]" (source)

major depressive disorder: "Clinical and functional remission was achieved in 70.6% and 56.1% of the MDD patients, respectively." (source)

hospitalizations: "it can reduce the stress of daily responsibilities for a brief period of time, which allows you to concentrate on recovery from a mental health crisis. As your crisis lessens, and you are better able to care for yourself, you can begin planning for your discharge. In-patient care is not designed to keep you confined indefinitely; the goal is to maximize independent living by using the appropriate level of care for your specific illness." (source)

what is my point here? contributing to the STIGMA around psychiatric care, trying to couch mental illness in language of romantic shared mania (folie à deux) is not just giving 2005 myspace, it's inherently irresponsible. a 'recovery is possible' mindset is what saves lives and in the US, her home country, the stigma against seeking help works hand in hand with the systematic defunding of mental health care to dissuade people from achieving the recovery that can lead to abatement of suffering and transition into a life worth living.

here's my mental illness cheat sheet:

it's not romantic. it can be associated with creativity, but that's not guaranteed or inherent and may largely be a cliche that sidetracks real functional improvement: "Romanticizing the 'mad genius' myths surrounding bipolar disorder can also be harmful, and have negative consequences on your wellbeing and productivity." (source)

it's expensive as hell to treat, but under certain income thresholds in the US, Medicaid can pay for most if not all of the treatment you might need.

it generally leads to lower employment rates or underemployment but treatment leads to the best outcomes for employment and housing: "undertreatment can have a negative impact on occupational functioning" (source)

substance abuse is a conversation that can't be unlinked to mental illness and for some reason the US seems more ready to talk about that than the underlying mental health issues - because then an element of blame can be assigned to the individual for self-destructive behavior. but addressing the core mental health issues can certainly lead to recovery in other areas, when the substance use is linked to depression, anxiety, etc.

the US loves to talk about mental illness when gun violence occurs, but that doesn't mean those same legislators will vote to expand access to mental health treatment (source)

my #1 tip i have is this: if you don't have insurance or your insurance only covers a fraction of your psych inpatient bill, CONTACT PATIENT FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE AND FILL OUT PAPERWORK TO SEEK A WRITE-OFF. instead of that $3000 bill you can leave owing $500 (or less). literally cannot emphasize this enough! the write-off is based on income so they will need to see your financials to assess what write-off(s) may be appropriate in your case.

peer support groups like National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) may hold meetings in your area where you can discuss your problems and relate to others' who may share some of your struggles. this is basically peer-led, FREE group 'counseling'. seriously, it's effectively nearly as good as the group sessions you might have to pay for, and the frequency is often weekly. (find support)

yes, we can talk about past historical psychiatric abuses and ongoing abuses today, which tend to disproportionately affect the socioeconomically disadvantaged. but the conversation needs to also include the benefits of access to scientifically-informed mental health treatment as well.

[muffinsin]

Loove the angsty posts! May I request another one, if you're okay with it: their human s/o choose not to be infected with cadou and age like normal. How do the girls react to this and cope with the idea of losing their s/o to mortality? As usual thank you for sharing your lovely writing!

-👀 anon

Very interesting concept!👀, let’s get into it!

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Bela

She doesn’t understand…

Now, she didn’t spring the idea on you very early on- merely a year into being together seriously

Her goal was to ensure she didn’t scare you off

However, she has always believed your answer would be ‘yes’

She is infected! It’s only logical that you are too!

She can’t understand your choice and is quite upset by it

Is she supposed to live on forever while you succumb to old age?

Is she supposed to be thankful for the limited time you have?

It’s not only the age, after all. Your safety too!

Being infected would allow you to protect yourself properly! And endure more!

She is completely baffled that you don’t agree

She will, however, not force you into it

But oh dear, she is very passive aggressive about it. She doesn’t want to let go of this

You feel pain? Very well, you wouldn’t as much if you were infected

You’re sad about aging? Prepare for a whole scolding from her

She hates the idea of losing you to mortality, something she cannot control

This only becomes worse as you grow older

She feels as though she is running out of time with you

A human’s lifetime is barely a blink to her. She could live a hundred lifetimes!

But truly, what are they worth living without you?

As time goes by, she keeps trying to convince you. She won’t force it, but hope you will “see reason”

If you don’t, she will be with you until your end

Cassandra

She is enraged!

How could you deny such a thing? A lifetime- no, a million lifetimes- together!

Strength, power

Happiness! Love! Her!

How could you possibly turn your back on that?!

She is angry at your answer. She expected you to agree

For a short amount of time, she refuses to see you

She’s angry, and in pain

How can she not be, if she knows she will lose you eventually and there is not a thing she can do about it?

Her pain will eventually mold into doubt

Why would she be with you, if she knows it will not last? If she knows death will take you no matter her efforts?

She can’t imagine a life without you

She can’t even imagine a life of you old and weak while she has not aged a day

And, she cannot understand why you would want this. Mortality, really?!

Hours drag into days, weeks

She is unable to face you, avoids you completely to the point she doesn’t even sleep in your shared room anymore

Eventually, she forces herself to see you. She does miss you

Her first question; have you changed your mind?

She doesn’t even want to imagine a life with a human, someone so- temporary. She can live on forever! Why can’t you?!

She has a very hard time supporting you in your choice

She just can’t. All she thinks about is losing you eventually

As days grow into weeks, months and years, she will keep asking, begging even

She loves you and doesn’t want to let go. Yet, this is causing her pain

She can’t live in the moment if she knows you will be taken from her

She struggles with the relationship a lot as she knows it will eventually end

Often she thinks of ending things early to avoid pain, yet is unwilling to part from you.

It is bitter agony to her, until the day you pass away peacefully from old age

Daniela

She’s hurt by your decision. Don’t you want to be with her forever?

Well, yes…only is your forever a lot shorter than hers

She is angry, and sad, and confused. A dangerous combination

With her mind on the brink of a meltdown, it is up to her sisters to keep her from forcing the infection onto you, as well as to avoid her sickle in your throat

She just wants to be with you! Permanently! And it angers her that this isn’t a possibility, it seems

Daniela will go with the avoiding route

She doesn’t want to see you, but will want to know she’s still on your mind

After days, she is ready to face you

She will ask you nearly every day if you have changed your mind

She always imagined growing old together, but…not this way

This is so wrong to her! She doesn’t want to lose you!

She figures, if you cannot be with her, maybe she can be with you!

For weeks Bela and Alcina are bugged constantly, asked questions about reverting the cadou

Daniela wants to be…human

Of course, this doesn’t work

She’s heartbroken when she realizes this too

You’re lost and there is nothing she can do

She has such a hard time appreciating the time she has left with you

Still, she sticks with you, side by side, even cares for you when you’re old

Just before she can tell you don’t have much time left, she will ask again