#onion boy lol

[coatree]

So like I work at like the only Burger King in my city and it’s a really small Burger King, like, really small, so at most there’s like 20 ish employees maybe more working in the whole thing do we all know each other very well

I wear contacts, and because of this when it comes to onions I don’t really cry. Sure my eyes water but I don’t like bawl when onions are cut. So I tend to do onion prep (just cutting them) because I can do it fast.

One day one of my managers ends up asking who cut the onions because they were done well, and this leads to two of my managers (who I consider friends) to figuring out that I don’t cry when I cut onions. So the reason they’re done well is because I can take my time with them and not rush to do them while having to take breaks while also being able to hop between onions and assembling burgers at record pace

So once my managers figure this out, every time I walk into work I get asked to chop onions. I’m fine with it, it’s next to the speaker so it’s kinda peaceful.

Then the nicknames come in

Every manager calls me something different and here are my favourites

Manager 1: Little Miss Dead Inside (8/10 I’m not a miss but she doesn’t know that so I’ll let it slide)

Manager 2: The Onion One (10/10 that’s hilarious)

Manager 3: Onion Boy (9/10 correct pronouns)

Manager 4: Four Eyes (3/10 how rude)

Manager 5: Onions (8/10 not unique)

I’m gaining more with each manager that gets hired. Eventually I won’t need to wear my name tag to work I will simply be known as “onions”

[greenscreen-dress]

Hhheeeeheheh I love these skins so much I CANNOT wait to see them in-video... But until then here's my ranking of them, long rambly full thoughts below.

Also here's the tierlist!

Ultimate Slayage: no discussion these 2 are the best. Every single one of Sausage's skins are a smash hit & this one is no exception, it's just so well done. The eye make-up the little tied shirt thing the HUGE extravagant sunflower, contrasted by those big clomping boots... The GENDER of it all aough I love him.

& Pix of course. Pix my guy just STUNNING. Idk about the other skins but this one is very likely made by Pix himself (bc of a thing he tweeted) & that makes it all the more impressive bc it's just?? So good??? The floor-length the off-the-shoulder sleeves leading into long gloves(?), the corset-y bits with golden buttons or lacing up the front, the BRIGHT BLUE bodice bits which (based off the colour) are definitely Ancient Capitollian Dodo feathers or inspired by them at least... It's just a masterpiece. The only comment I might have is maybe make sure you match your foundation right, Pix... But I've also decided he's in a full white lace/mesh bodysuit under the dress so. ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Surprised &/or Delighted: honestly this category fits all of them purely bc I don't think anyone expected these ^^. Oli & Jimmy are in here specifically because, while they're not my ultimate brain-frothing faves, these dresses are extremely good adaptations/elevations of their regular skins— Oli's especially looks so natural on him bc it's in exactly the same glitzy faux-medieval style as his bard outfit. The purple is a staple colour with him, fits the royalty theme, & somehow looks both elegant and like a Halloween costume with its bright shade & tinsel-like gold trims. It's silly and fantastic and VERY Oli Orionsound. Cannot wait for him to play the fainting damsel-in-distress at every occasion <3

Jimmy's is plainer but just as faithful to his sheriff skin: off-the-shoulder sleeves appear to be a theme with these skins and they look amazing on everyone, Katherine is so epic if this was her Royal doing. Jimmy looks AMAZING in a long jean(?) skirt & the slit just elevates it even more... I am beginning to notice I have a Thing for long skirts and big boots ^^;. This is going to look stunning with the hat, and just plain adorable at Jimmy's current height.

Fits the brief: ok so these skins are fantastic and I LOVE the colour on both of them, but there's not as much tying them to their Empires... fWhip's goblin skin is so intricate with that embroidered waistcoat & bright primary colours so it's a shame to lose that, though the plain red looks very elegant on him & the shape of the dress stands out from the other skins in a very fun way. It's definitely between the 2 categories and I will likely be swayed by the first bit of fanart I come across for it, but for now: yeah.

Joey's is the opposite case, where it fits the brief and the simplicity of it not only looks good but makes some sense (semi-broke pirate usually wearing tattered sailor's garb). I just wish it had gone a bit further to match Joey's big personality. The slit and shape is lovely (as is the neckliiii— wait where does that neckline end? /pos), but what about some more gold, or prismarine accents? Fishnet gloves, or stockings striped like his shirt? It just feels like it could go much further, & maybe fanart will push it there for me. Also I'm removing points for no dress + epic pirate boots /j

Expected more: oh this skin... Yeah I'm not blown away by it. The colours that are present are very nice but there just aren't enough of them, and the shape... The cutaways at the hip are very nice, but Girl. That is a tank top. & for some reason the skirt refuses to register as one in my brain despite the pretty gradient. With the vibes of Chromia I'm picturing Scott in something shorter and frillier, high-heeled boots, feathered hat and cape— real Barbie and the 3 Musketeers kind of vibe basically. I need to draw that. Definitely more colours though, that's the first step. Bi-coloured bodice, tie-dye skirt with petticoats, a flower crown, something!! Maybe there's custom items involved to accessorise, maybe this is a temporary self-made dress while waiting on a commission, idk but I'm going to need to see some out-of-this world fanart to salvage this skin as it is. :/ Sorry Scott, sashay away.

And finally...

Joel: Joel. Joel Smallish "Massive" Beans that is a recycled MCC skin I am SURE of it. Joel this is so lazy and stupid and perfectly on-brand I love it I hate it this is peak Wish/Aliexpress cosplay. Keep it up you bastard (I still want to see / draw him in proper femme greek garb. But alas).

ANYWAY.

Big long ramble, thankye for reading this whole thing & feel free to make your own lists / yell at me for interpreting these pixels wrong. No matter my minor gripes the fact we have these looks at all and go insane over them is so so SO fun ^^

[surven-snacks]

Backstory End!

Now we have the reason why Sunny's family moved to Paldea and her motivations for being a champion. It's nice that our character became champion for Nemona but I'd say aiming for such a high status should have some more backbone to it aside from "Some girl I'm neighbors and classmates with told me to do it so I just did."

What do you guys think of childhood friends Hop and Victor? I think it's cute u3u) <3 They're gonna come back for post-game shenanigans! And yeah, one of my fave gen 8 mons is the Sizzlipede/Centiskorch :D

[akkivee]

a good burger and fries for the birthday boy!!!!!!!!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!💛💛💛💛💛💛

[icewindandboringhorror]

random life photos from the past few months

[unproduciblesmackdown]

tbt the deh days baking motif interviews like it's time for will roland cooking v'logs while someone is there to pepper in q&a moments & conversation (&/or extended tangents) starters

[ardenigh]

It was fun reading about Lucky and I’ve thought of several questions about him:

1) How did Tegan die and how was he brought back?

2) What was Tegan’s life like?

3) What sort of person is Tegan’s brother?

4) What is Lucky’s daily routine?

5) Does anyone else in Tegan’s family know about Lucky? If so, how are they taking it?

6) How similar/ different are Tegan and Lucky’s personalities?

7) Besides Dmitri and the helmet, does Lucky keep anything from Tegan?

8) Would Tegan’s brother dig further into denial as time goes on or would he accept that Lucky is a person of their own?

9) Would Lucky ever be comfortable at looking at Tegan’s face?

it is once again... Lucky Hour

(thank you sm for the ask and the wait, omg! this got really ungainly really fast bc i like talking too much about my boy, so I'm dropping a cut here!)

It was fun reading about Lucky and I’ve thought of several questions about him:

1) How did Tegan die and how was he brought back?

He was brought back à la Shepard in an effort led by his older brother, a talented neurologist willing to call in every last favor he'd accrued over his career. Experimental cybernetics and nanotech to knit the corpse back together… synthetic neural weaves to shore up and repair the brain damage… The aim was to rebuild his damaged parts, resuscitate his basic autonomic functions and, in turn, facilitate the recovery and augmentation of his higher functions - all with the end goal of bringing his little brother back.

As for how Tegan died?

Motorcycle accident. 

Eyes on the road, guys.

2) What was Tegan’s life like?

Probably less legitimate than most people’s - not that he ever let his mother know, back when she was alive. Ostensibly, he was just an apprentice at a tattoo parlor and liked frequenting the library. Beneath that, though, he had a familiarity with the city’s rougher crowds and lesser-known corners. A known neutral party to those interested in such things, Tegan was the king of the illegal street racing scene and a popular racer to bet on. ‘Course, being so familiar with the fast and loose life, Tegan was no stranger to witnessing other crimes from time to time. Some of his old racing buddies, the ones who know how observant he was, think that Tegan’s death was no coincidence - but they know to keep their voices down.

3) What sort of person is Tegan’s brother?

Janus… is a perfectionist, a visionary, and a brilliant academic to boot - he holds a Ph.D. in neuroscience and a master’s in software engineering, and he fully intends to broaden his wheelhouse as he goes. He’s also very much the picture of a resentful older sibling for most of his and Tegan’s upbringing, because, like - while he studied the blade, Tegan was out here goofing off and getting into trouble and still somehow being the favorite son, to salt the wound. Of course, what he lacks in close connection and open communication (and he really is lacking there), he makes up for with a ferocious tenacity. If this man sees something worth salvaging, he will immediately lock his jaws on it and he will not accept failure as an option.

He knows he should have tried more with Tegan, and he refuses to entertain the thought of never having that second chance.

4) What is Lucky’s daily routine?

For the most part, Lucky is a courier and busy with it; lets him combine his love of riding with an easy way to see new things and meet new people. He lives on lots of little catnaps interspersed with lots of running around - it’s not unusual to see him out and about early in the morning, and again in the middle of the night. 

His routine is a little like this: deliver package, stop by new hole in the wall place he passed earlier, deliver package, head home to sleep and feed dmitri. head over to janus’s lab for mnemonic exercises and a vitals check. deliver package. Find a new piece of media to delve into. Take nap. Leave city limits to stargaze.

Not necessarily like that all the time, of course, or in that order.

5) Does anyone else in Tegan’s family know about Lucky? If so, how are they taking it?

Oh, no. Going down the list, it’s like - father passed when the boys were little… mother a couple years before Tegan’s accident… between Janus’s aversion to regular communication and busy student life, and also Tegan being none too keen on letting on that he’s making a living racing illegally, neither one is close with their relatives. 

The most they know is that Tegan was hurt. He’s made a full recovery, though, so don’t worry, no need to visit (says Janus, stonewalling every single attempt while also frantically trying to snap his brother out of whatever delusion of identity he’s working through). 

Now, Tegan's associates, on the other hand… some are very concerned about the sudden personality changes. 

6) How similar/ different are Tegan and Lucky’s personalities?

They both love an adrenaline rush! They’re also both pretty social and will initiate conversations. Neither of them actively seeks romance or relationships, (‘no one in this city can handle me,’ says tegan. ‘i’ve existed for, like, three weeks,’ says lucky.) They’re also both good at compartmentalizing when they need to.

Tegan is louder, for sure, though - he’s developed an affectation of infuriating nonchalance after years of being constantly dealt his brother’s disapproval, the “why are you always like X”  and “why do you never do Y.” He will not be judged, thanks, and certainly not by the guy who only communicates in criticism and academic citation. 

Lucky is still chatty, but he speaks a little softer, and he pays more attention to the people around him. He skirts around people in a crowd rather than walking straight through. He’s taken by small details and twice as observant as his template, and people who knew Tegan are a little unnerved by how much more insightful he is, these days. Novelty makes him gentler, keener to listen in. He still shares Tegan’s pull to go fast at all times, though.

To sum up the main difference, though: Tegan will tank a sucker punch and grin through bloodied teeth. 

Lucky will dodge. 

7) Besides Dmitri and the helmet, does Lucky keep anything from Tegan?

Aside from all the basic identifying and legal assets? Tegan's apartment for one (although he does take care to partition everything that's not his own). Walking in, you would think two people were living there - only, one of them has been away for so long that an atmosphere of neglect has settled over his things. It takes a long while for Lucky to peek into Tegan’s collection of books and journals, so they’ve been getting a bit dusty. Can’t bring himself to throw anything, though. Feels disrespectful.

Tegan’s bike was completely totaled in the accident, though. Lucky would have kept it, otherwise.

8) Would Tegan’s brother dig further into denial as time goes on or would he accept that Lucky is a person of their own?

Ooh, that is a very good question, like, thematically. Janus is the reigning champion of not letting things go, tbh; it wouldn’t just take time, either. It would take a slow, methodical dismantling of everything Janus thought he knew about Tegan. It would take little, sharp instances of realization, that Tegan had passions and hobbies that he’d had no idea of. That Tegan had always looked up to him, behind the cavalier rebel front. That, really, when it came down to it, he never really knew his little brother at all. 

Honestly? First he has to accept that he can’t fix this; it’s too late, and his brother is gone. 

Only then will he even begin to be able to accept Lucky as his own person. 

Something something Janus’s stages of grief go: anger, bargaining, denial denial denial…

9) Would Lucky ever be comfortable at looking at Tegan’s face?

Yes! I mean, very early on, he hardly even had a problem looking in the mirror - like, it was tragic and all, and of course he harbors a lot of curiosity about who this other guy was, but it was only up until people started expecting him to be Tegan that it started to cause him discomfort. Once he has a firm grasp on who he is, ‘cause he’s still feeling that out, and once certain people understand that he’s Not The Guy They Want, then he’d be able to look himself in the eyes without wanting to crawl out of his own skin a little bit. 

bonus: quick doodle of tegan and lucky for a bit of feature comparison

[dyna-myght]

Just remembered the time my roommates boyfriend thought cold brew coffee was you brewing coffee how you normally do and then you cool it down with ice 💀.

[protect-daniel-james]

Hmmmmm.... I'm sure when Frank went to visit him, Mum Pat (or Aunt Sandra) would pack some sandwiches for Jamie, Jamie, cousin Jamie too.... And the fifteen, sixteen years old Frank would be so embarrassed, rolling his eyes: "Mum, come on, we're not five, I'm not bringing him a sandwich across the country!" It's not like he doesn't want to, it's just...it would be weird. Surely Jamie eats all kinds of better foods in Liverpool, on his own, surely he would laugh at having a fucking pickle sandwich brought from London to him... And Frank doesn't want to be ridiculed, not in front of Jamie, Jamie, Jamie....

"Oh, Frankie, come on. Jamie loves those, he will be happy. And I will make one or two for you for the road as well if you want!"

[kuma-shima]

maybe. just maybe. (its mental illness innit) kokichi is right about the yandere thing lmao

[ghostfacd]

IN A WORLD FULL OF BOYS, HE’S A GENTLEMAN ! | TOM BLYTH

PAIRING. tom blyth x fem!actress!reader

SUMMARY. despite being in a world filled of childish boys, your boyfriend was definitely a gentleman, always putting you before him

AUTHORS NOTE. the third installment because we love tom blyth and yn avocot. I recommend reading part 1 and 2 for more context!

tomblyth “babe, do you think we’re together in every universe?” is that even a question?

tagged @/ynuser

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ynuser stoppp i didn’t know youd actually take the question seriously

user1 get you a man like tom blyth bc oh my god

user2 idk what yn did to manifest him but i need her ways

user3 ugh idk what he’s doing with her lol he could do so much better

➥ user4 well someone had to say it..

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

You didn’t understand how some people on the internet can be so . . . mean. Although there have been countless of fans cheering you and Tom on, it didn’t make it any less hurtful that there were still a ton who weren’t scared to be open about how much your boyfriend could do better.

It’s ironic; you think. They’re claiming they’re looking out for Tom, yet totally disregarding him and his girlfriend as human beings? Those weren’t real fans.

The reason for them hating you so much? Just for simply being with Tom. Everybody wanted him, that was your crime.

Everytime you got lost in your thoughts about this topic, Tom knew. Boyfriend instincts, he called them, but really, he was just a caring and observant person.

You tried not to break down over it, you really did, but a girl could only go on for so long before it all bursts out. Luckily, Tom pulls you right in, telling you to let it all out.

Although the world was filled with childish and hurtful beings, Tom Blyth was still who he was, a gentleman, attending to your every needs.

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

tomblyth really dgaf if you like my girlfriend or not cause i do and that’s all that matters

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user5 im cryinf the polaroid he has of her

user6 YES REAL MEN STAND UP FOR THEIR GFS

user7 ALL THE PICS HE HAS OF HER 🥹🥹

tomblythswife oh to be yn avocot and be loved by tom blyth

rachelzegler tell ‘em 🙊

user8 she doesn’t even comment on the posts he makes abt her, so self centered lol

➥ ynuser I’m right next to him rn?? cant say the same thing about you “lol”

➥ user9 OH SHE ATE YOU UP @/user8

tomblyth_daily here are some clips of tom talking about his relationship in his new interview! GET YOU A MAN THATS LIKE TOM BLYTH 🗣️🗣️🗣️

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user10 the way he’s so passionate when talking about her and being a good boyfriend, God I hate being single

user11 “they’re not even that cute” STFU AND GO WATCH THIS INTERVIEW CAUSE ??

user12 tom blyth said put aside your nonchalant attitudes, im looking at YOU MEN 🫵🫵

ilovetomblyth he’s so boyfriend it actually hurts

user13 yn must’ve saved a continent in her past life to be dating tom blyth omg

ynuser girls, before you have a meltdown over a boy: think of what balleona laurent would do. kiss and manipulate coriolanus!

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tomblyth you kiss and manipulate me too

➥ ynuser you’re gonna get me CANCELLED

user14 literal unbothered icon i love her

user15 if i were her id post a tiktok with that audio “he chose me he don’t want you”

iloveyn SHES SO FUNNY

lionsgate us when behind the scenes photo of balleona 😻

➥ user16 lmao stop who’s the admin of lionsgate

user17 balleona is such a bad person but oh is she hot

tomblyth she was like a shot of espresso

tagged @/ynuser

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ynuser i love u more than words can describe blyth

user18 ok who’s cutting onions

user19 GIRLS, GUYS, THEY THEMS, STOP SETTLING FOR BARE MINIMUM WHEN TOM BLYTH LITERALLY CALLED HIS GF A SHOT OF ESPRESSO, GIVES HER FLOWERS EVERYDAY, AND TALKS ABT HER ALL THE TIME IN HIS INTERVIEWS

➥ user20 YELL IT HARDER SISTER 👐👐👐

user21 this is so dark academica im inlove with u guys

user22 parentssss

rachelzegler my favorites

ynuser SNOW LANDS ON TOP LOSERS

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tomblyth yn, i love you but

➥ user23 LMFAOO when he doesn’t finish his sentence

user24 the second pic thank u yn

joshandresrivera on top of u maybe

➥ user25 IM DYING OML

user26 thank you to lionsgate for casting the most hottest villain couple ever

[blue-jisungs]

hello! can u write an enhypen version for the reaction of when you’re hurt? (i’m sorry if my english is bad it’s not my first language 🫶🫶)

you get hurt ♡

a/n. i’m SO sorry you had to wait so long for this :( hope you like it though!! i hope it’s not repetitive but i’m running out of ideas 😭 also don’t worry, your english is really good ^^

other groups versions —> txt && skz (lmk if i should do this for others as well lol)

warnings. swearing, blood, getting burnt (totally not happened to me like before writing this chap… not that bad tho😀) lmk if i missed anything!!

┆彡 HEESEUNG [ 희승 ]

heeseung was having his midnight gaming session when suddenly he heard a loud ass thud

mans thought it was a thief or something 💀

walks up to the corridor and turns on the light when he sees you in the middle, bleeding knee and teary eyes

you can’t really tell who’s more flabbergasted – him or you

“y/n? what are you–?” he whispers and kneels down, wiping the tears from your face.

“you weren’t in bed so i wanted to look for you… and i tripped over the skateboard” you sniff, closing your eyes. his heart breaks in two and he quickly scoops you in his arms, carrying you to the kitchen in order to look for the bandaids.

“i’m sorry. but please don’t cry, okay? let me patch you up” hee hums and places a quick peck on your temple before cleaning the wound “whose skateboard is that anyways…”

you scoff and it warms his heart, glad to see you’re feeling a bit better.

he changes the bad aid regularly, observing it like a doctor

gave you a lecture as well to turn on the light because he’s not sleeping anyways so you won’t disturb him :)

and also have a more detailed lecture to riki because after a short investigation (“hey hyung have you seen my skateboard–?”) he discovered that it was his

┆彡 JAEYUN [ 재윤 ]

he didn’t mean it

but happens to the best of us….

i mean hey, the fault is on both of you so….

“boo!” you shouted, creeping up from behind. jake let out a yelp, his elbow reflexively swinging back. you let out a groan once it hit your stomach, folding in half.

“oh my god!” jake yelled back, panicked “are you okay?! i’m so sorry, you scared me!”

“it was my fault, i’m sorry” you mumble, blinking the tears away. jaeyun lets out a shaky breath, dragging you to the bed murmuring apologies.

“no, no. lay here, let me help you” he whispers and kissed away your tears before sprinting to snatch your hot water bottle.

puts it on your tummy, pampers it it kisses and massages it :(

it’s such a mess though, you spend almost fifteen minutes apologising to each other 😭

well, lesson learnt: do not scare jake.

asks you like a thousand times if you’re okay, even two days later :”)

┆彡 JONGSEONG [ 종성 ]

you were just enjoying your quiet, peaceful afternoon with jay while cooking dinner

and since you were doing it together, he was stirring something on the pan while you cut some more onion

bad decision.

“do you want me to take over, baby?” jay hummed upon hearing your another sniff. you looked at him, still cutting.

“no, it’s okay– son of a bitch!” you hissed while a sudden pain hit your finger and you looked back down, seeing blood through the tears in your eyes.

jay quickly dropped what he was doing and out your finger under cold water, wiping your tears away.

“aigoo, such a baby” he mumbled, pressing a kiss onto your forehead “does it hurt a lot?”

finds the cutest band aid possible (hello kitty🥹) and it’s safe to say that you’re just sitting on the countertop until he’s done

since it was a deep cut, he changes the band aid regularly and pampers you in kisses

and in the future he’ll always guide your hands while standing behind you when you’re cutting onion

(and you two always end up crying together😭)

┆彡 JUNGWON [ 정원 ]

mornings with 7 boys are chaotic, let be real

and you really needed your morning coffee that day

you were walking over to the table, steaming mug in hand, to sit next to jungwon when sunghoon and riki started running around

before jay could warn them to be careful, riki bumped onto you accidentally. the hot liquid spilled all over your arm, staining the white t-shirt. you felt sharp stinging, tears filling your eyes. jungwon almost flipped the chair over when he stood up rapidly to rush to you.

“oh my god… y/n im so sorry!” riki cried, genuine fear and guilt on his face. you nodded, closing your eyes.

“it’s fine” you murmured and in no time jungwon put your arm under the running water, hands wiping away your tears.

jungwon has his leader mode on, everyone is frightened

they took you to the hospital and oh boy was the ride awkward

hell, once you were home it was awkward too

but once you’re alone, he pampers you in kisses :(

looks over your burn, treats it just like the doctor said

there’s a slight scar but jungwon will make you forget about it, again, with kisses

riki apologised like thousands of times and despite the fact that you forgave him right away, jungwon can’t help keeping his guard on each morning

┆彡 NISHIMURA RIKI [ にしむら りき ]

you know, you’re both silly goofy people…

…and because of that most of the things you say are taken as a joke, and vice versa

so when riki received a text “i’m in the hospital #slayed 🥱🥱” he just rolled his eyes and didn’t think much about it

but once he was at the dorm, where you were supposed to hang out… and you weren’t there… thoughts were being thought

“hello?” you asked, chewing something.

“what do you mean “hello?”? where are you?” he asked, clearly confused.

“i’m in the hospital, i literally texted you” you said calmly and riki’s eyes widened, causing his friends to grow interested

“that wasn’t a joke?” riki stuttered.

“no. a car gently bonked me and i broke my arm. i got really good bread though–” you explained.

“so you got hit by a car?” niki blinked slowly and after getting a hum, he hung out. almost tripping over his own legs, he ran out of the dorms.

i mean, congrats, you scared the living shit out of him so that’s new!

once he’s in the hospital, he cups your face and examines it

and when he calmed down a bit, he hugged you carefully but tightly whispering “you scared me so bad”

you feel bad but him doodling on your cast brightened your moods :^)

once you’re out, he acts like you’re the most fragile thing in the world 🥹

please do not prank him like that again

┆彡 SUNGHOON [ 성훈 ]

you were too excited to see gaeul and when you rushed to pet her, you tripped

mf started laughing but hey, you would too

suddenly he realised there’s tears in your eyes as you wince in pain and he PANICS

you snuggle onto gaeul and sunghoon crouches next to you, brows knitted.

“i’m sorry” he murmurs, slender fingers wiping away your tears. his heart clenches at that sight, worried eyes scanning your body “does it hurt bad? where?”

“my lower back” you mumble and gaeul licks your face, causing you to smile a bit.

he insists on giving you a massage and who would you be to turn it down 🙄🙄

puts a pain relieving cream and spoils you in sweets bc he feels bad :(

as soon as you get getter will start laughing at the situation again though 🧍‍♀️

┆彡 SUNOO [ 선우 ]

you were practicing for your slowly upcoming comeback, the choreo just being released

it was really difficult, hence why you asked sunoo to monitor you

even he said it’s a bit too much >:(

“i was laughing at all the “next gen dance choreographies” memes… but it’s not a joke anymore” you laughed and stood up, the exhaustion hitting your body. sunoo smiled softly at your comment “okay, one more time”

you started and when the hardest part came, where you had to lean on your hand (which was a little silly, because that move only made sense when done with another person), you suddenly felt a sharp pain in your wrist and it caused you to lose balance.

sunoo turned off the music and rushed up to you, kneeling down and gently taking your hand and looking at your confused expression.

“i saw that… it must have hurt. i knew it, it’s too tough” he hisses and upon seeing tears filling your eyes, his gaze softens. sunoo sighs and helps you stand up, his hand never leaving your waist.

he’s very calm on the outside but he’s freaking out inside

takes you to the doctor, tells what happened to your mangers and basically turns into your personal nurse

when you get sad that you can’t join your members to practice and all, he cheers you up

becomes your hand for the whole time of your injury lmao 💔

[ masterlist <3 ]

taglist. @geniejunn ,, @luvhyun3 ,, @starlostseungmin ,, @elviransworld ,, @jnks6r ,, @sieunsgf ,, @ethereallino ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @duolingofanaccount ,, @slytherinhobi ,, @jung0ne ,, @ka-ni-ma ,, @iliveforlixie ,, @moonacholy ,, @ameliesaysshoo ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @mark-geolli ,, @l3visbby

[jreads]

Not sure if this is where we submit requests, but i’d kill for a fic where reader’s having debilitating anxiety attack in Jackson (like where your vision blacks at the edges and you can’t breathe) and suddenly a strong force is keeping you up and you look up and it’s Joel; and he’s concerned bc he relates (but you don’t know each other) and you take a fistful of his shirt and suddenly they feel the symptoms retreating - and that’s how you meet, and you’ve found comfort in each other since. :’)

Sorry if that made no sense it’s word vomit LOL

Also sidebar: unexpected constellations will stay w me forever thank you:’)

Of Memories and Mealtimes (Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Word count: 2.5K

Warnings: Mentions of blood, Mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, Mentions of death, Foul language

A/N: this prompt was so cute, I hope I did it justice!

It’s been getting colder recently. No snow, not yet, but the breeze has a certain nip to it, blowing burnt orange leaves to rest on the ground like a natural carpet. The days are grey, and the nights are long, and that creeping feeling has been looming ever closer recently. You’ve found solace in the comfort of the kitchen. The air here is warm and humid and smells of frying garlic and onion. You perform repetitive, menial tasks and it staves off—to some extent—the ever-present penetrating feeling of loneliness. 

Since arriving in Jackson, you’ve struggled to find a place, a sense of belonging. You’re coming to the conclusion that maybe you never will. You thought you had one… but that was a while ago. 

It’s selfish to think you’re the only one in this town with a painful past; it’s clear that everyone is trying just as hard to find reasons to get through each day. You’re not alone. But you do feel like it. Often.

Maria has taken pity on you, stationing you in the kitchens because she knows you like it there. Knows you like to watch the people sitting at tables and soak up sounds of laughter in an attempt to steal a moment of second-hand happiness.

It’s late now, pitch black outside, and your shift is almost over. You’re cutting fruits and veggies for omelettes in the morning: spinach, olives, tomatoes. There are maybe five people still sitting, a table of three, one woman at a booth, and a man sitting alone at the bar. Sometimes, you like to eavesdrop.

The trio are talking about their old lives. They seem to have found something in common, street racing. Moding their cars, evading the cops… back when you could just drive into a gas station for petrol.  One used to have an old Charger, stolen in the looting. He reminisces over how the purr of the engine felt, how the lights of the highway would turn to a blur as he accelerated. From the corner of your eye, you see the man from the bar get up to leave, dropping some coin on the counter. You used to like to drive fast too. When it was for leisure and not for survival.

“I’m scared.”

The familiar voice sears through you like a branding iron, bringing with it flashing images of memory. Fuck. No, no, no. Not now. 

The freeway is peppered with stationary cars, and you’re swerving, as fast as humanly possible, trying desperately to navigate the mess. The Jeep behind you is gaining, and the little boy in your passenger seat is rigid in fear. If you can just make it through the overpass, it clears out after that. Their car is good offroad, but yours is faster. You upshift.

There’s gunfire, and your rear window shatters. He screams. You use your right hand to push his head down. He needs to stay low. You’re almost there.

Another gunshot. You try to ignore the popping of the rear tire; try not to think about what it means. The vehicle swerves and you fight against it by correcting the wheel. It’s no use. You clip the side of an abandoned car, and your own flips. You’re thrown through the windscreen. It’s the last thing you remember before your vision goes dark.

There’s pain. But not from the onslaught of old memories. You’ve slipped with the knife in your distraction, cutting a deep line into the side of your thumb. It’s dripping down, coating your fingers in a slick red. Your heart is pounding out of your chest, lungs constricting so hard you can barely get a breath in.

“Could I take five?” you manage to gasp to the other lady. But you don’t even wait for her reply before dropping the knife with a clatter and banging gracelessly through the back service doors. Your vision is blurring, darkening at the edges and your head is spinning. It feels as if you might die. You’re going to die.

Your hand is now coated in blood and—with little thought—you try to brush it off with your right, only succeeding in spreading the scarlet until it’s all you can see.

You wake in a ravine. How long have you been out? There’s pain in your cheek and you reach up to pluck a piece of glass from it. The crash. The kid. Oh, no. Oh, god. You call his name, voice hoarse. No reply. Your legs are too weak to support the weight of your own body, so you scramble up from the ditch, back onto the freeway. The car lies a few meters away on its side. Scraped and destoyed. And beyond it, a small body. No.

You crawl to him, sobbing at the bones bent in unnatural angles. And the bullet wound through his chest. You scream. You wail. His lifeless form is so small in your arms, leaking blood over your palms. You were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to—

His body is going cold. Limp and lifeless. But you can’t let go. Maybe, if you just hold on tight enough, the force of your love can breathe life back into his lungs.

You’re covered in his bood, figuratively, literally, it’s everywhere. Stumbling as if you’re drunk, you cry so hard that the tears only blur your vision further. It’s been a while since you’ve had one this bad. If you could just get back to your house. God, why did it have to happen in public? You can’t see where you’re going, so it’s no surprise when you run into something.

No, someone. There are hands on your shoulders and a comforting voice, gravelly Texan accent. What is he saying? You can’t tell. You’re going to be sick.

Something blocks out the lights of the streetlamp. There’s a body beside you.

A fragile body, broken and empty. Leaking life onto cracked pavement.

No, but this body is warm. Strong and gentle. A calloused palm cradling your head into a broad chest, a steady heartbeat. Alive. This body is alive. You clutch onto the fabric of his shirt with desperate hands, forgetting for a moment that your own blood will stain the fabric. He’s speaking words, low whispers, but the sound of them vibrates through him and into you. He’s telling you to calm down.

But you can’t. How do you tell him you can’t? You’re choking on air, hiccupping in a way that hurts.

“Come on now, breathe with me.” He smells nice, like cedar and whiskey. You can feel him smoothing circles onto your back, the rise and fall of his chest as he inhales and exhales. You try to copy him, lungs spasming with the effort. “That’s it. Keep going.” You’re heaving loud, ugly, uneven breaths, but it’s all you can manage. Past and present are flashing before you, your own blood, someone else’s, unseeing eyes and dead silence, a thumping pulse and soothing voice. It’s getting easier; you’re synchronizing your breaths to his own. But as you lean into the comedown, that exhaustion starts to creep up behind you. You melt into him in relief, but he doesn’t shy away. “There you go. I got you.”

Pieces of your surroundings start to fade back into view. You’re under the awning by the barn, shrouded in shadow. He’s practically holding you up by himself, and you feel a sudden deep stab of embarrassment. You can’t look this stranger in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his shirt.

He doesn’t loosen his hold. “You got nothing to apologize for.”

“Probably got… blood on your shirt.” It’s taking effort to even form the words.

He laughs lightly and the sound is like warm caramel. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

The nausea is ebbing, but you find you don’t want to leave. Caught in his arms, you feel the safest you’ve felt in a long while.

“You should probably get that finger bandaged.” He steps away, pulling your arm into the light to examine the cut and you almost sob once more at the loss of contact. “I got supplies back at my place, if that’s alright by you?”

“Okay,” you say because you feel too weak to walk back to your own house alone right now. And also because in the glow of the streetlamp, you can see the rugged handsomeness of his face, etched with sweet worry, dark curls interspersed with shots of grey. You’ve seen him before. The man at the bar, so often alone. 

You’re shaking now, visceral, wracking shudders. He sheds his coat and swings it over your shoulders before leading you down the laneway.

His house is not far, a five-minute walk at most. He ushers you up the front porch, opening the door to a dim-lit living area.

“Joel?” A shrill voice calls down from above. 

Joel Miller? This is Joel Miller?

“Yeah Ellie, it’s me.”

A little girl comes bounding down the stairs, dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She stops dead when she sees you, noting the jacket around your shoulders, the blood on your hand.

“What happened?” she says, with a kind of fascinated wonder that comes naturally to kids. Oh god, she reminds you of—

“Kitchen accident.” Joel replies smoothly. “You mind getting the med kit, kiddo?”

Her big eyes blink once, twice. “Oh, yeah.” Then she’s running right back up the staircase.

Joel sits you on the couch, grasping your wrist with a tender motion so at odds with all the things you’ve heard about him. Then again, you never knew he had a kid.

“Is she yours?”

He doesn’t look up from your palm. “In the ways that count.”

The girl, Ellie, is back down in record time with a worn first aid kit that she extends to Joel. When he takes it, she looks again at you with blatant curiosity. You feel guilty for barging into the warmth of their home like this.

“Ellie, why don’t you go boil some water for coffee.”

“Can I have hot chocolate?” she asks, and the hopeful joy in her voice is enough to finally make you smile.

Joel does too. “Sure.” And she’s off once more, rounding the corner to where you assume the kitchen lies. “But don’t go putting extra sugar in it,” he calls after her. The soft domesticity makes you ache with loss.

“Well, good news is you won’t be needing stiches.” He pulls an array of supplies from the box: disinfectant, gauze, a bandage. “But you should tell Maria to take you off kitchen schedule for a couple days.”

“How’d you know I was on kitchen schedule?” 

“Lucky guess,” he replies easily, but you swear there’s pink travelling across his cheeks. 

The disinfectant stings and you hiss. He falls into silent work, and you find yourself watching him, trying to understand how the man in front of you is the very same that garnered such a ruthless and cold reputation. 

He breaks the silence first. “I don’t mean to pry but…” Joel fastens the bandage securely around your finger. “…if you want to talk about what happened…”

You don’t. Not now, maybe not ever.

When you don’t reply, he nods his head. “I get it.” You watch him cast a glance toward the sound of a boiling kettle, to where Ellie is. “Trust me, I do.” 

You sit with him and Ellie—quiet with a warm cup of coffee—until late into the night. Ellie makes a face at the smell of it and quips back and forth with Joel about how he can ‘drink that piss.’ The girl has a mouth on her. She’s clever, sharp-witted, and the banter between her and him seems to dig a needle and thread into your gaping heart and sew one single stitch into it.

Past midnight, despite your repeated refusal, Joel insists he walk you home. Seeing your own house, cold and devoid of light makes your shoulders slump and heart race anew. Joel seems to note the behaviour.

“You’re always welcome at ours.” You know you’ll never take him up on the invitation. From the sadness in his eyes, you think he knows it too.

There are miles between you. “Thank you.” He only nods. You leave him standing on the lawn.

From behind the safety of the porch window, you can see that he waits for the light to turn on in your living room before walking back down the street.

Maria has insisted you take a few days off. Damn it. Joel must have said something. You try to busy yourself in the garden instead, but the gloves fit awkwardly over your bandage. You don’t last long anyway. The sound of school children heading home hits your ears around 3:00PM, and within minutes, a small shadow blocks where the sun hits your face.

“What’re you doing?”

Just seeing her face is enough to put a small smile on your own. “I’m planting basil.”

“What’s basil?”

You laugh. Actually laugh. “You want to try some?” You offer her a leaf and she chews it thoughtfully. Gives it an approving face. A thumbs up.

“You should bring some for Joel.” The forwardness of her suggestion is almost shocking, but she seems like the type of kid who says whatever comes to mind. You like that about her. “His cooking is pretty bland.”

Two laughs in one day. This kid is like medicine. “You think so?”

“Mhm. You could come over now. I think he’s on patrol, but he’ll be back soon.”

You think about turning her down, just on reflex. But you like how it feels to laugh, just the way you liked how you had felt in Joel’s arms the other night. So you agree. Her smile is brilliant. 

Minutes later, when she loops her arm through your own, she says, “Hey but don’t tell Joel what I said about his cooking, okay?”

You promise.

Around 7:00PM, he comes through the door, a weary sigh giving him away. “Ellie,” he calls.

“In here!” She’s excited. You’ve prepared a meal: pasta, sundried tomatoes, and the basil plucked from the garden. She’s been picking at the penne with her fingers, unable to wait until he arrives.

Seeing the surprised look on his face when he rounds the corner makes you feel suddenly shy. “I wanted to do something to thank you for last night and, well… Ellie found me in the—”

“Joel, it’s so fucking good.” At this point the muscles in your face are starting to hurt from smiling. 

Over dinner, you actually start to engage in the conversation, and somehow you seem to get along like you’ve known each other for years. In tandem, they work to bring you out of your shell. Your voice is hoarse and face warm by the time you go to leave, but Joel stops you at the door.

“Let me walk you back again.” Your selfish streak is only getting worse. You say yes. You think you see Ellie’s face in the top window as the two of you leave, a devious grin on her face.

Conversation flows on the way, about food, wine, Ellie. It’s comfortable, familiar, but there’s something… 

A yearning, buried under layers of friendly formality. He walks you up your porch and you think, for just a moment, about inviting him inside.

But you’re not quite ready for that just yet. So, you rise up to kiss him on the cheek instead, relishing the stunned look on his face.

Shy again, you back away across the threshold. “Good night, Joel.”

He says it back, and the way your name rolls of his tongue ignites something long dormant within you. You think he might be looking at your lips.

When the door closes, you let out a shuddering breath. And for what seems like the thousandth time that night, you smile.

[livingemkayde]

ch iii. diced

joel miller x f!reader x unrequited!tommy miller (no outbreak AU)

chapter three of chaser

warnings: 18+ minors please dni. phone sex?? yeah…phone sex. graphic depictions of male and female masturbation. dom!joel makes a reappearance. too much tension for one story. love triangle forming formed. mild allusions to physical fighting but only verbal fighting with the brothers LOL. age gap, reader is 23 and joel is 35. Tommy is 30. (ages of all characters and plot do not follow canon strictly for the story’s sake). reader in her girl boss era (not sexually tho lol). 

a/n: ooooooooo i love you guys and im glad youre liking the story. im really happy with the way this chapter came out. WIG. please enjoy!!

summary: tensions run high at a family dinner at the miller's house. tommy drops you off at home, but its joel who ends up being the one talking to you until you fall asleep.

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

“Fighting at the table. Thought you were a gentleman,” you chuckle, nervously.  That right? Your breath hitches.  “Yeah.” Not anymore? “Not too sure anymore.”  ‘M sure I can convince you.  “You can try.”

You like cooking.

You like the meticulous steps involved in following a recipe.

You like how when it’s done, you can share it with the people you love. 

You stand at the kitchen counter, dicing an onion. Joel’s silent words ring in your mind as you stare down at the small little squares. 

You find your cheeks reddening more with each tick of the minute hand. The boys will be home later from their long day with the electrician. You asked one of Sarah’s teammates to drop her off at the house since your car was out of commission. 

The hours pass by, the chicken gets golden brown in the heat of the oven, salad gets tossed, potatoes get mashed. 

The Millers file in, Sarah first — she slumps down on the couch as you try to get her to wash up and put on a fresh set of clothes before setting up camp in front of the TV. 

She grumbles, but ultimately gives in, too tired to complain. You send her back to the couch after she’s done with a bowl of grapes and a cookie. 

Tommy is next, surprisingly sans his brother at his side.

“Hey…” you greet him with confusion laced in your tone. 

“Hey,” he gives you a hug, like always, and shuffles into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about Joel which seems weird. 

“Smells fuckin’ amazing ‘n here,” Tommy grumbles to himself, giving you a teasing squeeze on your hip while you pass to check on the chicken. 

He sits down at the table, his hand rubbing over his forehead. 

“Where’s Joel?” you inquire. Trying to keep your tone from sounding too interested. 

“Dunno, dropped me off and said he needed to check on something,” he grovels. 

You nod your head. 

Strange. 

“How was your day?” he asks, you just shrug.

“Tire’s fuck. ‘S alright though.”

He nods, his head comes back to his hands.

“Long day?” you ask, looking at him sympathetically. 

“Yeah,” he groans, standing to sneak a taste at the potatoes with a small spoon in hand. 

“Hey! Wait—” you attempt to stop his tricks, but he just laughs when you try to bat his hand away. 

“Electrican was a fuckin’ dick ‘n the drywall shipment is late so…” he huffs out, leaning back against the kitchen counter. You settle against the other counter, across the kitchen — the two of you facing each other. 

“‘M sorry,” you say and try to smile. These things happen with the brothers. The day's work seeping into dinner. You usually try to cheer up Tommy before he sits down with Sarah, but Joel is a different story. “Can you do anything about the guy?” 

“Not really, he’s supposed to be the best,” he shrugs. You stalk over near him, moving to stir the potatoes again, but he plays with the tail ends of your apron, and surprisingly, pulls you into a hug. 

You know it’s what he needs right now. A hug from a friend, and when the front door opens, you 

hope everyone in the room understands it's nothing more than that. 

Joel stands in the entryway. You can see him out of the corner of your eye. You can also see him hesitate in shrugging off his boots and flannel, taking in the scene unfolding before his eyes. 

Tommy Miller slumped against the counter with you in his arms. 

You pull away quickly. 

“Hey Joel,” you say, your hand coming to rub the back of your neck. 

“You makin’ dinner?” He asks, nodding his head at your greeting. You figure he’s pissed off about the day too, and seeing you with Tommy first thing when he opens the door certainly can’t help. 

“Yeah, just some chicken,” you say to him as he moves to kiss Sarah’s head and makes his way towards you and Tommy. 

“It’ll be ready soon,” you follow up with, he gives you a grunt in response, opening the fridge to get a beer. 

Joel passes you, and just when you think he’s too pissed to save it, he gives you a look. The one that leaves you breathless, the same look he always does — but only for a fleeting second with Tommy still close to your side. 

He leans down to your ear in passing, putting a steady hand on your low back that sends chills up your spine and whispers in a husky voice — 

“Thanks for cookin’ darlin’.” 

Jesus. 

You try to hide your flush but a smile falls on your face — Tommy notices. You know he notices, he’s not stupid. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a ragged breath. 

You can’t think of anything besides, get the attention off you. 

“Sarah?” you call from the kitchen, you see her eyes peek out from over the couch. 

“Help me set the table, will you, doll?” 

“Sure,” she calls back. 

You move to grab the napkins and cutlery, but Tommy’s hands stop your movements. You look up to him at your side, he smiles at you. 

“Let me help,” he says, taking the cloth out of your hand. 

“Oh — okay. Thanks,” you say, brushing your hands off, setting up Sarah’s utensils instead. 

You shrug off your apron. Joel watches you the whole time while leaning against the sink. When you meet his eye, he just raises his eyebrows at you, taking another sip of his beer. 

You pull the chicken out of the oven, setting everything on the table. 

“Come get it, guys,” you say, pulling out Sarah’s chair. She sits by Tommy, he ruffles her hair — her giggling echoing through the kitchen like always.

You sit across from them, Joel at the head of the small table. It's funny. Most days you have dinner at the house, it doesn’t feel as formal as this. Tommy and Joel sit on the couch sometimes, watching whatever is on the TV, you help Sarah with her food at the table. 

But most days you have takeout or leftovers — not a meal you cooked. 

“How was soccer today?” you ask Sarah as she spoons mashed potatoes into her mouth. 

“It was so fun, Katie even got us matching bracelets,” she says, holding out her wrist, a clunky beaded bracelet hangs off it. 

“Very cool,” you admire the colorful charms, the brothers pretend to be interested. 

“Sorry I couldn’t pick you up, my tire popped,” you say to her. She gives you a confused look. 

“How does that even happen?” 

“You’re telling me, kid,” you smile at her, shaking your head. She laughs back.

“Speakin’ of that,” Joel cuts in, “Went by the shop to get a tire but they were closed. I'll take you tomorrow.”

“Oh — thanks, Joel,” you say, sipping on some water to hide your blush. 

Tommy grumbles from across the table.

“What was that?” you ask, he looks at you, then Joel, a certain uneasiness falls over the table. 

Some silence. He keeps looking at Joel with an emotion you can’t place.

“Told Joel I would take you,” he says after some time. 

Fuck. 

You sneak a glance at Joel. He looks at Tommy with a stiff stare. The room feels tense, other than Sarah picking at her salad. 

“Oh — it’s,” you nervously chuckle. “It’s okay. Actually I can probably —” 

“I gave her the tow,” Joel cuts you off. But he’s not talking to you, he’s talking to Tommy. 

You watch the wordless scene unfolding in front of you in awe. Your brows push together in a silent plea to stop. But the boys don’t look at you. They don’t break from looking at each other. 

“She called me,” Tommy says, the dinner in front of them abandoned. 

“You didn't go.” 

Fuck. 

“It's really not a problem, I can—” 

“I’ll help you change it,” Tommy cuts you off, glancing in your direction, then back to Joel. 

“I can change a tire,” Joel snaps, his voice raising slightly. 

You give them both a look, hoping to shut them up, but they don’t even glance your way. 

“Once your car is fixed can you take me to the library again after soccer?” Sarah says over the silence. 

You look back at her and try to make it seem like everything is okay. 

“Of course!” you say, cringing at your nervous intonation, but she giggles and thanks you nonetheless. 

“I know how to change a tire, but thanks for the offer,” you say, a nervous laugh breezing through your words. “Tommy, it’s okay that you couldn’t come —” 

You’re cut off again. It seems like you’re not really in this conversation. And they’re not really arguing about the tire. 

“I couldn’t go because you fucked it with the electrician,” Tommy bites back. 

“Tommy,” you say in a stern voice, looking at Sarah, and back to Tommy, a scowl across your face. But he doesn’t look back. 

It looks like Sarah is almost done with dinner anyways, her eyes trained towards the TV in the living room. 

“You done kiddo?” you whisper to her. She snaps out of it and nods, you tell her to put her plates in the sink and slip her another cookie. 

“Go pick out a book to read before bed.” 

She leaves. The tension doesn’t. 

“‘N why was the electrician mad?” Joel bites back when you join the table again. 

“Jesus,” Tommy says, he pulls back from their staring first, running a rough hand through his hair. 

“No, why was he mad?” Joel scowls. “Was it because you forgot to confirm for the drywall?” 

“Joel,” you say, confused why he’s still letting this go on. Of course, he doesn’t look at you. 

Tommy just scoffs, avoiding everyone’s gaze while staring down at the floor. You see his shoulders puffing. 

A few more moments of unbearably tense silence. You don’t want to step in, this is obviously some stupid argument and you have no idea what you could possibly say to make it better. You’re partially scared, and halfway pissed because they’re fighting and cursing in front of Sarah — ruining the meal you spent the afternoon making. 

“‘S what I thought,” Joel announces to the table. 

Your eyes widen more if that’s possible. 

Oh, fuck. 

Tommy slams his fist on the table, standing, Joel gets to his feet too. You stand, moving around the table before any blows are actually thrown, adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

“What the hell are you guys doing?” you say, your voice is a little hushed because of Sarah. 

“I dunno,” Joel whispers, still looking at Tommy. “What are we doin’.” It's a question, but it doesn’t sound like one.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“You guys will figure it out with the electrician,” you say, hesitant, you’re not sure if that will make the situation any better, but you’re trying your best. 

“And I can take care of my own tire,” you let out a breathless laugh, trying to diffuse the tension.

Joel looks over to you at that, and his brows slightly unfurrow. 

You look at Tommy, but he looks furious. 

“Guys,” you say, looking between them, pleading with your voice. 

The clock continues counting — seemingly without the three of you — suspended, or maybe frozen in time. It feels like hours, you all stand there. You can see Joel’s hand ball into a first. Even when the chicken goes cold, and the drinks get lukewarm, they stand. You’re beginning to worry nothing you can say will fix this. Their competitive nature has always been apparent, but this is something different. Like they’re talking to each other without words, and you won’t ever be able to understand their unspoken language. 

“I’m gonna head out,” Tommy finally says, breaking first. You let out a sign, stepping back, holding a hand to your forehead. 

“Thanks for cooking. I — do you need a ride?” Tommy says, grabbing his coat. 

Fuck. It never stops, does it?

You look over at Joel for a split second when Tommy looks down to get his shoes. 

Go. 

He says with his eyes. 

You wonder how many infinite laters can be braced on his silent eyes before it all spills out and buries you alive. 

But he says it. 

Later. 

You nod, still a bit shaken up by the stalemate.  

“Okay. Let me just clean up,” you say, grabbing at some dishes. 

“I got it,” Joel cuts in, taking the dishes from your hands, nodding his head towards Tommy. 

 You mumble a quiet thanks and follow Tommy out the door. 

It's silent when you get in the car, and when you pull out onto the street. You pick at the skin on your fingernails, a nervous sweat breaks out in your palms. Tommy is tense beside you. His knuckles on the steering wheel show white. 

“I —” he huffs out a breath, already nearing your house. “‘M sorry.” 

He sounds actually genuine. And you know he’s had a shit day. 

“What was all that, Tommy?” you ask in a quiet voice. 

“I don't know.” He shakes his head, rearing your house, and pulling up, putting the car in park. 

“Work and then I —” he laughs a bit. “I fuckin’ told Joel I would take you so, I don't even know what he was —” he drops his head. 

“I don't know. I'm sorry.” 

You feel a bit bad. 

“I appreciate the offers but I can do things on my own, T. You know that,” you say, bracing a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“I know. I — I just wanted to help,” he grovels. 

“I know,” you echo, giving him a smile. 

He smiles back. 

“Haven't seen Joel that worked up in a while,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Work’s getting to him, maybe. Just like it's getting to you,” you tease, poking his shoulder. You're a bit breathless from his brainless comment about Joel. 

“Maybe. I dunno —” he huffs. “Anyways. Let me make it up to you.” 

You raise your brows at his words. 

“We'll take you out on friday? Bar?” 

Your eyes widen. 

As in — you and Joel in a bar again. Together. 

And Tommy.

“Oh, um —” your phone buzzes in your hand, Joel’s name pops up and you try to hide it quickly. “Okay. Sure.” 

“Drinks on me,” he winks, you pull off your seatbelt, giving him a fake appreciative look. 

“$1 beers, wow thank you so much, Tommy,” you say, putting a hand to your chest. 

“Shut up, you're lucky I offered,” he teases as you hop out of the truck. 

“See you,” you wave. 

“Get some sleep, babe.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“Goodnight,” you say back, closing the car door and walking inside.

Your heart picks up at the thought of going back to the bar you and Joel first met. You know the brothers frequent the place. To say you were nervous was an understatement. And Joel definitely doesn’t know about Tommy’s plans yet. 

You haul yourself upstairs to your bedroom, you’re slipping on a big t-shirt from your dresser, and washing up when you hear your phone buzzing from your bed.  

Your phone buzzes again, you pull it out from under your pillow, it's Joel. 

But he's calling you. 

You freeze with the phone in your hand. 

Fuck. 

Joel has never called you. Even when he gave you his number at the bar it was him asking for you to call him. His name flashing on your screen makes you squirm. 

Joel M.

It’s the same from all those weeks ago. You never bothered to change it to his full last name — you remember when he put it in your phone and all his touches prior. You remember everything about that night. 

You don't want it to go to voicemail so you take a deep breath, and answer the call. You put the phone up to your ear hesitantly, your breath a bit shaky. 

“Hello?” 

Where are you? 

No preamble. No greeting. 

“I’m home. I just got home,” you say, breathless. 

‘Preciate you cookin’. 

“Sure,” you breathe out, you’re a bit confused why he’s calling you just to say thanks. 

He stays silent for a while. 

‘M sorry. ‘Bout dinner. 

Your long sigh crosses the line. 

“Fighting at the table. Thought you were a gentleman,” you chuckle, nervously. 

That right?

Your breath hitches. 

“Yeah.”

Not anymore?

“Not too sure anymore.” 

‘M sure I can convince you. 

“You can try.”

You can hear his silken breath echo through the call. The static pierces through the ringing in your ears. You settle on your bed, laying on your back as you desperately try to imagine what he’s doing right now. The white ceiling above you maps out his face.

He clears his throat like he’s scared of continuing down that road. 

Get home okay?

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. 

“Yes, Tommy is capable of things, you know.”

He doesn’t respond. You try to lighten the mood. 

“Said you guys are gonna take me out on Friday,” he grunts. “Make it up to me or something.” 

Is that what you want?

“Could be fun.” 

Could be.

“I haven’t been out in a while.” 

Yeah?

“Mhm. You guys are a full time job.”

When was the last time you went out?

You freeze. He knows the last time. You both know the last time you went out to the bar downtown. You’re sure of that fact, and that he hears your breath get heavy through the phone. 

You think about being indirect. Beating around the bush. Teasing. Say something snarky like you know the last time but it’s getting a bit old, and there’s no hiding things now. 

“When I met you,” you settle for. You hear his own breath through the line. 

He stays silent, obviously a bit shocked by your sudden bluntness. You try to keep it lighthearted, even though the notion is anything but. 

“Might have to go shopping if we’re goin’ out,” you laugh. 

Nah, could just wear the skirt from last time.

Jesus. 

“You remember?” you gulp. 

‘Course I do. 

 You try to laugh, but it comes out strangled. 

“Didn’t know you thought about me so much, Miller.”

I always think about you.

Jesus, fuck. 

So much for being light hearted. 

Maybe this is the later he kept telling you, but it doesn’t feel like it. To you, later, meant hey, let's talk about whatever this is, later and not, let's flirt with each other over the phone, later. You keep trying to picture him. There’s no way he’s sitting in the living room or in the kitchen with you on the phone like this. Right? 

Your fingers find the soft cotton hidden under your too-big shirt. You play with the hem of your underwear absentmindedly. 

You hear him shuffling a bit. 

“Where are you?” 

My bedroom. 

“What are you doing?” 

Sittin’ down.

“Where?” 

Jesus. 

“What?” 

What are you tryin’ to get at?

“I just wanna know what you’re doing.”

I’m — 

He hesitates for the first time all night. 

I’m on my bed. What are you doin’?

“I’m laying in bed.”

He sucks in a breath. 

“That all you’re doin’?”

There it is. The point of no return, the final tipping point, the flood gates opening, and never, ever shutting again — at least for tonight. For now, at this moment — whatever happens after this is up in the air. But you don’t think about that right now. All you can think about is how the drawl in his voice somehow compels you to sneak past the hem of your underwear.  

“Maybe. Why’d you call me?” 

Wanted to apologize. 

“That’s it?”

Maybe. 

He echoes your previous statement. You smile. The rising heat between your legs comes to a breaking point. So you bite the bullet. 

“Joel,” you say, his breaths are a bit husky. You know he can hear the small whimper in your voice. 

What do you need, angel?

“Can I? Please?”

Yes, fuck — yes. Askin’ so nicely f’me.

You let out a puff of air through stiff lips. Your fingers find your swollen clit, sinking down towards your entrance to collect the growing wetness there. You strangle out moans and something sounding like Joel’s name. 

You’re about to push two fingers inside yourself, when his voice cuts through the phone. 

Only one. 

It’s like he can read your mind. 

“Joel —” you whisper, a plea, but he cuts you off. 

C’mon be good for me, baby. 

You grovel, and your cheeks heat at how easily you comply, not really putting up any fight. You can’t. Not when he sounds like that, close to your ear, his words of praise pushing you closer to the edge as you sink your middle finger inside and gasp at the intrusion. 

Feel good? 

You can hear him shuffling, a small groan sounds from the other side of the line. You know what he’s doing, and it pushes you even further, maybe even becoming more bold. 

“Joel — need more,” you whine. You can hear him working himself. Your finger does nothing to stretch yourself out. Not when you think about the night at the bar, and how the sweet sting of his cock made you see stars. 

One more — slow. 

You groan as you slip another finger inside. The wetness from your entrance ruins your underwear, and threatens to spill out onto your bedding as well. 

You whine nonsense to him. You’re worked up, have been too distracted the last few weeks to touch yourself or seek anyone out. You didn’t even want to knowing you would see Joel the next day. He was enough to keep you going. But you’re just a woman. And you have needs. 

Feel good, baby? Tell me how it feels.

You pump your wrist faster, your orgasm nearing. You desperately rut against the palm of your hand, your shirt riding up. His words from the other side of the line spur you on further. 

“‘S good, Joel. Feels so — good.” 

Fuck, say my name again.

Your eyes open slightly at that, the plea mirroring when he had you up against the wall in the bar. His name. He always wants you to say his name. 

“Joel —” you whine. “Wish it was you.” 

I know, baby, I know. 

 “Please.” 

You know we can’t. 

“God — fuck,” you whimper to him. The mixture of your own fingers crooking just right inside you threatens to push you into a white hot orgasm. You don’t know where the next thing you say comes from. Or if you’d ever let another guy do this with you. But it feels right in the moment. And the sound of him working himself faster tells you he’s close too. 

“Can I cum? Please?” you whisper. 

You swear you can hear his hand stutter. The groan he lets out at your words is closer to a growl. 

Jesus, fuck — such an angel. You know that right?

“Joel,” you continue, too blissed out to acknowledge his praise. It shoots right down to the spot you keep working on instead. 

Not yet — know you’ll be a good girl and wait f’me. 

You do, wait for him. Your fingers slow down a fraction, staving you off your fast approaching orgasm. You can hear him work himself, the thought of him finishing into his palm makes it that much harder for you to hold off. 

Fuck baby — goddamn — 

“Joel, please?” you whine when he starts to calm down his breathing. You’re teetering right on the edge. The only thing keeping you from falling is the thought of his praise. 

Alright — fuck — let me hear you, baby.

You come hard around your fingers, biting into your lip hard in favor of screaming. Your back arches off the bed, the phone threatens to slip from your hand, you can barely hear Joel’s praise in the back of your head. It’s almost like he’s really here, whispering into your neck while you climax. 

You expect your post orgasmic haze to send you into a spiral about a certain brother and the fact that technically you just got off on the phone with your boss. But it doesn’t, you fall back into the mattress, spent. Joel’s words ring through your ears, whispering praises. 

He tells you to get some rest. 

You do. 

_

chapter iv. tacit

taglist! comment or message me if you want to be added. (for this series, i took the liberty of adding you to the taglist if you commented that you wanted more parts on chaser. you can let me know if you want to be taken off) kisses!

@sofiparallel @jasminedragoon @rainbowcosmicchaos @akah565

@going-to-californiaxx @gintheginger @dizzyforyou @defnotashifter @missgurrl @pedropascalissofine @daddy-din @earthtogrogu @rooney-verse @ratoonstown @purplemechanics @suzmagine @skysmiller @untamedheart81 @pedritosdarling @lovely-ateez @pluzo @hellaradd @josephine1837 @spongebobspooploop @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @noisynightmarepoetry @tsunamistorm123

@awhoreforalotofshows @disassociation-daydreams @anoverwhelmingdin @violinchick @rhoorl @yoongjennie88 @lawh0re

[sant-riley]

Okay yk what idc I got alot of thoughts of Puerto rican! Reader with the boys, I am not sorry, I need to get this out of my system. so I'm giving her the codename of Teddy :) sorry if that ruins the immersion!

General hcs/thoughts I have with the boys from mw2:

Ghost could destroy an entire pernil by himself. He actively looks forward to it every single Thanksgiving despite him literally not being American and thus doesn't celebrate it. "L.T, don't tell me you're going over to her house just for some pork." "Why yes Johnny, I am." He is not sharing with a single soul, he will break someone's fingers. (Teddy makes him his own at this point so the others can have a try)

Soap fucking chugs Coquito like it's nothing, bc technically it isn't compared to the stuff he has back home. At first he was apprehensive but now he usually goes home with a bottle. He will share but if he sees someone wasting it he will be pissed. It is hard as fuck to come by in Scotland if not the base.

Price very much enjoys the cleaning playist Teddy has, she told him how growing up that that was how her mom told her it was time to get her ass up and do chores. He finds himself playing it early in the morning while he does documents to wake himself up.

Everyone's favorite song round let's go

Soap's favorite - Suavemente

Ghost's favorite - Anhelo (totally not bc he danced with her to this one)

Price's favorite - Danza Kuduro

Gaz's favorite - La Vaca

Alejandro being surprised when he sees a short Hispanic woman with two big ass European men. "Tu con estos dos? de donde eres chiquita?"

Soap fucking pushes himself in and answers for her, a smug little smile from all the little Spanish he picked up. Ghost just rolls his eyes and tries to not groan. Soap being a showoff.

The solidarity between the Vaqueros and Teddy 🤝 different countries but there's alot to have in common.

Teddy cursing in Spanish at the top of her lungs and Alejandra and Rudy snorting. "You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?"

The boys have in fact danced with her when she's feeling homesick, each one. Soap and Gaz don't mind doing it in public where as Ghost and Price rather do it in their rooms/her room. Ghost and Price will say its good exercise but we all know the truth.

When fresh food is available, they'll ask her to make the food she eats off duty. It's different combinations of rice and beans, along with meat always.

Everyone fucking devours tostones btw. Literally they have to buy so many plantains to make sure everyone has their fill or there will in fact be a fight.

SHE MAKES THEM HELP MAKE PASTELES!! It's a whole assembly line. Christmas is a war zone in of itself trying to make the shits.

Ghost drinks Cafe bustelo straight out the machine. No one else can stand the stuff bc it's too strong.

When sofrito has to be made, everyone makes Soap cut the onions lmfao, the worst part of the entire process.

Everyone starts to saying spanglish around base, Gaz switching from English to accented Spanish is a interesting sight 😭 Teddy mocks him as if she isn't to blame.

THE WAY GHOST SAYS NUEVO IN RESPONSE TO LEAVING ALEJANDRO AND HE GETS FLAMED FOR IT BC THATS NOT HOW YOU SAY OF COURSE.

"Really? Nuevo? Do you know what that means?" "Oh for fucks sakes."

Okay I'm tired and my fingers hurt from typing all of this lol I'll add more probably at some point!

If you'd like to be tagged in future works, please comment under my rules that are pinned to my blog!

[levanterhaze]

✧ PAST LIVES WITH CARMY BERZATTO

→ carmy berzatto x reader

→ in a whirlwind of past lives, emotional turmoil, and unresolved history, follow the angsty love story between the chef Carmen Berzatto and a lost soul attempting to mend the fragments of their shattered past.

→ warning: anxiety, angst, just a little bit of fluff but not too much lol

→ 3kish

first chapter: the midas touch

Stepping into Carmen Berzatto's mind was like getting swept up in a lively dance of memories and traumas, a vibrant mix of anxiety, anger, and the poignant notes of grief.

In the whirlwind of working tirelessly and mulling over unspoken feelings, Carmen found his unique forte. Picture him slicing through onions, yet mentally transported to that fateful family dinner where everything unraveled. His hands shook, sweat lingered on his temples, and, ironically, an old faithful cigarette became his solace, a bittersweet affirmation that his lungs were indeed alive.

On the whole, revisiting the past was a vivid nightmare for Carmy, a realm he seldom painted with optimistic dreams. Yet, every so often, his mind would wander back to a face from days gone by, a time when life seemed more carefree and innocent, a canvas where he felt secure enough to unfurl his heart into something beautiful.

Did he yearn for that? It was a perpetual query whenever her image crossed his thoughts—the sweet, well-intentioned girl who appeared in his life like a gift from the cosmos, a surreal deity he deemed himself unworthy of.

Before the portrait of his life transformed into its current state, there was someone. Sweet, cozy smiles. Hands entwined like an unbroken melody. Glances as sugary as stolen kisses. Pledges of everlasting love whispered in the hush of the night. A dream. An obsession. Two hearts shattered like fractured stardust.

Now and then, Carmy pondered the whereabouts of the girl who once occupied a significant space in his heart—the muse of his first love. Nostalgia and melancholy clung to this initial foray into matters of the heart, an indelible mark like the lingering stain of aged wine—permanent, resilient, and unforgettable.

In those reflective moments, a palpable grudge gripped Carmy for breaking that girl's heart—a girl who poured everything into a relationship destined for the shadows. He sensed his own brokenness, juxtaposed with her radiant beauty. He avoided becoming something she could mend, thus choosing distance as his peculiar brand of self-preservation.

But what if...?

These three small words, weighty with possibility, haunted Carmy like an incessant rhythm.

He could have had it all. Or perhaps nothing. Or even the splendid paradox of both worlds colliding. Yet, in the grand tapestry of life, did it truly matter? Carmy had forged a path to his present, and the dreamy girl who lingered in his musings was surely distant enough to forget the whimsical boy who once broke her heart.

Anxiety unraveled the threads of Berzatto's faith, gradually fading like the waning embers of a once-robust fire.

Returning to Chicago, it felt like rediscovering the world anew.

What do you do when your dreams dissolve into echoes, vanishing in the blink of an eye? When every effort seems futile and never quite enough? The echoes linger in your mind, tears poised on the brink, waiting for the opportune moment to make their dramatic entrance.

Life in Los Angeles was meant to be simpler. You envisioned a dream, thinking everything would unfold seamlessly. Young and too naive to fathom the intricacies of the world. Pursuing an acting career in a world where vultures circled fresh talent felt like social suicide. You were never prepared, but for years, you tried relentlessly.

Exhaustion took hold—utter weariness. Voices echoed in your mind: too thin, too fat, perhaps she's passable, but not captivating enough, if only she had more curves, maybe she'd be more fuckable.

Nothing ever seemed enough, and you grew weary of the constant striving.

So, on a Thursday, the decision was made to return to Chicago. Leave the rented L.A apartment behind and embrace the small space that belonged to you. Driving back home, the air in Chicago felt oppressive. Breathing seemed challenging. The dense air, pregnant with memories and echoes of past lives, served as a stark reminder.

It's real. It's Chicago.

Coldness embraced the season, and the darkened apartment resembled a skeletal frame. Fragile white walls, devoid of adornments. It was just you and your ego, weathered by years of struggle.

Then, the need to shop emerged, a necessity to prevent impending insanity. The fridge echoed emptiness, much like your stomach. The nearby supermarket beckoned, and you welcomed the walk. A peculiar sensation enveloped you as you traversed the streets—a desire for recognition, yet a deeper hope for anonymity.

A passing gaze stirred anticipation, only to be met with moistened lips and your hastened steps. Later, as you gazed upon your reflection in the glass of the dairy section, self-loathing consumed you. Disdain for the red lipstick, its inadequacy on your lips. Disgust for the perfume that clung to you. A loathing gaze at your reflection, prompting the question: when would this cease?

Earphones encapsulated your ears, resonating with melancholic '80s tunes at a volume that drowned the outside world. Nearly ten at night, the door beside you opened, prompting a swift move to retrieve that damn cheese. In that fleeting second, blue eyes and a nose akin to Apollo's altered everything. Suddenly, you found yourself in a snug loft, surrounded by abundance, with a boy destined to shatter your heart.

A pause ensued. Earphones draped around your shoulders, seemingly programmed for such moments. Carmy's name hovered on your lips, yet you restrained it. There was an ordinariness, a professionalism in the way he scrutinized the products, evoking a suppressed urge to laugh.

Indeed, it was Berzatto.

"Carm?"

And as if, in some way, time had rewound a few years, Carmen feels something tug at his chest.

There you were. In the flesh.

The twin emeralds staring at you, as if you were something out of this world, suddenly felt like too much to bear. Looking at Carmy was like gazing at that boy you once fell for. Filled with dreams, ambitions, and fears.

You could be mistaken, but you swore you saw his lips move to the rhythm of the nickname: angel .

"I can't believe it's really you."

"You're here," he says as if your presence is an impossibility, just a meter away.

"And you're here," a small smile graces your face.

"I-yeah, I’m here. Los Angeles?"

A failure , a shattered dream, a colossal disappointment .

But you simply shrugged, lips twisting into an upturn smile. That's when Carmy gives a hint of a grin.

It's really you.

"I'm sorry," but did he truly feel it?

The silence lingered uncomfortably, both of you staring at each other as if in a standoff. You smiled first, a beautiful smile he already knew. Carmy took a step forward.

"I wrote you an email. When... You know. I'm really sorry, Carm," your eyes sought traces in his outwardly weary expression. He glanced down, just for a few seconds, and nodded, shaking his head.

He didn't know what to say. And what could he do? His inbox was flooded with messages he probably would never read. And knowing there was one message among many, a message from you, made him hate himself even more.

"Are you living around here?"

"Down the next block," you bit your lip.

"I have a place," he suddenly says. "Actually, Mikey had this place, and you probably knew that, but I, after, uh... I'm with the restaurant. The Bear."

"The Bear," you repeat the name with such poise and affection that makes Carmy's heart almost leap from his chest.

"You should drop by if you like," he looks directly into your eyes, like an invitation. "I’d like to," and then, the longing.

You shared another moment of silence, just two familiar strangers trying to connect after years in the shadows. Carmy felt his own body slowing down a feeling that had been cold for a long time. Don't do this, don't do this, don't do this.

"Okay," was all you said.

Carmy slipped you a phone number, never hinting that it belonged to him.

A couple of weeks passed since that unexpected supermarket encounter, and a persistent sense of disappointment clung to your routine. Part of you understood. Maybe Carmy wasn't into revisiting the past, a ghost of what his life once held. You accepted that. Yet, he seemed well, on the surface at least. You figured, at the very least, you could be friends if the history still held some weight.

On the flip side, time has been kind in aiding your healing process. Unpacking boxes in the apartment felt like therapy for a mind that had weathered its fair share of storms. Some items were old enough to consider tossing, like clothes and forgotten books. Amidst these relics, something intriguing caught your eye.

Two sketchbooks. It had been ages since you held one, forgetting that you were once an artist. They were dusty, and as you opened them, a rush of emotions accompanied the doodles of a past version of yourself.

There was Millennium Park, scenic landscapes, a woman on a train, and countless pages filled with familiar green-eyed gazes. A sigh caught in your throat, realizing the depth of your feelings for Carmy.

So many sketches of him, capturing every detail—nose, eyes, hands, lips, his entire essence. Undoubtedly, he was your muse. A mix of drama and nostalgia coursed through you, and amidst the clutter, you decided to keep these memories of a former you.

And thoughts about Carmy? They remained.

One evening, you found yourself outside The Bear. No one seemed to notice you, but the lively atmosphere tempted you to step inside, maybe greet Carmy, and shoot him a teasing look for giving a number that didn't quite belong to him.

But you hesitate.

Chasing someone who clearly wasn't interested felt a bit degrading, and despite your annoyance with life's twists, you weren't willing to go that far.

As the days whisked by, the Berzattos kept popping up, serving as constant reminders. A chance meeting with Natalie at a cozy café unraveled, and she could hardly believe it was really you standing there. She hugged you warmly, apologizing for everything that had transpired between you and Carmy.

In the end, Carmy hadn't spilled the tea about your return to Chicago. And even though you pretended not to care about the opinion of your super-talented ex-boyfriend and chef, there was a subtle sting to your pride. You shared the thing about the supermarket encounter, the email, and the phone number.

Sugar was livid.

In The Bear's kitchen, Carmen's sister stormed furiously towards the office where her brother would likely be sorting out bureaucratic matters with Syd. With a hand on the door and furrowed brows, Natalie burst in like a typhoon.

"What is wrong with you?"

Sydney paused mid-motion, holding a notebook and pen in hand, her eyes shifting from Carmy to Sugar.

"Good morning to you too, Sug" he continued writing something in one of the notebooks, but Natalie had no patience for her brother at the moment.

"I’m not joking, Carmy.”

Finally, he looked at her.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Angel ?"

Carmy froze in his tracks.

"What about Angel?"

"Sorry, is Angel a person or...?" Sydney seemed confused, trying to catch up with the conversation.

"You didn't even mention she was in town. And worse, you gave a fake number! What's your problem?"

"Sugar, can we discuss this later?" Carmy already had his hands over his face, sliding through his hair carelessly.

"No, we can't."

"Ooookay, I think that's my cue. Talk to you later, Chef."

And just like that, Sydney was far enough away for them to continue the unwanted argument.

"Care to explain yourself?" Natalie crossed her arms, leaning against one of the walls.

Carmy sighed, feeling defeated.

How could he convey his dark thoughts to his sister without leaving her extremely worried? How would he say that he felt dread at the prospect of something good and beautiful approaching his broken and confused life? How could he explain that sometimes feeling like a victim was safer than letting someone truly enter his life?

"I... Did you-did you see her?"

"Of course, and she seemed really disappointed, Carmy," Natalie poured out to her brother. "Why did you do that? Did something happen that I don't know about?"

"No. Nothing. Angel... She's just... Too much, you know?" Carmy felt powerless, like an open wound. "She was part of a version that doesn't exist anymore, and I know it wouldn't work out. Seeing her is like... It just wouldn't work out, Sugar."

Natalie felt sorry for her brother. She knew Carmy, and despite being irritated, she knew he would have a justification.

"Oh, Carmy..." Sugar approached, placing a hand on her brother's shoulder. "Even if you don't want any kind of involvement with her, apologize, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll do that."

"I know you will."

The phone rang three times before you answered.

Pouring yourself a generous glass of red wine, you settled in to enjoy one of your favorite TV series. It was a healing day, for sure. Just wine, television, take-out food, and your own company.

" Hello ?"

"Hm, angel ?"

Involuntarily, your heart did a somersault. Even though you knew who it was, you tried to tease Carmy. "Is this really your number, or is it just another lie you want to tell?"

"I'm sorry."

The time it took for his response was enough for you to sit on the sofa and savor the wine on your lips. "It's okay, Carmy."

"No, no. It's not okay. I’m a fuckin’ asshole."

"I guess, but I understand that you don't want someone from your past in your life, and... well, it was kind of a jerk move, but you don't owe me anything."

Things weren't going according to the script Carmy had planned in his mind.

His house was dark, only the bathroom light on, and the cold wind kissed his face in the dimness of the night. He was afraid that if he pulled his hair any harder, strands would come out in his hand. Anxiety was eating him alive, and the worst part was that he had made his own bed.

"That's not true. How can I make it up to you?"

You smiled to yourself, considering the possibilities. "For lying?"

"For being a fucking idiot, angel. Tell me."

Your sigh made Carmy's heart race. He expected you to yell and curse him with all the names he deserved. But your calmness was worse than he could imagine.

"I don't know, Carmy. You were the one who gave me a fake number. Maybe you have to figure that out."

"Sure, sure. I, uh, will think about it. By the way, Natalie gave me your number, so..."

"I figured."

"Are you free tomorrow? In the afternoon?"

"Maybe..." you toyed with the remaining liquid in the glass.

"Let's grab a coffee or something, yeah? I'll text you then."

"Okay. Goodnight, Berzatto."

Carmy was in the midst of deciding whether he regretted scheduling this coffee.

Strolling through the chilly streets of Chicago, he had the unruly companion in his hands and the smoke flooding his lungs. With every step, it felt like he was ready to take three steps back. As if little devils were rolling dice in the game and angels were rolling their eyes.

He was about to flick the cigarette away when he saw you. And damn , you looked like a mirage.

The face sculpted by angels, the sweetness and wildness in the gaze that only he could recognize. And that red lipstick... He'd be damned to hell.

Approaching, he stamped out the cigarette and watched your face light up. I'm a fucking idiot.

"Berzatto. You showed up."

"We made plans."

"Yeah, that’s why I was worried." and again, the calmness was like a stab in his chest.

During the walk to the coffee shop, Carmy and you talked about life's nonsense and how things seem different now.

"How’s Chicago treating ya?"

" Ugh . It's hard to find something to do in this city. I mean, after I went to Los Angeles, I really thought chasing dreams was something special. You can't imagine my reaction when I found out I wasn't the only one," you smiled to yourself, holding the coffee cup. "I feel like a failure. An imposter."

"Why?" Carmy looked at you and clenched his own fist, tempted to touch you.

"Throughout all the years I spent in L.A, I realized that my dream was getting farther away every day. And every day..." you glanced at him briefly. "Every day, I wished to have my old life back, y’know? Simpler times."

"I understand."

Of course, Carmy understood. He had been through hell on earth to be where he is now, but there was a certain innocence and delicacy in the past that he couldn't leave behind. A moment in his life in which you were also a part.

"The greatest chef Carmen Berzatto sympathizes with the story of a fake rising star?"

And as if it were scripted, Carmy and you stopped in the middle of the avenue, connecting in an inexplicable way.

"You'd be surprised."

And amidst random conversations and reminiscing about people from the past and times that certainly wouldn't return, the night appeared as a pleasant surprise, and you found yourselves again in the block where you had met, in front of The Bear.

"Well, I guess that's it," you said, still trying to stifle the laughter because somehow, Carmy Berzatto could draw some laughs out of you. "Thanks for the coffee and the walk, Berzatto."

The strange silence filled the night air, condensing your breaths.

But at that point, Carmy felt good, so good that his mind had given him a respite.

Without hugs and touches, you awkwardly said goodbye and went your way. "Actually..." Carmy made you stop in your tracks. "I'm kinda starving, and uh, if you want to come in, I-I can whip up something quick. If you want."

Your smile made Carmy feel at home. "Sure."

You didn't understand much, but watching Carmen Berzatto move through the kitchen of his own restaurant was like witnessing art come to life.

Everything was so clean and empty. There was a large counter where you sat, just observing the magic unfold. Seeing him like that brought back memories you weren't sure if you should remember.

There were nights when Carmy experimented with new recipes, and you both spent the night in the kitchen—him as the chef, of course, and you merely assisting, grabbing an ingredient here and there. Even when he claimed it looked like shit , you would kiss him and say it was great, that he was talented. To you, Carmy was Midas.

Watching him from behind, you couldn't help but notice the tattoos and how his muscular and oh-so-masculine arm moved swiftly to stir the contents in the pan. You lowered your head, thinking you might be seeing too much. You knew nothing about Carmy's love life; it was a topic you avoided all afternoon, like a minefield—not safe yet.

"Here." Carmy crossed the small space to the counter, holding a spoon and a coppery liquid close to your face. "Try it."

You almost choked on your saliva but kept your composure as his large, sparkling emerald eyes met yours. You opened your lips slowly, waiting for him to place the spoon in your mouth. Carmy didn't know exactly how much time passed, lost in your lips—inviting, scarlet, as soft as velvet—and your sinless eyes. It was somehow sensual and intimate that he could die. As the taste hit your palate, it was like an explosion of flavors: honey, orange, citrusy, and sweet all at once.

He stood there, waiting for a reaction.

"So good." Your eyes were locked onto Carmy's, and all he knew was your lips, dangerously close, making his heart beat irregularly.

"Yeah?" He approached meticulously, you noticed.

"Yeah."

You weren't sure what you were doing. Carmy wasn't either.

Submerged in a world already known in aquamarine, you felt your heart beat faster. His hand touched the side of your thigh, and that little touch of skin-on-skin made your body burn. Not a common burn. Burning for Carmy. For something you once had.

And this was the worst way to burn.

"Bear," you breathed. He was so near, my God, you could sense the nicotine and cologne, the distinctive essence of that man before you. If you extended your fingers, you could brush against his face, yet you refrained.

The endearing pet name left Carmy suspended. What in the world did he believe he was doing?

Inviting you for coffee after being a colossal dipshit, thinking that cooking a meal could mend the bygone years? Believing that crafting a repast would reconstruct the past and heal the heart he once left broken?

"I’m sorry," Carmy retreated, his hands gracing his temples, eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, and traversing his entire countenance. "I-I don't know, uh, what I was doing."

"Carmy."

"No. I-I'll serve the dishes, and I hope it doesn't taste like shit." He moved with celerity, evading the recent occurrence. His finesse was so adept that you began questioning yourself.

He initiated the retrieval of plates, the sonorous clink of crockery harmonizing with the cascade of hex he cast into the ether. You descended from the counter, advancing towards him, heart racing, and mind more befuddled than ever. Was this the intended outcome, after all?

"Carmy!" you implored, as if your words were echoes unheard. He appeared agitated, fervently seeking something you couldn't fathom.

"Where the fuck’s that shit? I swear to fucking God, all these fucking assholes stresses the fuck out of me. They come here, cook, and leave everything a fucking mess, and I can't even find the FUCKING WINE CORK!"

Carmy's metamorphosis when angered was perturbing. His visage flushed crimson, veins on the brink of eruption, and words discharged without restraint.

"It's okay!"

"No, fuck that shit!" he forcefully disengaged as you tried to soothe him. Carmy leaned against the stove, trembling hands and bowed head. It was too much. It was enough. "You should leave."

"What?" You could hardly believe it. Humor was almost slipping off your tongue, but the way his muscles moved under the white T-shirt, and how he didn't even look at you, said it all.

"Just fucking go, alright?"

You yearned for a day when clouds were as ethereal as cotton and the sun gleamed unprecedentedly, perhaps a day when Carmy Berzatto's enigma unraveled. Until that day materialized, you’d simply leave. You seized your coat and left.

Berzatto’s downfall was knowing that this was the pattern.

No matter how many attempts he made, worthiness eluded him. Each time, he became the architect of your heartbreak, irrespective of the circumstance.

It was his eternal condemnation.