#please @ god let ******* call me this week with a new job offer. but it just sucks because besides him i do love everyone else who works

[andwewerehappy]

i have so much work anxiety this is insane. i hate this job what does it even MATTER

[alastwhorez]

Alastor with a mommy kink

♡ Pairing: Human!Alastor x MILF!Reader

♡ Summary: Alastor can't help but want his new neighbor

♡ warnings: 18+, MDNI, breeding kink, mommy kink, pet names, oral, p in v, unprotected sex, Alastor is 23, reading is in late 20s early 30s, Alastor calls reader Ma. Age gap, I think that's it. If I missed anything, please let me know.

♡an: not proofread, probably spelling errors, if you don't like mommy kinks or Al calling reader Ma, or Age gap please do not read.

Thinking about early 20s human Alastor with a mommy kink..

You just moved next door with your kids right beside Alastor and his mama.

Alastor helped you move in observing that there was no man with you, he offered to help which you graciously accepted. His mama invited you and the kids over for dinner that evening saying “it's so nice to have children around again now that Al is all grown up” as she pinches the taller male's cheek. Alastor rolled his eyes at his mom's actions trying to cover up the blush rising to his cheeks. He may be “all grown up” as she says but he is still a mama's boy and always will be.

After dinner you help clear the table and do dishes with Alastor as his mama plays with the children in the living room. You fall into a comfortable silence before Al breaks it “so where's your husband?” You look at him and smile before telling him you don't have one. Al hides his smirk from you. in all honesty he didn't offer to help you trying to be neighborly or a gentleman. He offered because of the heat he felt seeing you mother your kids.

Over the next few weeks Al is always there. He is there when you need help putting something together, someone to go to the grocery store with and even when you need someone to kill the pesky little bugs when you are too scared. His mama started babysitting for you as you wanted to find a job. Living Off of you savings wasn't going to last forever. And Al was there for all of it.

Over the weeks Al noticed the heat he would feel intensifies everytime he sees you mothering your kids but what really got him was when he was over for lunch and you wiped his mouth with your thumb to clean a crumb off his lip. He couldn't deny the tightening in his pants at you doing such motherly things for him. It didn't help that you also wore some frisky outfits for your time and that you weren't that much older than him, in your late twenties to early thirties at most.

The twenty three year old quickly became very obsessive and possessive over you. Scaring away suitors. Always telling you, you don't need a boyfriend, you have him and he is right across the lawn. All you have to do is open a window or stand on your porch and yell and he will be there.

Over the weeks of Alastor being around you couldn't deny your attraction to him. He was a very attractive man, one several women in town are always throwing themselves at but you never see him with a woman. He tells you he has his eyes on someone he just doesn't know how they feel yet. That brings a ting of pain to your heart but you smile at the younger male and tell him anyone would be lucky to have him pinning over them.

looking back you wonder how you got in the situation you are in now. Bent over your kitchen table, dress flipped up over your plush ass, and panties down around your ankles as Alastor is on his knees licking and sucking on any flesh his mouth can find. He parts your folds with his tongue as he licks up you. His hands on your ass spreading you open for him. You try to hold back moans forgetting you don't have to be quiet. His mama has the kids. He was only supposed to be over here for a quick visit. He was dropping off leftovers his mama made. But they were quickly forgotten. Left on the counter.

“Fuck ma, you taste so good” He moans against your cunt. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan at the vibration of his voice. Oh god his voice is another thing about him that attracted you to the younger man. His deep raspy voice with his cute little accent. It could make you wet just hearing him talk, and it has.

you yelp as Alastor lands a slap on your ass then squeeze and massage the red spot. His tongue dips in your entrance As his thumb finds your bundle of nerves and starts to rub. Your legs are shaking, thank fuck your on the table. You Turn around trying to see him. Wanting to see him between your legs. He chuckles and smirks against you, feeling you wiggle. Trying to maneuver your body just try so his mouth stays attached to you.

You scream out his name as he speeds up his thumb and quickens his thrust with his tongue. He's moaning against you as he bites, licks, and sucks everywhere he can reach. You're a moaning mess on your table. You can feel that familiar tingle before it snaps and your jerking,moaning, and screaming “Oh Al, baby” eyes rolling back and back arching. He moans as your juices coat his tongue, swallowing it down like it's his last meal.

You're laying on the table trying to catch your breath when he pulls away and stands to his full height. You hear him undo his belt and unzip his pants. You bite your lip in anticipation. “g-gotta feel you around me ma”

Ma, he started calling you that a week after you met.

You feel him slide himself between your folds, wetting himself in your juices before he slowly slides on, stretching you perfectly. You both moan out at the feeling. He starts slow and shallow before getting confidence and speeding up. He's gripping your hips so hard you know they'll bruise but fuck does it feel good to finally have his hands on you. He fucks you from behind until your about to finish when he pulls out. “No nononono!” You whine right before he flips you onto your back and pulls the dress off the rest of the way.

“You little minx” He says when he sees you weren't wearing a bra. You bite your lip looking up at him. His hands find your thighs and push them apart as he stands between your legs pushing himself back into you.

You grip his shoulders then let your hands slide down to his back when he speeds up, giving you an extra hard thrust. “Feels so good,ma” He whines into your shoulder. “Wanted you for so long”

“M-me too Ala-STOR” you moan when he hits that spot that makes your toes curl. He pulls away from your shoulder and slams his lips onto your, the kiss is hungry, feral. It's all teeth and tongue. You can taste yourself on his lips pulling a moan from you.

He pushed your back onto the table as he lays over you and his thumbs finds your clip. Only a couple of thrust later and your cumming all over his cock, begging him your not exactly sure what your begging for pleas fall from your lips

“Fuck, fuck ,FUCK” He says as he puts his face in your shoulder biting and licking your neck.

“Gotta-gotta cum in you ma, make you a mommy again”

“Yes! Yes Al” you beg as you feel another orgasm approaching.

Alastor grabs your tits, “gotta see these Full and round” He says before sucking on into his mouth. Three more thrust is all it takes before he is shooting Ropes of cum into your heat, hips stuttering, his eyes rolling back, and moans falling from his lips. You cum for the nth time seeing Alastor so blissed out,tightening around his cock, milking him for everything he is worth.

You both lay there for several minutes catching your breath. He pulls out a few seconds later but replaces his cock with his fingers pulling a moan from you. “Gotta make sure nothing goes to waste” He says right before fixing his glasses that are now all fogged up. He smiles down at you, helping you up before picking you up bridal style and carrying you to your bathroom.

He runs you a bath, both of you sitting in It, your back against his chest. He is peppering kisses all over your shoulder. He stays with you till nightfall when his mama yells for him to come home and that your kids are on their way back over.

He kisses your lips one more time after your kids run through the door.

“Same time tomorrow, ma?” He says, smirking down at you and then winking before heading back to his mama.

[carmenized-onions]

Two Steps Back. | Advanced Payment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you, Amish?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ insane, cousin.”

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

“Why do you keep bringing lunch, then?”

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

“I just like making my own lunch.”

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

“I think beef is fine.”

“Not what I asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This fucking guy. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Tony?”

“She’s gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fak.” 

“Carm?”

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

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

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

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

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

Walk-In Hotfix, $80

Plumbing Repair (Service + 4 Hours), $250

Oven Wiring Fix (House call), $70

Oven Hotfix + Replacement Thermocouple, $120

Non-Gratis: Pinot Grigio, -$20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bold.”

“Thank you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s have it, Chef.” David goads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should reply!”

“He doesn't need a fuckin' reply.” 

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

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

“I literally have brothers, Michael.”

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

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

“You're the baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have to add actually and kinda?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ delighted, Jackie.”

“Never fuckin’ call me Jackie.”

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Your hair is fucked.” 

“And the food?”

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

“Someone other than you, yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin— You’re needed, pronto.” 

“Not your Cousin.”

“Heard and resented.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye aye, Rich.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cousin!” 

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

“Cousin get my fucking bag, now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She had to leave early.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not nothing, Mikey.”

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

“I know.”

“Mikey, you’re not.”

“Don’t fucking Good Will Hunting me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Like a nerd?” “Like a nerd.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s how it starts.”

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

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

“How long you been stable, again?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, “Better than Jack, no?”

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

“Yeah, better than Jack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has it really only been thirty minutes?

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

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

“What?”

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

“Fuck you mean what?”

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

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

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

“You said she failed him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop being you.”

“You don’t love me!”

“Of course we fuckin’ love you!”

“You don’t fucking love me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s he in the freezer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods to your phone. “How long?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same team.”

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

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

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

“Six hours. Same team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s runnin’ house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“First time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re multiplying?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Heard.”

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

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

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

“Can you stay after close?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods, “Can you do that?”

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

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

“Insane, Uncle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I believe in you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you! I ask for so little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richie leads, “You need to fucking relax.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish you did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“Mikey—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not?”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you, Bear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My best friend, Mikey, died.”

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

“My brother, Mikey, shot himself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not negotiable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next Part

[duckugou]

NSFW THOUGHTS

Literally just nasty, longing, much needed sex with kirishima in the middle of the week. There’s nothing else to it.

Minors please fuck off

—————————————————

Thinking about you and kirishima finally getting some alone time that isn’t taken up by chores. “Let me see that pussy- i miss her”

Your legs are spread and he’s tracing his fingers around your cunt while you’re trying not to be needy.

“God you have the prettiest pussy. It’s so cute.”

“Don’t call my vagina cute!” You giggle.

“It is though! My favorite part is how it tastes though.” He pushes your legs up to your chest and licks a stripe up the center of where you need him.

He absolutely devours your pussy like he hasn’t eaten in months. The sounds of slurping, moaning, and groans echo through the bedroom and just when you think it can’t get better, he puts a finger in without warning, making you shriek. Sucking on your clit, he pistons his fingers, two now, in and out- hitting your favorite spot every time. Your eyes roll back and your back arches off the bed as you cum again and again.

He takes his fingers out for a second just to shove them in your mouth. “Don’t you just taste so fuckin sweet baby?” He asks as you nod and suck his fingers clean of your own cum.

He laughs lightly, putting his fingers back into your core, “god i fuckin love you.”

“I love y-you to-o-“ you moan out.

Leaning back, his fingers don’t leave your pussy. Your brain is foggy and you feel him kiss your feet that are in the air. It’s something neither of you talk about but something he does on occasion. You don’t mind. It’s sweet.

He dives back in and drags another orgasm out of you before pulling away and taking his clothes off (finally).

Putting his tip in, you forgot how big he was. Letting out a moan/scream mix, you grab onto his arms for a sense of grounding.

“Oh baby, you can take it. You’re always just so good for me huh?” He says, knowing how to relax you enough to let him in.

The sounds of skin slapping and your moans fill the air as you cum again, making him fuck you harder, resulting in your eyes crossing.

“Fuck you’re so pretty baby.”

You cant respond. There’s too much happening to form a thought.

The overstimulation makes you cum again within a minute and you could explode.

He cages you in with his arms, your legs against your own body, his body stills and he fills you with cum of his own, moaning in your ear shamelessly.

He pushes himself up for a second to look at how disheveled you are.

“You didn’t even see my tits and you came.” You joke, laughing lightly.

“I know Angel, it’s been so long i just needed to fill you.” He leans back down, caging you in again.

You’re writhing still as he starts fucking into you slowly, muttering something about needing to keep you full.

You stay like that for a while, feeing the slow drag of his half hard cock in and out of your hole- both of you and the bed are soaked.

After a while, you ask to ride him. He lets you take control but makes you take it as slow as he was, resulting in your own whining. Even though your on top, he’s still in control.

You try to fuck him harder and he grabs your hips, whispering “No no baby, slow. Let me do it let me do it. I got you.” And who are you to say no to him?

He fucks you from below and you nuzzle your face into his neck, leaving kisses and whispering his name in his ear.

You lean back up, his still hardening cock reaching new spots, and he just can’t help himself.

“Can i see your tits now mama?” He giggles.

You laugh with him and take your shirt off, leaning down because you know he wants to suck them. And suck them he does.

You swear you could cum from just his mouth on your nipples- and after a minute, you do. He sucks them hard and bites lightly, relishing in the very moment your skin is connected to him.

You both have never been so in love.

Your legs can’t hold you anymore, so you get off and offer him a blow job.

“We can stop baby, i don’t have to cum again if your sore.” He says, kissing your temple.

“I wan’ it.” You pout, the pain being nothing compared to the pleasure.

You get on your hands and knees on the bed in front of him, and let him use your wet sloppy pussy until he cums again. And you both feel so euphoric.

He helps you to the bathroom and cleans you both up after you both pee. And the cuddles that night are absolutely incredible.

——

Idk I’m not proofreading this i wrote it on my phone love u

[persephonewritessometimes]

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader

Where after months ( cuz shes new n young working there)they cant také anymore their attraction to each other.

Key sentences: Hotch: I’m old enough to be your father. R: Should I call you Daddy then?

Smut n fluff

Please

Author's Note: oooo thank you for this request anon!! thinking many thoughts, head very full

Summary: It's no secret that you have a thing for your boss - a man 25 years your senior. What happens when he reveals he has feelings for you too?

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x (AFAB) Reader

Word Count: 5108 (i got carried away hehe)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! UNDER 18? PLEASE KEEP SCROLLING! SMUT; DADDY KINK; SIR KINK; OVERSTIMULATION; MULTIPLE ORGASMS; UNPROTECTED P IN V (don't be like them y'all, stay safe); DOM!HOTCH, SUB!READER; READER IS HORNY; FINGERING; ORAL (F RECEIVING) reader gets distracted by Hotch's hands, pining, confession of feelings, reader blacks out from cumming really hard; Hotch calls reader "good girl, princess, baby"; Morgan is a cheeky bastard (as per usual)

This work is meant for readers aged 18 and over. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

“Y/N, you're staring, again," Morgan says with a chuckle and I quickly find somewhere else to look that isn't our section chief. Which I was definitely not having rated-R thoughts about.

"Shut up, Morgan," I mutter.

"Why don't you just tell him how you feel?" I turn and stare at him now, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Sure, why don't I just tell a much older man that every time I look at him, I feel weak in the knees and sweaty? That would really go over well." I say, sarcastically.

"We're getting tired of watching you eye-fuck him, Y/N." Emily sighs, jumping into the conversation.

"It's getting kind of pathetic at this point," Morgan adds and I smack him on the shoulder.

"You guys are being mean. Let me pine in peace."

"Y/N, none of us are at peace when you start acting like a dog in heat every time Hotch walks in the room. It's genuinely hard to watch." Morgan shoots back, grinning at me. I feel my cheeks grow hot at his brazen comment. "Just put us out of our misery and get laid for once, damn." I feel my cheeks growing even hotter.

"He - he doesn't like me like that." I'm tripping over my words, embarrassed that everyone can see what's clearly written by my body language when Hotch is around.

"Y/N, sweetie, you're smart, but sometimes you're an idiot," Emily says kindly. "He likes you."

"Trust us, we know," Morgan adds.

"How?" I say and cross my arms over my chest.

"Really? Okay. Whenever he's giving a briefing and you're standing next to him, his body gravitates towards yours, you're the first person he looks for in every room, Y/N, two weeks ago on that case in Charleston he almost throttled the officer that merely tried to flirt with you."

"Wait, that officer was flirting with me?" I've only been here a few months, so I haven't learned how to read people as well as him yet.

"Oh my god, she actually is an idiot." Morgan groans. "Yes! He always got you coffee refills without asking, offered you the first pick of the donuts, and gave you, and only you, a very thorough tour of the precinct. He was trying to impress you." He looks at me closely. "How the fuck did you get this job?" I shrug.

"Impeccable academic record?" I suggest timidly, and he snorts.

"Just pay attention to Hotch. More than you are already. You'll see."

"He's old enough to be my dad," I say.

"Why do I have the feeling that only fuels your fantasies?" Morgan mutters. "I'm done with this conversation. Either you tell him, Y/N, or I will."

"MORGAN!" He just throws his hands up in the air giving me an exasperated look. "Em? A little back up here?"

"As much as I hate to agree with Morgan, he has a point. It’s kind of hard to focus on work when we all know what’s going on except for you two. I mean this in the nicest way possible, but just say something, for the sake of everyone who has to be in a room with you guys. I could cut the tension between you two like a knife.” She gives me a small smile.

“I- I’m just nervous. What if you guys are wrong?” She places her hand over mine.

“We’re not wrong, Y/N. We even asked Reid to weigh in and he agrees with us. Just say something.” I frown and head back to my desk, needing to be alone with my thoughts for a while. I’m deep in a stack of paperwork when Hotch calls the team into a meeting. I sigh, set my pen aside, and make my way into the boardroom. I’m on high alert, due to Morgan’s comment, and as I step into the room, I glance at Hotch to find him already looking at me. He looks away quickly and I watch as the tips of his ears turn pink. Oh my god, they were right.

I’m hyper-aware of him the whole meeting, so much so that I barely heard a word he was saying.

“Y/N? Are you paying attention?” Hotch asks, looking at me.

“Uh, yes, sir.” I blurt out in a panic. I wasn’t expecting him to directly address me.

“YES SIR?” Morgan hollers. “That’s a new one.” Even Em is hiding a smile behind her hand. Hotch glares at him.

“Don’t tease her, Morgan. Y/N, please pay attention.”

“I will, sorry Hotch.” He just nods and goes back to what he was saying. I tried to pay attention I really did but I found myself watching his hands as he talked. He gestures at the screen, then to something in the paper he had given us, then puts his hand on his hip. His fingers are so thick I wonder if two would even fit inside of me. I’m thinking about him fingering me on his desk, pussy splayed and dripping for him, and I shift in my seat, feeling the wetness in my panties. Dammit, Y/N, don’t get carried away.

“Y/N, seriously,” Hotch sighs a few minutes later and I’m dragged from my dirty daydream. “I need you to pay attention or leave. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Morgan whispers with a grin. I glare at him.

“I’m trying to pay attention, I swear.”

“Are you sick? You look a bit warm, why don’t you step out for a few minutes.” I just nod, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes. “And I want to see you in my office when we’re done with this meeting.” I nod again and feel my stomach drop to my ass in nervousness. I quickly walk out of the room and am pacing when the door opens up and Morgan walks out, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What the hell were you thinking about in there?” He whispers, then pauses, “Actually, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Just leave me alone, Morgan. I’m embarrassed enough already.” I say quietly.

“Oh, baby girl, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tease you too much. You’re just an easy target. If it helps any, Hotch was downright flushed after you left. He stumbled over his words. Twice. I’ve never seen him that flustered. It’s like he knew what you were thinking about.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, okay?”

“You’re not the one who has to face him in his office,” I grumble.

“Well, just make sure you guys close the blinds.”

“MORGAN! Shut up!” He’s laughing as he walks away. JJ and Em shoot me sympathetic smiles as they walk by and Reid pats me on the shoulder. Hotch doesn’t say a word as he walks out of the boardroom, and I diligently follow him to his office.

“Take a seat.” He says, gesturing at the chair and my eyes follow his hand again. Y/N! Stop! That’s what got you in trouble in the first place! I quickly take a seat, clasping my hands in my lap. “Now do you want to tell me why you were so distracted today?” He asks, looking at me. I feel the heat creep up my chest and onto my cheeks.

“I-um-no. No, I don’t.” He raises an eyebrow at that.

“Really? Because Morgan seems to have an idea. Maybe I should go ask him what he thinks.”

“No!” I blurt out. “Sorry. It’s just…embarrassing.” He just looks at me and I sigh before whispering, “Your hands. I was distracted by your hands.”

“My…hands?” He says slowly.

“Yes, sir, I mean Hotch, sorry. I know it’s not appropriate and I apologize.”

“What is it about my hands?” He asks, his voice low and in a tone that makes my heartbeat travel down to my pussy. I shift in my seat, a movement that most likely does not go unnoticed by him. “Y/N. Look at me.” I take a shaky breath and look up at him, all rational thoughts leaving my head when I see that his cheeks are pink, and his pupils are so blown I can barely see the brown. “What is it. About my hands.” He enunciates every word.

“They’re big,” I whisper.

“And what does that make you think about?”

“Please don’t make me say it.”

“No, no I want to hear you say it.”

In the smallest voice possible I say, “I was wondering if your fingers would even fit in me.” I hear him take in a sharp breath. “What it would feel like to be spread out on your desk with - with your fingers inside of me.”

“Careful, Y/N, you’re walking a thin line.” He murmurs.

“Haven’t I crossed it already, sir?”

“I’m old enough to be your father.” He says, words clipped. I get a sudden burst of confidence and stare him down.

“Should I call you Daddy, then?” I ask sweetly. I watch as he tightens his jaw.

“Watch your mouth, little girl. You don’t want to see how mean Daddy can get.”

“And what if I want to find out, Daddy?” I watch as his nostrils flare and he takes a deep breath.

“That’s enough, Y/N.” He spits out and I still, and fear that I’m about to lose my job to ill-timed arousal. My breath hitches as he leans back in his chair, eyes carefully watching me. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Whatever you’d like to, sir,” I say simply and I watch his jaw tick again.

“Listen to me very carefully. We are going to go downstairs, you are going to gather your things, and you are not going to say a single word. I’m going to tell everyone that you’re not feeling well enough to drive, so I’m taking you home.” I swallow hard, not believing that this is actually happening right now. “Do you understand?” I nod quickly. “I need to hear you say you understand. Or else this stops now, and we don’t speak of it again.”

“I understand completely, sir.”

“Good girl.” He says in a low voice and a whimper escapes me before I can shove it down. He stiffens. “Do you like that? Hearing that you’re a good girl?” My pussy clenches around nothing, begging to be filled.

“Yes, Daddy.” He hums, getting up quickly and my mouth goes dry when I see the tented fabric of his pants. He shrugs off his suit jacket and slings it over his forearm and in front of his body, effectively hiding his raging boner. He walks over to me, and I hastily get up from the chair, and he grabs my arm, gripping it just hard enough to keep me grounded and lucid despite the lust-filled thoughts in my head. He yanks open his office door and we make our way down the stairs. I keep my head down as we approach my desk, the bullpen so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Y/N isn’t feeling well. I’m driving her home.” Hotch says, letting go of my arm so I can grab my jacket and purse. I glance at him, nodding that I have everything, and he grabs my arm again, and we hastily walk towards the elevator.

“GO EASY ON HER, HOTCH!” Morgan shouts, and I hear Em laugh.

“Shut up, Morgan.” Hotch growls over his shoulder, and I glance back at Morgan, who mouths ‘Good luck’ at me. “Don’t look at him. The only person you should be looking at is me, princess.” We get in the elevator, and he pushes the button so hard I think that he’s going to break the damn thing.

“Jesus, what’s got you so riled up?” I say sweetly, not caring that I’d probably pay for that question later. I just want to see him snap, lose that carefully cultivated control and unleash himself on me. He turns on me in a second, caging my body between the wall of the elevator and the hard planes of his body. He grabs my chin, tilting my face up to look at him.

“Watch yourself. I’d hate for you to get into something you can’t handle.”

“I can take whatever you throw at me, sir.” He laughs.

“Yeah, right, princess. Keep talking a big game – we’ll see how far that gets you.”

“Well, it got me here, didn’t it?”

“Right where you wanted, I presume?” He asks, tilting his head and there’s nothing friendly in his eyes. I just nod, sucking in a breath when he pushes his body closer to mine and his hard-on is pressing into my thigh. “Before this goes further: green for go, yellow for slow down, red for hard stop, no questions asked. Do you understand?” I nod, and he raises his eyebrows.

“I understand!” I blurt out.

“Good.” He suddenly dips his head down, nose bumping into mine as we share the same breaths for a few seconds. “I’m going to ruin you.” He whispers onto my lips, not quite kissing me.

“Please. Ruin me, Daddy,” I whisper and he’s kissing me as soon as the last word is out of my mouth. It’s overwhelming, the way he kisses, stealing all the air from my lungs in a millisecond. I gasp when the hand from my chin drops to my chest, reaching into my dress shirt and under my tank top to tweak my right nipple. He takes that opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth, tasting me. The elevator dings and his hand disappears from my shirt and his lips retreat. I whine at the sudden loss of contact, as we had just gone from 100 miles an hour to 0 miles an hour.

“I know, princess, I’m sorry. You don’t want Daddy to get caught, do you?” I shake my head vigorously and he chuckles, escorting me to his car, and opens the passenger door for me, ever the gentleman. He gets in and starts the car as I buckle my seatbelt. He backs out of the parking spot, placing one hand on the back of my headrest and I suck in a sharp breath. He glances at me. “Really? You’re turned on by my driving?”

“I can’t help it. I’m sorry.” I breathe out, not daring to look at him. My cheeks are warm, and I feel frazzled. I jump when his hand comes to rest on my thigh, dangerously close to where I want him. I shift my hips, trying to get him closer to where I need him. He smacks my thigh abruptly.

“Don’t do that. You can wait.” He says gruffly.

“I can’t. I can’t wait.” I gasp out. “Please. Please touch me. I need you. Please, sir, I’ll do anything.”

“I’ll oblige you, but only because you begged so prettily. I like it when you sound desperate. One rule though: no cumming without my permission.” His hand slips under my skirt and I thank god that this was one of the rare days I decided to wear one. His fingers ghost over my cunt, the lightest touch and my breathing is already starting to labor. When his fingers press my clit from outside my panties my hips buck into the air. “Someone’s responsive.” He says, more to himself than me. His fingers trail lower, and he groans when he feels the wet spot. “Already this wet for me, princess?”

“Only for you, Daddy.” I whimper when he pushes my panties to the side, hand now free to touch as he pleases. His fingers come up to tease my clit again before one deftly slips inside of me. I let out a choked sound, tight around him. Just one finger feels thick, and when he slips in another finger I keen, tightening again.

“Jesus, you’re tight.” He curls his fingers and hits that spot inside of me that I struggle to hit by myself. I gasp, hand closing around his wrist, and I don’t know if I’m trying to stop him or egg him on. He continues to work his fingers in me as he drives and I’m not sure how he’s managing to stay on the road. I know I should reciprocate but the feeling of his fingers plunging in and out of me has made every thought I’ve ever had flee my brain. After a few minutes, my thighs start to shake and I’m panting, so close to a mind-blowing orgasm that I forget he told me I can’t cum without his permission. His fingers slip out of me seconds before I hit my peak.

“NO!” I shout, shaking in the passenger seat, sitting in a small puddle of my own arousal. I hope it stains his impeccable leather seats.

“Only good girls get to cum, and you haven’t been a good girl today, baby,” He says, “Open.” I open my mouth and he slips the fingers he just had inside of me into my awaiting mouth. I suck his fingers off earnestly, just like I would to his cock if he gave me the chance. He pulls his fingers out with a pop and I realize he’s parked the car in his garage. Is this really happening? I think to myself. “Color?” He asks me, turning my face so I can look into his eyes. I could get lost in his eyes.

“Green,” I say quickly.

“Good girl,” He whispers and meets my mouth in a messy kiss full of tongue, need, and teeth.

I don’t know how we made it inside, but as soon as I cross through the doorway, Hotch throws me over his shoulder, and I shriek. He carries me to the bedroom, dropping me on the bed. I’m paralyzed as I watch him rip his tie off, dress shirt following soon after. He’s beautiful, and I want to run my hands all over him and feel every scar. My eyes are tracing his chest and ever the profiler, he notices.

“You can touch. It’s okay.” He walks over to me, planting himself between my legs. I timidly touch his stomach, trailing my hands up his abdomen, running my fingers along his scars in quiet admiration. He suddenly takes my hand, kissing it, a break in the dominant façade. I give him a soft smile, one that has always been reserved for him, and his breath hitches in his chest. His hands cup my face, looking into my eyes, and I’ve never felt safer than I have at this moment. I close my eyes, leaning into his touch, my hands resting on his wrists. It feels like we’re the only people in the world, two souls destined to collide. His next kiss is gentle as if he doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but he tosses his resolve out the window when I bite his bottom lip. He growls, pushing me onto my back and stepping out of his pants and boxers. I push myself up on my elbows to watch him and gasp when he’s revealed to me completely. He’s big. Bigger than I’ve had before. I knew it would be big because of his damn hands. “You’re far too dressed for my liking.” He mutters, and the next moment he actually rips my shirt off of me, buttons flying everywhere.

“HOTCH!” He stops, looking at me.

“Try again, sweetheart.”

“Sorry. Daddy.”

“Much better. And Daddy will buy you a new one, okay?” I nod, suddenly unable to think as he slides off my tank top and unclasps my bra. My nipples are aching to be touched and as if he can read my mind, his head dips down to take my left nipple in his mouth. I suck in a breath, my hand coming to rest on the back of his head. His tongue laves over my nipple, and I swear I see God for a moment. He moves to the other side and my cunt is begging for attention. He slides my skirt and panties off without once leaving my chest. And when I’m naked before him, he kisses his way up my throat, leaving hickeys that will definitely be hard to hide.

“Daddy, people will see.”

“And? They should know whom you belong to.” He says plainly, he leans back, admiring my form and my hips jump up on their own accord, grazing his weeping tip in the process.

“Fuck, princess, don’t do that.”

“Please, please, please, Daddy, I need you so bad.”

“Daddy has to make sure you’re ready for him. I don’t know if my fat cock will fit in your tight little pussy.” I whimper at his words, more turned on than I’ve ever been in my entire life. He slides down my body, pressing kisses into my skin as he goes until he gets on his knees, dragging me towards the edge of the bed. He slings both of my legs over his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss into my thigh. “Your pussy is dripping for me, princess. Can I taste it?”

“Please,” I manage to whisper, and I watch as his head dips down and he licks up my pussy. He groans against my clit when he tastes me, and I shout in surprise at the added stimulation. He chuckles against me and goes to work, tongue thrusting shallowly in me before coming up to tease my clit. He’s getting me closer to the edge and when I feel two of his fingers slide into me easily, I sigh contentedly. He finds the spongy spot inside of me with ease, hitting it every time he thrusts his fingers into me. I’m hurtling towards my peak when I gasp out, “Daddy, please, I’m close, can I cum? Please? I’ll be a good girl, I promise. Your good girl.” His eyes flick up and he watches me, never stopping, and watches as my abdomen tenses and I start to clench around his fingers, panting. He pulls his mouth away from me just long enough to whisper,

“You can let go, princess.” And resumes his torturous pace on me. My hand shoots down to grip his hair and a few seconds later my orgasm rips through me. I shout loudly, hips moving with abandon against his face, and he doesn’t let up, continuing to lick and finger me through it until I’m twitching with overstimulation.

“Daddy, please, too much.”

“You wanted to cum, princess, so you’re going to cum until I’m done.” He growls and goes back to eating me out. I had no time to come down from my first orgasm and my body is already sprinting full speed ahead toward my second. My thighs clench around his face but it doesn’t stop him. He stills his fingers inside me and simply presses them into my G-spot, never letting up, just putting constant pressure on it.

I’m babbling at this point, nothing coherent coming from my lips except for ‘daddy’ and ‘please’. My orgasm blindsides me and I clench hard around his fingers and scream, not caring if anyone can hear me. My vision goes spotty as I continue to cum until he finally slips his fingers out and I feel like I can breathe again. I’m gasping for air as his touch trails along my hips.

“Still with me, pretty girl?” I nod still gasping. “Color?”

“Green, green, green.” I pant out quickly and he chuckles. He gives me a few more seconds to come down, tracing gentle patterns into my sides and he kisses me once my breathing slows. I pull away to bite my way down his neck, leaving my own marks on him. “Daddy, need you inside me, please.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for me, princess?”

“Yes! Yes! So ready! Please just fuck me!”

“Okay, let me grab a condom.”

“No!” I shout, grabbing his shoulders. “I’m clean. Please, I want to feel you. Just you.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” He says, kissing the tip of my nose. I watch as he pumps himself a few times and lines up with my entrance. He pushes in, just barely, and stays there until I’m begging him to push the rest of the way in.

“Please, Daddy, I want to feel full. I feel so empty.” He sheathes himself in me in one quick motion and I gasp. “Thank you, Daddy,” I whisper onto his lips.

“Fucking hell, Y/N, you’re so goddamn tight.” He’s still above me, and I can see his shoulders shaking in restraint. “You feel like heaven.”

“Please move, please. Let go, I can take it.” I whisper, peering into his eyes and he pulls out a little bit to thrust shallowly. He swallows my moan with his lips, kissing me with the fervor of a man starved. He starts off at a slow pace and despite being sensitive from my previous two orgasms, I need more. I dig my nails into his shoulder. “Please, for the love of God, fuck me. Hard. Please. I can take it. All of it.” He looks at me hard, searching for any hesitation, but his dick is literally inside of me, so there’s no hesitation on my part. I nod up at him and he leans down to kiss me as he starts to set a brutal pace. His hips are slamming against mine and when I shift my hips up to meet his thrusts he hits my G-spot with every thrust. “SHIT!” I shout, the words quickly turning into a loud moan as his thumb comes down to flick at my clit. I’m shaking with arousal, and I can feel his balls slap against my ass with how hard he’s fucking me.

“Come on, pretty girl, I know you’ve got one more in you. Give it to Daddy. I want to feel you cum around my cock.” There are no thoughts in my head anymore, everything in me has zeroed in on the feeling of him literally fucking me into the mattress. “You look so pretty fucked out like this, bet you can’t think of anything but my cock inside of you, huh?” I nod and he laughs, kissing me hard. He leans back just enough to change the angle by shifting my calf onto his shoulder. He thrusts, hard, and I whimper. “You make such pretty sounds when I’m fucking you.” He picks up the pace again, moving his thumb on my clit in tight circles. I let out a broken moan as he hits just the right spot inside of me, and he takes note of it, hitting the same spot repeatedly, thumb keeping its pace on my clit. It’s overwhelming and I know that this orgasm is going to ruin other men for me. No one can do it like him. “Y/N,” his voice is low, “Look at me, baby, I want to watch you fall apart.” I drag my eyes open and look at him with dazed eyes. One particularly hard thrust and a drag of his thumb over my clit and I’m cumming violently, thrashing against him and gripping the bed sheets, my body spasming and I feel him fuck me through it and spill inside of me with a shouted curse before I black out.

I come to and can feel a warm washcloth being dragged between my legs gingerly. I hiss at the contact.

“Oh, thank god, are you okay?” I nod, throat raspy from screaming. “Can I get you anything?” I shake my head no, and the warm washcloth returns, I jump at the sensation. “I know, I have to clean you up though, okay?” He finishes in the next couple of moments and throws the washcloth into the hamper.

��How long was I out?” I say softly.

“Five minutes? Maybe six.” I nod.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Y/N, that was the biggest ego boost I’ve had in years.” He chuckles and I let out a weak laugh.

“Help me up?” I whisper, holding my hands out toward him. He obliges, gently grabbing my hands and pulling me into a sitting position. My vision starts to go spotty again. “Oh, Jesus,” I say, starting to slump forwards. His arms wrap around me quickly, holding me against his chest until my vision starts to return to normal. His thumbs are rubbing my back and I wish I could stay in this moment forever. “I’m okay, I think,” I whisper after a minute and try to pull away but he only lets me get a few inches away, eyes worriedly searching my face. “Hotch, I’m fine. I swear. Now let me go so I can go pee.” He lets go of me slowly and when I stand up to walk toward the bathroom, my legs buckle underneath me. “Oh, come on!” I exclaim, but Hotch is right there to catch me. He scoops me up despite my protests and carries me bridal style to the bathroom, setting me down on the toilet. “Thank you,” I whisper, suddenly embarrassed.

“No, don’t do that. I can see you trying to hide, getting embarrassed.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yeah, when your guard is down, you’re easy to read.”

“So, uh, do we just pretend this never happened? Go back to the way things were. I assume that’s what you want?” I bury my face in my hands, unable to look at him.

“Go back to the way things were? Y/N, baby, no. I can’t go back. This was not a one-time thing. I’m yours if you’ll have me.” I peek at him from between my fingers.

“Wait, you’re being serious right now?”

“Dead serious.” He gets on his knees in front of me. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment you walked into my office. I just didn’t think you’d reciprocate, until Morgan made a comment two months ago about your body language, and that’s when I had the hunch you felt the same way.”

“So, you’ve known I’ve been pining over you for months and didn’t think to say anything?” My pitch gets higher as the sentence goes on.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I’m clearly uncomfortable with you as I’m sitting in front of you, naked,” I say drily and he laughs again.

“Yeah, I know, I’m an idiot.”

“Yes, you are,” I say, smiling, before adding, “But you’re my idiot.” His eyes brighten at that.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. As you said, I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

“Good. Because I’m never letting go of you.” I feel my cheeks grow warm.

“Good, because I don’t want you to.”

[myownwholewildworld]

main masterlist | series masterlist

SARAH'S FIFTH BIRTHDAY — ONE SHOT

pairing: joel miller & sarah miller. summary: it's sarah's fifth birthday and joel has made it his duty to bake a birthday cake for his baby girl. a/n: hiya! this is a peace offering for not posting a new chapter of "wherever you go" this week. it is a oneshot set in the same universe, but it can totally be read as a standalone piece. all interactions welcome, please enjoy! <3 warnings: none! just a bunch of cutesy fluff with daddy joel & his baby girl 🥰 w/c: ~1.4k (it's a teeny tiny one!) dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed from the list pls!)

July 20th, 1994

Joel Miller was many things, but a baker was not one of them.

He stared at the clock on the kitchen wall, watching the hands move painstakingly slow. He truly had no idea what he was doing. For a man who used his hands on a daily basis for his contracting job, he was terrible at baking.

Taking a deep breath, Joel looked around him. The state of his kitchen was, quite frankly, a complete and utter mess. There was flour everywhere, a thousand dirty utensils spread across the counter, the sink overflowing with a wide range of containers and tools. It was going to take him longer to clean everything up than actually baking Sarah’s birthday cake.

He had tried his best, and by the looks of it, miserably failed. How difficult was it to follow the freaking instructions on the recipe book? With the enlisted help of his neighbour, Nana Adler, he had made his way to the supermarket the night before to ensure he had everything he needed. But as difficult as that was for him —was there really a difference between self-raising and all-purpose flour?—, apparently the worst part was mixing everything together in a bowl.

Honest to God, it looked gross, but he needed to trust the process. It was the first cake he had ever attempted to make, all because his sweet little angel had asked him for a chocolate cake earlier in the week.

He could have bought it from the store, but his heart had swollen with joy at the thought of baking his baby girl her first proper birthday cake. Sarah was truly the apple of his eyes. His beautiful toddler had stolen his heart so hard, Joel did not think his love for her could ever compare to anything else. Any other feeling would pale in comparison to the adoration he felt for his daughter.

She had grown so fast, his heart ached at the memory of holding her for the first time. Sarah was a tiny little thing in his arms, weeping and wiggling her small hands in the air. He soothed her, gently pressing her against his chest — his hand on her back patting her lightly, her baby fingers clutching the neck of his shirt.

And now she was hours away from turning five. Time had really flown by too quickly. It pained him, but he was also excited to know the wonderful girl she would become. Joel inevitably smiled, unable to stop himself from feeling pure elation about what the future had in store for them. His beautiful Sarah deserved all the good things in the world. And she would — he knew she would.

He shook his head, his mind distracting him.

“It’s okay. It’s gotta look bad before it looks better.” He muttered to himself, nodding at his own words. “This can’t be more difficult than bricklaying.”

With that thought, he kneaded the mass for minutes on end until it paled and the colour evened out. Joel cleaned his hands on the apron around his waist and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then he proceeded to divide the mixture in two and placed it in the round tins, lined with baking parchment.

As he was putting them in the pre-heated oven, the honeyed voice of Sarah came from the top floor.

“Daddy! Daaaaaddyyyyy!”, she called, all sing-songy.

“Coming, sweetie!”, he shouted back, quickly heading towards the stairs.

He climbed the steps two at a time. The door to her bedroom was open, as always — both of them slept with the doors ajar. As a first-time dad, Joel had been an anxious single dad who worried about the tiniest details. There were still times when Sarah had nightmares and would run to his bed for comfort, as she did a couple of nights ago.

“Good morning, sunshine”, Joel greeted her with a smile that spanned across his mouth.

Sarah’s eyes lighted up instantly and giggled while standing up on the bed, her arms extended in front of her, waiting for a bear hug. And Joel happily obliged, kneeling besides her bed, welcoming her with open arms.

“Daddy!”, she squealed, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

His heart irremediably exploded with love, so much so it tugged at his lungs a little, making it difficult to breathe. How much he loved her — no words could really do his feelings justice.

“Hello, you sweet angel”, Joel hummed, breaking off the hug to pinch her chubby cheeks and placing a kiss on her forehead. “Who is the birthday girl, eh?”

“Me, daddy! It’s m’birthday!”, Sarah laughed, clapping her hands and doing a little dance.

Joel laughed at the picture in front of him, another core memory forming.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

Picking her up in his arms, they walked out of the room and down the stairs. Once in the messy kitchen, he put her down in a stool with arms in front of the counter. Ensuring she was okay, he walked around the kitchen island to check on the cake in the oven.

“Is daddy making me a cake?!”, her excitement permeated his soul, blanketing his heart.

“Yes, and it’s chocolate as you wanted, but can’t promise it will be good, sweetie”, he chuckled, turning around to look at her.

“Me likes chocolate! Yayyyyy!”, her tiny palms hit the counter with enthusiasm.

He couldn’t help but chortle while he handed her a bowl full of her favourite cereal. Sarah eagerly started to spoon mouthfuls, spilling milk everywhere.

They both had breakfast while the cake was baking and when the timer went off, Joel turned off the oven and started to get Sarah ready for the day. She asked for a braided hairstyle that took Joel a good hour to accomplish, but he got there in the end.

“I want bows! Cute, pinky bows!”, she exclaimed before running to her dresser.

Sarah opened a drawer and took the two bows she was talking about. Then she ran back to her dad, her tiny feet doing little jumps as she handed them over.

“Alright, alright, everything for the birthday girl.”

He tied them on at the end of the ponytails and gave her a kiss on her plump, blushed cheek.

“Now go play, sweetie, daddy’s gotta finish that cake.”

The whole day went according to plan. First, they went to the park, where they spent hours until Sarah tired out after playing nonstop with her friends. Being at the cusp of summer, Joel had to run after her a few times to top up her sunscreen. And then, that afternoon, they celebrated at home with friends and family. Sarah was showered with presents, but the one she was most excited about was her birthday cake.

Was it his best creation? No, definitely not. But it looked presentable and, most importantly, edible. Joel was a little nervous as he lighted up the candles and started walking towards the backyard while everyone erupted in song, the melody of “Happy birthday” being sung in unison. With firm hands, Joel set the cake down in front of a very exhilarated Sarah.

Joel knelt behind her, steadying her by placing his hands on her tiny hips as she stood on a stool.

“Happy birthday, sweetie”, he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. It was hard not to cry, but he just about managed.

Sarah yawped and chuckled, trotting in place in a little dance before blowing the candles.

As everyone shouted “happy birthday!”, Sarah turned around and embraced her dad, who instantly reciprocated the hug. Joel had to close his eyes, not wanting this moment to ever end.

“Cake, daddy, cake!”, she giggled, patting her tummy. “My daddy made the cake!” She made sure absolutely everyone knew he had baked the cake, telling each soul who approached to grab a slice.

When Sarah finally sat down on his lap to eat a portion, she eyed her dad with those widened green orbs that took his breath away.

“Whooooa! So yummy! More, daddy, more!”, she demanded while eating the last bite.

Joel laughed, kissing the crown of her head. “You can have some tomorrow for breakfast, sweetie, I don’t want you to get a tummy ache.”

Sarah looked at him, betrayed, and pouted in the hopes that his dad’s determination would crumble.

And it eventually did.

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @pedrospurplerain @missladym1981

@fancyyoouu @smolbeanzzz @guelyury

@bishtrouille @harriedandharassed @thepalaceofmelanie

[lotus-n-l0ve]

Hiiii, may I request a headcanon with Gojo, Geto, and Mei Mei? But in a historical! jjk au where your village has decided to pay tribute to the sorcerers by offering you as a gift. Your life as a tribute is far from what you have imagined, being treated as a spoiled pet, given freedom, attention, and the most important of all riches. Though of course, you still have duties you need to attend to. Every night, you perform your duties as their precious sex toy, pleasing at least one (or maybe even more) of your masters. I could imagine Gojo and Geto spitroasting you and using you as they please <3

Sorry but I don't write for female characters. I wasn't sure if you wanted them separately or together so I wrote them separately. Hope you like it 💜

𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞

— Gojo, Geto x Female Reader

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ : You were offered to the two strongest sorcerers to please them and keep them happy. You are are doing your job wonderfully.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ : smut, kissing, making out, sex positions, blindfolding, resistent, voyeurism,

ɴᴏᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟᴏᴛᴜꜱ : Hey guys, I'm back. I was literally half way through writing a whole ass smut fic with this one because my dumbass didn't see the request is of headcanons not fics. I'm so dumb god! Anyway enjoy this one for now. Might write a threesom with Gojo and Geto in the future. Let me know if y'all want part 2.

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 || 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

Gojo is horniest them all. When you were new as a offering he was the one you got close to at first. Your night spent with Gojo fucking you till dawn.

He is clingy af. When he is not out killing curses, there is a big chance that he is with you. So when people need Gojo they look for you and to no one's surprise 99% of the time he is with you.

Since he is the strongest sorcerer in present, people worship him like God and give him many luxurious jewelleries and accessories.

He would make you were them before fucking you till dawn. His favourite one is azul gem necklace that matches it's eyes. When it hits the between of your breasts with each thrust Gojo fights the urge to cum then and there.

He is a freaky bitch. Expect the unexpected.

He would use his blindfold on you while you on the bed, hands and legs tied to the bed. He would not touch you instantly.

He would stand back, gently strocking his hard dick in his hands as he watches you, trembling in bed, scared of what to cum and calling out to him with you whiny and shaky voice.

You are on the verge of crying when he finally touches you, pulling a sigh out of you.

"Uhh, just like that." "You are swallowing me whole in." "Soooo good!" "Stop crying princess I'm not even halfway done with you." "Your work is to take me like the fuck toy you are and you do that so good."

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

Geto spoils you rotten. You are his precious little girl, of course he'll spoil you. You get what you want.

He would give you richest of the gems and jewelleries. You want that new dress that even queen would think twice before buying because it's too goddamn expensive?

No worries just when he is tired after a long session of fucking, look up at him with your doe eyes and ask him in your sweet voice and the next day that dress would be delivered to you.

Geto is wild and sex with him often contains voyeurism. For example your were out in the garden, playing all the beautiful flowers there and in a flash you are leaning on the table there, ass up in the air as Geto pounds his huge dick in your pussy.

You hear as servants pass by the garden squealing when they see the sinful sight and muttering apologies before rushing away from there. You know you'll be the gossip at for next two weeks.

You nails dug on the hard wood as tears stream down your face in humiliation. Uncontrollable moans erupting from your chest. Geto held the nape of your neck for better grip and picked up his speed.

"Fuck you take me so good." "Those peasants did atleast one good thing when they gave you to me." "You like when they see you getting manhandled by me don't you?" "I can tell by the way you squeeze around my cock whenever someone walks in."

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ : @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn , @sanzuhotaf , @shima707, @zeniiin , @stickyguitaronart , @kvksi, @aly-insanity (if your name is crossed then that means I can't tag you)

© 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐔𝐒-𝐍-𝐋𝟎𝐕𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 — all content rights belongs to LOTUS-N-L0VE. do not plagiarize any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.

All the rights and credits of the characters, gifs, songs and pictures used here belongs to their rightful owners. If you want be added on any my taglist then you can do that here. The ask box is open so if want me to write something then you can request there.

[justabirdy]

An Open Letter from the Daughter You Don’t Know

I'm going to be open and vulnerable here, mostly because this has been something that has been clawing at my heart to write and I don't have many people to directly share it with.

The following is a letter to my parents. it's a refined stream-of-consciousness I wrote after a particularly hard phone call with them. I may never send this to them. Hell, I may just delete it after a bit, but I hope in the time it is up, that it can encourage or help some people struggling with similar issues regarding family, trauma, transness, and more.

If nothing else, It has helped me refine my thoughts and my experiences and put into words the pain I feel around the complications of family, being queer, and learning to set boundaries.

There are heavy topics discussed though I've tried to keep things vague and unspecific to focus more on the emotions I've been feeling. Still, please don't feel obligate to read if you aren't in a headspace for it.

To a Mom and Dad who may never read this,

I shouldn’t have texted you today. In the span of a few weeks, I have lost my job, my housing, a couple friends, and most recently, access to needed diabetic medicine. I was scared, in shock from the news, in pain from over month of repeated blow after blow of bad news. Other people were busy, and so without thinking, I contacted you. You; the parents who have supported me, who paid for college, who offer words of encouragement, who are excited to see when I succeed. I committed self-harm today through a simple text that expressed my worry.

I’m aware that you will probably never read this, but I need to write it down anyway because it is so, so, SO painful to talk with you. Right now, my soul is twisting and writhing from the pain it’s in. The recognition of your support for a person you’ve not truly known, the ever-present fear of letting you down, and the tiredness of being who you expect when who I actually am cries out in pain.

You called with encouragement on the mind. “This too will pass son. God is stretching you, son. Son, He has great plans for you. You will find the perfect job, son. We love you SON. We are praying for you SON. You’ll always be our SON.”

It’s the model parent of the year. Who could fault a parent loving and supporting and encouraging their son through hard times. And yet, each punctuation of your support feels like a dagger through my heart until it’s a pincushion that can barely beat let alone form a response. Your support hurts and stabs and digs deep into my being because I know that support belongs to a birthright, an heir to the family name, a son.

Before I can respond, you’ve shifted gears back into familiar territory:

“How’s your walk with God?” “Are you still walking with the Lord?” “Do you trust Him?” “When we are at our end, that’s where God Begins.” “What barriers have you put up separating you from God?”

I’m numb. What am I supposed to say? We’ve had this conversation over and over. When I lost my last job due to a pandemic, when I thought my dog might be dying, when I was diagnosed with diabetes. If there’s a heartbreak, a struggle, or challenge in my life, these questions return.

Over the years I’ve responded in every way. “My faith is struggling” warrants a scolding to do better and follow examples set before me. Similarly, though “My walk with God is fine” is also met with skepticism. No person could suffer hardship without having stumbled or fallen away from God to deserve it after all.

I want to scream. The truth is YOU are the barrier that’s been put up! You are the reason. I can’t do more than hitch a sob that I try to hide from the phone speaker though I’m sure you heard it. That noise alone confirms in your mind that I must have strayed far from the light of God. How else could a SON you raised ever struggle this much, ever go through this pain, or suffer as you hear over the phone? This realization pains you because you want your SON to be happy, you want HIM to live a fruitful life and be fulfilled just like you.

I stifle another sob and a sniffle, my mind trying to find an answer that won’t disappoint you. I can’t find the words to explain that the teachings I grew up with don’t align with the church I see.

Feed the hungry; help the poor; commune, support, and love the downtrodden; accept people for who they are and meet them where they’re at. None of it aligns with the hatred and vitriol I see for the immigrants, the sex workers, the refugees, the disabled, and the queer around me.

I can say this though. Even after a year and a half of therapy, there’s still a small part of me that won’t let me open up, it won’t let me tell you what I feel because that wouldn’t coincide with your image of me. A person I crafted for decades to protect myself and to avoid your disapproval.

That part of me is weaker than it was two years ago, but still craves your support, it yearns to be praised and accepted even if it means betraying who I really am. The truth is, I’m part of that queer community facing the vitriol and hate from the very ones who taught me to love and support and welcome. I have been for decades. For far longer than I’ve ever understood the words to describe it. I’ve always been a little different from the rest of the family.

There’s a reason why I was never invited to hunt with my grandfather or why I was pressured into football, a reason behind this lacking in my supposed masculinity that was evident enough to need to push me towards masculinity. But it goes back farther than that. I can pinpoint the sadness I felt knowing I could never participate in a father-daughter dance. I remember the shame I was made to feel after getting caught trying on lipstick, the stern talks about such behavior.

I remember the hundreds of nights I spent crying in my bed at the fact puberty was making me something I didn’t want to be, forcing me into something I could never be. I didn’t know how to describe it, couldn’t explain myself even if I had tried; but I understood. Those nights were spent begging and crying in hushed tones under my blankets, pleading with God to answer a single request:

God, please make me a girl.

I wanted nothing more than to wake up and find this Kafka-style nightmare of puberty finished, reversed even. Those were nights of self-harm, clawing, biting, and punching a body that refused to listen; a body that stubbornly changed in the worst possible ways.

You never saw those nights, but eventually, a learned helplessness set in. I couldn’t be me. God wouldn’t let it happen, I couldn’t do anything about it, and that’s not the person you expected me to be. So, unable to be myself, I learned to be your son. I played the part. I wore the mask. I ignored the hurt inside. I became a leader in the youth group. I wore the suit. I grew the beard. It was an identity that was expected of me. It was capable, professional, conservative, and it. Was. Safe.

And I LOATHED myself for it. I pushed the person I needed to be down, smothering it until I was numb. If I could never be them, I should just focus on the safe bet even if I hated him. But that came with its own set of problems. I hated my body so why should I care for it? It’s not like anyone would be attracted to it anyway. Why exercise? Why eat right? Why put effort into clothes or appearance anyway? Maybe if I was lucky, I might just not make it long enough for it to matter.

Besides you approved of this me. You loved me. You supported me. That’s what mattered. That’s what I craved. When you commented that I never did anything but sit in my room all day, I responded. I stopped writing, I stopped doing art. I leaned into volunteering at church, I started a business, worked multiple side jobs, then proved to you that my own business was a real thing worth respecting. I became independent because that’s what you demanded. That’s what you approved of. That part of me grew stronger each year while the real me remained buried.

As the hunger for your approval grew, my self-loathing remained, it festered and smoked until the multiple jobs burned me out. Something in me broke and depression set in like a fog. I’d work 12-16 hours a day and spend all weekend in bed, sleeping, crying, or contemplating dark things. I told you work was killing me. Said it plainly and openly, and thankfully you believed me because you encouraged me again. Told me God was stretching me. Encouraged my change in career paths. You approved for me to make a change.

The truth is, I didn’t tell you everything. My self-hatred had reached a breaking point. I hated my jobs, I hated my small business, I hated my body, I hated very being. I needed to escape. I needed to think. I needed to recover, to distract, and gain space from over a decade of expectations I felt no control over. So, when I burned out and depression first set in, I also found myself without energy, unable to hold the weight of expectations that had kept that little queer person inside me smothered any longer.

With it came the first bit of true joy I had experienced in years. I was an adult. I had adult money. I could go to a store and buy nail polish, just to try it. When I did, I claimed it was a lost bet, but truthfully, I just loved the red color and suddenly I didn’t want to bite my nails anymore. Suddenly I cared about something, suddenly I cared about myself, even just a tiny bit. That realization terrified me, especially seeing it peek through the vernier I had worn for so many years.

This was NOT what you expected of an ideal SON.

So, I fled cross country under the guise of a new job. Thousands of miles away. I still wore the beard, the mask, and the suit of your expectations, but in small ways I could start to explore a part of myself I had buried 15 years ago. Over the course of a year, I healed just a little, I explored, I studied scripture, and I reflected deeply in an effort to both understand who I was and reconcile with that revelation one way or another. And I did begin to reconcile with it. At the same time, the part of me I had built up for so long, that part that needed your approval got just a little weaker and the tiny joys I found in being myself became just a little stronger and a little more frequent.

When the pandemic forced me to return to your home, I quickly found I had damaged that mask of the perfect son. The cracks were small, but they were noticeable and made me wary. I knew that you wouldn’t approve of the person inside me that I had begun to nurture and show compassion for. I would need to be careful not to let the cracks in the mask show.

Strangely though, my craving for your approval shifted ever so slightly. Would you possibly love or approve of a child who didn’t fit your ideal mold? You were kind and compassionate and supportive in so many ways. My heart still flutters at that thought. What if you, the people who raised me, could stand to love me even in my failing your expectations. I wanted THAT approval.

I couldn’t risk discovery, but I could carefully observe you. You worked with gay people, but you only brought them up when defending yourself. You asked about a neighbor’s pride flag to which I responded it was a bisexual flag they had likely hung up for pride. But you responded “Well, they shouldn’t be proud of that.” It answered my questions. If a neighbor down the street couldn’t avoid your scrutiny, I certainly couldn’t use gender neutral pronouns around you. It quickly became clear that I would not be safe in your house, not without the burden of your expectations smothering that queer person inside me.

So, I fled again. I entered grad school. Left the state and a part of my masculinity behind. I spent a year on a campus of supportive people willing to put up with that eccentric nonbinary person. I was terrified to leave my masculine presentation behind, but the joy I found at seeing myself look even slightly closer to the girl my 12-year-old-self had begged for me to become… well that joy was palpable. It was like I had been struck by lightning. I was energized, passionate about life, I suddenly cared about my body. There were still parts I didn’t like, but those were being overshadowed by parts that I did. That early euphoria of simply being myself was something I will never forget.

Grad school zipped by and before I knew it, the pandemic lockdowns were over, and I was starting a new job with a new degree. Sometime in all of this, I decided I couldn’t pretend anymore. I wanted to try opening up to you again. I wanted to test the waters and see if you could love and accept a nonbinary child. I had also begun writing again.

I had decided I was going to ask key questions the next time I came down for the holidays, but what I hadn’t anticipated was you reading an article I had published alongside some work I had been doing for my new job. The article detailed the need for scientific language to grow and develop as times changed. It called out racist language, exclusionary language, called for us to be more inclusive in the way we interact academically and highlighted organizations that were actively working toward improving the language in their field. That phone call you made haunts me to this day.

“You used ALL the liberal, woke buzzwords.” “How’s your walk with God?” “I don’t know where we went wrong.” “Democrats can’t be Christians.” “I’m leaving you to God now. Goodbye.”

I’ll be honest, this broke me again. For 4 months I assumed you had fully disowned me. That single phone call led me to call suicide hotlines several times. I was alone. I was in a new state without a network of support, and with the belief that I would never speak to my parents again, the very people I had trained myself to chase approval from.

For 4 months I processed. I went through the stages of grief. I began to pick myself up again. I began to live for myself and my own joy. The early hesitancy of leaving behind my masculinity, it shattered. I didn’t need it anymore. I could freely pursue being myself fully and truly. I could truly try to be happy.

I started building new connections, found people who accepted me. Advocated for myself. I became a stronger me. I found my identity. I was still nonbinary, but it was more than that. I could finally start to pursue the person my 12-year-old self knew I was when she begged God to be a girl. 17 years later, that prayer was beginning to be answered.

Then one day you called.

Worse still, you pretended nothing had happened. Pretended I had never written that article. That you had never said what you did. Like we just hadn’t spoken in a bit because we got busy. I felt trapped by the grief I had processed conflicting with that urge to regain your approval on our reconnection. A much smaller part of me urged that family is still family at the end of the day.

but I knew this family and I couldn’t trust it anymore even as I yearned still for your approval. So, I gave in, I let the past be ignored. But I guarded my heart. You would never get to know the person I was becoming. This time I sought to protect myself. You weren’t safe so I would keep you at arm’s length.

I moved states again. We spoke, but internally, my goal was complete and total independence from you. The writing was on the wall and things were in motion that would ensure you found out who I was eventually. So, I steeled myself for that time. I built a network of people I could trust. I came out to old and new friends. I went to therapy. I planned and processed and worked to try to encourage you to become more open to the LGBTQ community without straight up outing myself.

But I also continued to work towards my own life and my own happiness. Soon I had a good group of friends who accepted me for who I was. I had hobbies to pursue, things I loved doing. I even came out to some of my oldest friends and in a couple cases, their own parents as well. I found the more I lived to meet my own expectations, the less I craved meeting yours. The less I worried about if you would accept me or not.

I still care, don’t get me wrong. Multiple people have suggested I go “no contact” with you, but I have refused that. I want to believe you might accept me one day, and I hope I’m not forced to give up that belief. But I also recognize that historic evidence has merit and it’s not been promising.

I nearly gave up when you called me at the start of this year. You had discovered my pierced ears, my green hair, and my tattoo during an exhausting visit where I still pretended to be your son. You had handled it graciously enough, accepted that I could make these decisions for myself, given me hope that maybe you were open to some changes in me. So much so that this phone call shook me.

You called to inform me that a childhood friend had passed away. He had been murdered during a mugging. I had heard the news earlier that day, but in the next couple breaths I felt my heart sink as you confronted me about my own gender and sexuality. You had seen my they/them pronouns on a work website and had done some googling to learn about it.

You sought to use my friend’s death and the fact he was gay to confront me about who I was. I felt sick. I was stunned. I remember the way you immediately asked if I had slept with “other men.” I remember that sharp and painful edge to your voice. I remember your hasty assurances that you still loved me, words that sounded hollow and desperate, more like someone had coached you to do it so I wouldn’t just hang up the phone on you. I was so stunned I couldn’t even answer your question of “are you at least happy?” and I certainly couldn’t bring myself to tell you that I am trans, not just nonbinary.

Mostly I remember the sickening realization that this was no longer going to be a clean-cut issue where you would just cut me out of your life and disown me like I had already grieved and prepared for. I would have to make that decision. I would have to prepare to deal with guilt-tripping, manipulation, and possibly making the decision to go “no contact” myself.

Today, that part of me that craves your approval has grown very small. I am living openly as myself, letting myself be happy for the first time in my life. Everyone around me knows who I am but you. Everyone knows your daughter… everyone but you. Let me answer that question you asked over the phone that January evening. Yes. I am happy. I am loved. I am content. My faith is fine, even if it doesn’t look exactly like yours anymore. I am one of the queer ones and I’m so much happier for it.

It's not lost on me that at 32 years old I’m already on the older side of my community. Elders are few and far between, often because those who would be community elders were far stronger than me, far more willing to stand up to protect and cherish their community against every odd and they paid the price for it. I admire their strength the same way I was taught to admire the martyrs of the early church even as I commit to sharing resources and communion with those younger and in more need than myself.

Many in my community weren’t allowed the chance to wear the mask as long as I did. Many didn’t have parents who would support even an idealized version of them like I was afforded. Many prepare for the worst because the worst is all but assured by those around them. It was your continued support that allowed me to strive to be who I am becoming today. The financial support, the genuine attempts to encourage, the love you shared in good and troubled times. Even if that support wasn’t meant for this version of me, it’s not lost on me and it’s appreciated. I intend to pay it forward as best I can.

Despite a growing climate of fear and hate for who and what I am, I am happier than I have ever been in my life. I’m happy with my accomplishments, I’m happy with the person I am striving to be, I’m happy with that long answered prayer:

“I can’t make you into something you already were.”

I’m happy with the community I’ve built around me who love and support me and encourage me to go out and feed the hungry, help the poor, and commune with the downtrodden.

Before I lost my most recent job, before my livelihood seemingly crumbled overnight. You called me again. And surprisingly, you apologized for what you had done. You were specific, you were clear, and I still truly hope you were sincere. You asked me not to push you away and I believe that you don’t want it to happen. But tearfully I responded that it was up to you. And you answered that challenge. You asked me to let you prove it.

I love you, truly, I do. But you’ve made a pledge and until you prove it, I intend to keep you at a distance. How can you expect me to fill you in on everything when you still won’t even use anything but he/him pronouns in conversation? How can you expect me to come to you when your first response is to assume I’ve done wrong by God and deserve punishment. How can I open up when you text me to ask what cisgender means only to get upset that a coworker won’t just say she’s female even as I’m actively explaining how comforting it is to see people use the term as signal that they are safer to me any my community.

Your own actions make it so very hard to justify opening myself to the pain of interacting with you. Until you prove otherwise, I’m sorry I texted you today, I’m sorry I opened myself up to further pain by seeking your answers and support. I’m so sorry I can’t let myself connect to you, to introduce you to your daughter; a daughter who has earnestly yearned for your approval and support for so, so many years.

I love you, and I still hope that one day I might introduce myself to you for the first time; and I dearly pray it won’t be knelt at your gravestones.

Sincerely and with all my love and heartache,

Your Daughter

[mackeydoodledoo]

Lucky

Pairing: Jennifer Walters x (Fem!) Reader 

Summary: After Jennifer gets fired from the LA Law Firm, all she wants to do is hide from everyone. However, when she gets summoned to a family dinner she turns to her best friend: Nikki to accompany her. But, after she gets turned away, she turns to one of her other closest friends. 

Warnings: Awkward budding romance, swearing, implied catcalling, Semi-NSFW

Key: Italics = Thoughts, +*+ = Time Skip, Bold/Indent = Text messages, +++/Italic Words = Flashback

Theme: Lucky - Jason Mraz/Colbie Caillat

A/n: Okay this has been sitting in my drafts for awhile...

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

*Jen’s POV* “Oh no!” You groan

“What? You get fired again?” Nikki asks

You shoot your head up to your best friend.

“Sorry...” She sighs

“Family Dinner right after I get fired,” You groan, “Please come with me...”

“I can’t, I have a date,” Nikki turns down the offer

“I will never forgive you for this...” Jen groans

“Oh don’t lose hope, maybe you should invite y/n,” Nikki suggests

“Y/n Y/l/n?” She asks, “We haven’t even spoken to each other since college graduation and since she got that one job overseas...”

“Actually, I saw her at Legal Ease a couple weeks ago,” She says, “We talked and apparently she’s found a job here. I’m sure she’d love to see you again. Whether it’s to attend your family commotion or just spend time with you.”

After Nikki leaves to go on her supposed date, You sit on your couch as you debates whether to go at it solo or bring someone.

“Jen?” A voice calls over the phone

“Hey Y/n,” You let out a breathy chuckle, “Been awhile but umm... Listen... I got fired from my job because-”

“Because you were forced to use your new powers to protect the jury?” She asks, “Saw the news... Sorry about that Jen, so what is it you need?”

“I need someone to accompany me to my family’s dinner tonight...” You tense

Silence rolls over as you wait for Y/n’s response.

“Okay, are you picking me up or?...” She finally answers

“Oh thank god!...” You breathe, “I’ll come get you in about... 30 minutes?... Is that enough time?” 

“Perfect,” She says

*Y/n’s POV* You give Jen the address to your place as you throw on a light jacket. 

Hey, I’m here.

Cool, I’ll be down in a minute.

You walk down the stairs as you brush some of your hair aside as you walk up to Jennifer’s car. 

“Hey Y/n,” She greets you with a half smile

“Hey yourself Jen,” You smile, buckling yourself in, “You’ve been doing okay?” 

“No,” She sighs, beginning to drive, “I need to bring something over...”

“We can stop by the bakery up the street here,” You suggest, “See if there’s anything?”

Jen nods at your suggestion and parallel parks along the street. You were the one stepping out of the car first. You went around to the front of the car as you wait for Jen to meet you. However, you look over and see a car dashing by at the last second.

“Jen!” You grab her by the wrist

You yank her into you as the car simply rushes by. 

“Ass,” You grumble, watching the car continue its way 

You look down at Jen, still seemingly in shock from the whole ordeal.

“You okay?” You ask, brushing a strand of her curly hair back

She nods. Instead of letting her go, the both of you stay in each others’ embrace. 

“Thanks,” Jen clears her throat, stepping to the side

The both of you walk into the bakery.

“Ahh a young couple!” The baker announces to no one but the two of you

You look to Jen and then down to your unknowingly interlaced fingers. However, neither of you questioned it as you walk up to the other side of the glass.

“What pie do you have out right now?” You ask

“A cherry pie just came out of the oven,” He says, “I’ll go grab it and pack it up.”

He leaves the both of you by your lonesome. 

“So... Other than lawyer and she-hulk things, what else have you been up to?” You ask, trying to break the silence

“Nothing that would excite you,” Jen sighs, “There hasn’t been much since college.”

“Just hanging around with you already excites me enough,” You blurt

“What?” She asks

“What?” You ask back

Did I just say that out loud?

“Only one cherry pie?” The baker comes back

“Yep,” You clear your throat, “How much?”

“It’s on the house today ladies,” He smiles, handing you the boxed pie

“Thanks,” You smile, beginning to follow Jen out of the bakery

You place the pie in your lap as Jen continues driving to her family estate. 

“So your entire family knows you’re a hulk right?” you ask

“Yeah why?” She asks

“Just wondering,” You say, “Normally the typical superhero has a secret identity and would often put them in danger...”

“It’s quite difficult to not announce it since your cousin is also a hulk,” Jen says

“That’s true,” You say, “Isn’t it difficult to keep control of? Since, Bruce had to take a long time to learn to cope with his hulk.”

+*+

The both of you stand awkwardly at her parents’ door. However, smiles swipe across their face as they see you.

“Oh, Y/n, so glad you’re able to join us tonight!” Her mother immediately hugs you

“Oh well, it was nice of Jen to invite me,” You sigh awkwardly

They help you and Jen with the pie and settle the two of you in the open seats at the table. 

“I’ve been promoted to manager at the Best Buy!” Chet announces 

Your eyes drift to Jen, her eyes dropping towards her plate. Everyone cheering him. Your hand drifts to Jen’s leg under the table and give her thigh a gentle squeeze. Instinctively she places her hand over yours.

“What have you been up to Y/n?” Jen’s mother asks

“Huh?” You ask, your eyes darting into her direction

“Have you’ve been up to anything?” She repeats her question

“Uhm... I recently opened a gallery downtown,” You chuckle nervously

You hear small cheers and back pats...

“We’ll have to come see it, how long is it there for?” She asks

“Awhile,” You say, “Don’t worry there’ll be many opportunities for you guys to go.”

+*+

After the dinner party, the two of you sit in Jen’s car, silence rolling in.

“Do you want to... Come over to my place for a drink?” Jen asks

“Sure,” You reply 

You follow Jen up to her apartment.

“Sorry about the mess,” She says, opening the door, “Last minute decision to invite someone who isn’t Nikki over.”

“Ahh Nikki,” You say, “Hey, why couldn’t she go with you?”

“Claimed she had a date,” Jen sighs, falling into her couch

You take a seat next to her and place the wine glass on the nearly crowded coffee table.

“Sucks,” You sigh

“It just occurred to me, did you ever date?” Jen asks

“Only liked one person in the entirety of ever,” You say

“Wow, how did that work out?” She asks

“Her ambition to get her degree was the only thing on her mind,” You sigh, taking a swig of wine, “And yet, Never have I ever left her side, supporting her through it and through everything she went through.”

Jen sits next to you, oddly attempting to figure out why on what she was saying sounded familiar to her. 

+++

“Jen, do you ever think about finding a certain someone to settle down with?” You ask

“Why would I need to?” She asks, her eyes glued to her laptop screen, “Being a lawyer is full time, I don’t have time to look for someone... Besides, dating a lawyer doesn’t sound like the adventure of a lifetime.”

“It’s not about the profession, it’s how you decide to spend time with that person,” You say

“Also, Lawyers make a decent amount if you know what I mean,” Nikki winks

“Nikk, it’s also not about how much money people make,” You groan in annoyance, “It mostly matters how much both parties are willing to give to the other.”

“Believe me I wouldn’t be giving too much effort,” Jen sighs

“I beg to differ,” You say, hoping only loud enough for you to hear

However, your eyes say it all: I’m in love with you Jennifer Walters... You crushed on her since you first met her in the dining hall after she stupidly didn’t have her wallet that moment in time. The only other person who seemed to notice was Nikki.

+*+

Jen’s POV You and Nikki were in your shared apartment, working on classwork .

“God I cannot focus,” You groan in frustration, rubbing your eyes

“Why don’t you take a break?” Nikki asks, “I’m sure Y/n is up for something.”

“Y/n? Why her in particular?” You ask

“Because I decided to last minute do this assignment,” Nikki lies, “Plus, if you didn’t hear me before, I'm sure Y/n is up for something. Especially when it comes to you.”

“What do you mean by ‘especially when it comes to you’, bit?” You ask

“Nothing in particular,” Nikki says, “Now go hit her up.”

Hey... Y/n?

Yeah?

You free? Nikki is forcing me to ask you if you wanted to grab food or something.

Don’t you have an important paper due tomorrow night?

Yes but like I said, Nikki is making me take a break. But, I never like being too far away from my laptop...

Tell you what, I’ll bring my stuff over, bring food over and we all chill and do work together?

Aren’t you working on some kind of art project though?

We don’t have to take the same classes just for us��to come together. You do know that right?

That’s true...

Okay, I’ll be over with food soon.

Y/n’s POV Although the idea of having alone time with Jen was way more enticing than getting together like the usual, you didn’t want her to force herself away from her studies. Even if Nikki suggested it/forced Jen to take a break, you were going to get to see her either way.

+*+

You were in your college apartment, working on a project until you hear your phone go off.

Hey I need your help with something...

If it’s anything lawyer stuff, I don't know how much of help I can be.

Opposite, Nikki and I went out to Legal Ease and there are these two guys eyes us down and Nikki seems super out of it... Can you come save us?

Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.

You throw on a light jacket and grab your keys as you rush out of the door, nearly forgetting to put on shoes. You hop into your car as you pull up a phone tracking app that you, Nikki and Jen all agreed to get in case either of you three would be in a pickle, and two of your closest friends were just in that situation. You follow the directions as fast, and legal as possible. You step into the bar and easily eye Jen and a nearly knocked out Nikki. However, in the midst of trying to look after her friend, she was also trying to evade two catcalling guys.

“Hey babe, sorry I’m late,” You hastily walk up to her

In the moment, you press your thumb against and slide your index finger under her chin as you pull her in for a kiss. Jen’s eye widen however leans into it to make it more believable. 

“That damn project really beating my ass,” You sigh, “Oh, I’m sorry if I interrupted your horrible flirting game but try harder.”

Surprisingly they easily backed off. You were expecting them to become persistent. They immediately go back to where they were sitting, somber looks on their faces.

“Made sure they wouldn’t pull anything,” Pedro leans in

“Thanks Pedro,” You slide him a hefty tip, “Okay... Let’s get you two back to my place...”

+*+

You gently kick the door open as you struggle with Jen to place a now passed out Nikki into your bed.

“God I hope she doesn't puke in my bed,” You sigh, cracking your back

Jen places a trash bin on the floor, relatively in the area where Nikki’s head is.

“Works,” You say

You begin setting up the couch (which was not a pull-out couch) for Jen.

“Where will you sleep?” She asks

“I’ll makeshift a bed on the floor,” You say

“Nonsense, get in here,” Jen suggests

“Jen, I have literally slept in odder places,” You say

“Nope, no arguments with a future lawyer,” Jen yawns, “Now get in here...”

Not willing to argue with her, you awkwardly find your way onto the couch. You felt like a board.

“Friends can cuddle you know,” Jen chuckles

She gently takes your forearms as she pulls you right off the edge of the couch.

“Why are you so stiff?” She asks,” It’s only me.”

“Been a day,” You lie, “Also I just... At least... My other friends and I don’t cuddle...”

“So you’ve never cuddled with anyone before?” she asks

“More like I hugged my giant stuffed animals back home until I couldn't find them the next morning,” You chuckle

“You’re how old and you still cuddle with stuffed animals?” Jen asks

“What person at what age DOESN’T have stuffed animals to cuddle with?” You ask

“Okay point taken,” She rolls her eyes

“Come on, we got a long day tomorrow...” You sigh

“It’s Saturday,” She says 

“Who cares?” You sigh, “I’m tired...”

Jen’s POV You open your eyes, half awake, eyes adjusting to the darkness. You look down at Y/n; laying soundly asleep below you. 

--Y/n places her thumb and herr index finger under your chin as she pulls you in for a kiss. Your eyes widen however lean into it to make it more believable.--

You think about the moment Y/n kissed you. That was the first time you ever had someone kiss you. Let alone having it be from a female.

Was it real or?...

You wanted to see for yourself. You hoist your leg over Y/n’s lap to straddle her as you begin learning down closer to her face, cupping her cheeks as you begin closing the distance between your faces. Still being half asleep you weren’t sure how to kiss really. You felt a hand trail up your back and another hand cup your cheek. Your body jolted, your torso falling right on top of hers in the midst of your 3am makeout session.

+++

Y/n’s POV When Jen pulls herself out of her memories, she was about to turn to you however, you were no longer on the couch. She looks up further to see you in the kitchen, beginning to tidy up the place; taking the garbage and putting them in the trash, cleaning the dishes even if you didn’t use them, etc. In reality, you were trying to occupy your mind temporarily. However, you stop everything that you were doing when you felt hands latch onto your midsection.

“You make it easier when life gets hard,” Jen confesses

“What wasn’t easier was trying to convince you to go on a date with me.” You chuckle

“Then what was that makeout session that one night then?!” She asks

“Huh?” You ask, “Oh... I was merely half awake during that. But uh... I did want to follow up but...”

“But?” Jen asks

“Like you said back then, you didn’t believe you had time for a relationship so... I kinda just gave up... Not really gave up but... Put it aside for you so that you could focus on that degree,” You explain, “So, I just pretended like I forgot about it. When in reality, it was all I ever thought about. Even graduating, taking that one job overseas... I never stopped thinking about it...”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” She asks

“I didn’t want it distracting you from your Law degree,” You confess

“And... What did you want?” She asks

You turn to face Jen; her hands still latched around your waist.

“I wanted... For you to see me the way I see you,” You say, “To be that willing to give someone a chance... Give me a chance...”

Jen looks at you... How was she so blind at the fact you were actually showcasing real feelings to her, yet you found a way to put them aside for her. You tense up when her palms come back around and open up, pressing firmly on your lower torso as she stands on her tip toes; attempting to reach your face.

“I appreciate you putting your feelings aside in order to support my life,” Jen says, “But, it’s my turn to put that aside to allow my real feelings come to fruition.”

“Wh-what do you mean Jen?” You ask

“I’ve liked you for a long time Y/n,” She says, “I just never really thought about it until that night...”

[faceless-mirror]

CHAPTER 2

Ship: Hozier and Farren(ONBC)

Andrew and Farren have been traveling through the centuries. Andrew remembers each time, when each of their times together ended in horrible tragedy. Farren never remembers, but their hearts call to each other in every life time, even if it brings pain. Andrew is breaking now, just needing one happy ending where they don't die crushed to death- sacrificed to old gods- hunted for their love- or torn apart in battle.

All he wants is to have Farren and live in peace. Hopefully, the Gods will grant mercy at last for his past transgressions that led to this cycle.

Taglist: @rowanballard @likehipsters @darkcloverme @holy-shitposting @cwooley1999-blog

(If you'd like to be added or removed please let me know)

Farren woke the next morning to golden rays burning across their face, causing them to hiss softly in pain, rolling over trying to throw the bed cover over their face grumbling softly and angrily at the sun for daring to wake them, even if it was their own fault for not closing the curtains.

It was a moment of quiet contemplation, eyes held shut, breathing in and out easily. Finally when their brain decided that it did, in fact, want to be alive and awake, they slipped out of bed steadily, bare feet hitting the floor. After going through their morning routine, they sat down at their desk, ready to get started on their projects for the day. Though upon opening the laptop, it was an email that caught their attention. 

An interview for the bartender and artist position. Responding quickly they decided that if they could interview today they would. Starting by the next week would be divine. It didn’t take too long to get started on their commissions, though they were anxiously awaiting to hear from the venue.

Almost two hours later, they got a phone call, offering an on the spot interview. 

***

A few hours later, Farren was there in front of the building, dressed in a white button down shirt and bell bottom stretch pants, wearing platform shoes. Looking around they were a bit shocked, it was a nice large venue, with some historic undertones. All they could think of was hoping to be a candidate for the job.

Stepping in, they couldn’t help but appreciate the red brick walls and the hardwood bar that greeted the doors. There was a man sitting and waiting, for them it seemed. The way he jumped to his feet, moving close hand extended, blond locks tied back neatly. “Avira Swan- It’s lovely to meet you- Farren was it?” he questioned warmly, gently pressing a hand to their back guiding them to an office with a smile. 

“We just came under new management- and we’re determined to put in a beautiful mural-” he explained. It seemed this man had visions for the venue and was insisting upon it. Already pulling out a contract. “Feel free to sign, Mx. Doven.”

“What about the interview-?” Farren started to question, reading through the contract curiously. It was fairly standard. Some things were… odd. Riches and prosperity for as long as they obeyed, if contract is broken, owned by one (1) Avira Swan for ten years. That was the line that stood out.

“Don’t worry about the interview. Your art skills are exactly what I want for the mural- Absolutely beautiful.” he said reassuringly, devilishly green eyes watching them like a hawk, except focused on the pages in their hands. 

They hummed softly, they’d be stupid to turn this down. It paid so well… but the one line worried them. “What does this mean… can you clarify…?” Farren questioned, “I would love to accept so long as i can understand this or have it removed-” they said licking their lips nervously. Something felt wrong with this- but the money they couldn’t refuse.

Avira frowned in concern and looked over, and sighed, “Oh- I can have that removed. My lawyer must have taken a joke too far- I apologize.” He took the contract away and the feeling subsided, “Thank you that could have been a lot of paperwork later on.” he chuckled.

The beautiful man smiled fondly, “Let me get that taken care of.” he said softly, standing and moving to a filing cabinet throwing out the old contract and bringing over a fresh one and offered it to Farren. They looked through it firmly, humming softly as they did. A melody that haunted their head. “That’s an old song, dear,” Avira commented thoughtfully, elbow on the table his fingertips supporting his chin as he watched them. “Take care of what it may summon, my dear.”

“You know it?” they questioned, attention diverted.

He smiled softly, “It’s an old song… very old. Legend says it was written by a fae who fell in love with a mortal despite the warnings that he shouldn’t, that he would be cursed as they would be. Whenever the song is hummed or sung… played… he shows up searching for his love. Destruction follows him…”

Something… something itched in the back of their mind at the story. It couldn’t… it wouldn’t be real. They hummed running their fingers through their black and blue hair. “It sounds like a tragic love story… but just a story.” Their lips quirked, eyes returning to the contract reading through it. Nothing was jumping out this time at least. 

“If it is just a story its a story that’s unfinished, dear.”

They didn’t know what to say to that, so they asked a different question. “What is the mural to be of?” they asked.

“I’d like it to be a mural that depicts the fae… and music of course. Just whatever feels right to you. I’ll show you the spot for the mural.” he added as those almost glowing green eyes focused on her hands signing the contract. 

“Of course. Can I get a copy of the contract please? For my own records.” she clarified.

“Of course.” Avira said warmly, pulling out a contract from the same folder passing it to her, letting her glance through it before standing. “Now… let’s get you that tour to the place for the mural.” he purred, a sound that seemed to soak into her mind.

- - - - -

Andrew had been getting ready to perform feeling a tremor along the red cord coming from his chest making his throat tighten. They remembered the song. It had vibrated many times over the years. It always happened at odd intervals but… that was a sign. His long fingers touched the cord lightly. “Beloved… I’ll find you. I’ll find you no matter where you are.” he breathed out, muddy green eyes focused on the translucent cord. “My beloved.”

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery

warnings: swearing, divorce, suggestive jokes, Roman makes self deprecating jokes (mostly about his weight)

AN: yeah I started a new series since I can’t figure out what happened with the snow chapter. I blame the marathon I watched. Oh well.

I sighed and ran a hand down my face. My laptop screen glowed in front of me, fingers stiff from typing. I put my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands. The slight headache I had started to subside.

“refill?” I peaked out between my fingers and nodded.

“Yes please.” I said softly. “Thank you.” The guy standing in front of me nodded and refilled my cup. He turned to go, looking from me to my laptop.

“How’s the paper going?” He asked. I shrugged.

“it’s going.” I said, pulling my hands away. He nodded. “You live in my building don’t you?” I asked suddenly as he was about to walk away. “Sorry. You look familiar.”

“I uh I think so.” He said. “I’m on the fifth floor. Apartment 529.”

“I’m 521.” I said with a smile. “(Y/N).” I held my hand out to him. He smiled at me and threw the towel in his hand over his shoulder.

“Roman.” He offered. I blushed as he took my hand and brought it up to kiss my knuckles. “I’ll leave you to your paper.” He said, letting go of my hand and rubbing the back of his neck.

“feel free to bother me.” I said with a laugh. “It’s kicking my butt. I could use all the distraction you have to offer.” Roman chuckled and nodded.

“I’ll stop by on my break then.” He said. I nodded and muttered my thanks as he went to the next table. Turning back to the laptop, I frowned as I sipped my drink. An hour went by and a plate of fries was set down in front of me. I looked up, surprised to see Roman smiling at me. A whole paragraph had been written and I slowly closed the laptop as he slid into the seat across from me.

“thanks.” I murmured as I started to eat. “You didn’t have to.”

“yeah well you’ve been here my entire shift. Hell you were here when I came in. Didn’t see you eat anything. Just drinking that god awful coffee. Figured you needed to eat something. And don’t worry about paying. It’s on my tab.” I stared at him and he waved his hand at me. “I mean it.” I nodded slowly as I grabbed another fry.

“you aren’t eating?” Roman shook his head, eyes darting around the restaurant.

“nah. I’m still getting used to all this.” He sighed. “I was in trading. Worked down on la salle. The stock exchange. Went bust.” Roman crinkled his nose and I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

“I’m sorry.” I said.

“don’t be.” He waved me off again. “It was my own stupid mistakes anyway. Doesn’t matter now.” He shrugged and grabbed a fry. “Besides this isn’t such a bad job.”

“I can think of worse.” I agreed. Romans eyes trailed to my laptop again.

“so what are you writing anyway?” He asked. “You’re always in here typing away at that thing.”

“Dissertation.” I said with a shrug. “Last thing I need to do before I get my masters and well…” I sighed and shook my head. “This is the best place to work I guess. Quiet. Only one person ever bothers me usually. Nice place to work.” Roman chuckled.

“Im sure you get bothered anywhere you go.” I blushed and Roman quickly looked away. “Anyway I don’t miss those days.” He shook his head. I smiled and shrugged. “Then again, when my kids go…” Roman sighed and his eyes went wide for a second. “Makes you worry a bit.” I nodded, swallowing and glancing at his hand. There wasn’t a wedding ring and I didn’t remember any kids coming or going from the floor.

“I mean…” I shrugged. “Sometimes it isn’t that bad. But yeah I’ve heard your kid going off can be daunting. Hell when my cousin went I got phone calls a week. He was too nervous to call his folks, thinking he’d worry them over something stupid. So he called me instead and made me worry about him.” Roman chuckled.

“you two close then?” He asked. I nodded. “That’s good. My girls are twins. Never seen two kids closer. Thank god.” Roman shifted. “I don’t see them much. At least not right now. Divorce is still fresh I guess. And the judge wanted me to actually have cash and a place. But I had those. So I don’t know. Kind of feels like my ex is trying to fuck me up the ass.” He ran a hand over his hair. “Ah I shouldn’t be telling you that.” He chuckled. “Just meeting and all.” I smiled at him and reached across the table to put a hand on his.

“it’s alright.” I said. “We’re adults. Adults ramble and unload baggage all the time.” Roman nodded, eyes drifting down to the table. “Tell me about them. You obviously love them.” Roman laughed.

“yeah. Despite all their trouble.” He said, eyes shining when he looked back up at me.

“terror twins. Every family has them, whether they’re actual twins or not.” I said with a laugh. “Hi. I’m one of them. My cousins the other.” Roman smiled.

“So you get it.” He teased. I nodded with a shrug. “Their big thing is wandering off and exploring. Last summer, got themselves stuck in a mineshaft. It was closed down. Boarded up. But not well enough really. They slipped in and their uncle and I had to go get em.” Roman shuddered. “Damn if I didn’t nearly shit my pants. Scared me outta my mind. Almost cried when we got them back.” Romans eyebrows went up and he chuckled. “Nearly shit myself again when their uncle brought a bear back to the cabin. Never going back up there again. At least with him.” My eyes went wide.

“he brought a bear to the cabin?” I asked in disbelief. Roman nodded. “Damn. Who chased it away?”

“well after the fight…i guess he did. Shot it in the ass and it ran off.” Roman shrugged.

“He fought the bear?” I cried, looking around when I realized how loud I was. Roman smiled sheepishly at me.

“Uh actually…” he held up a hand. “I’m the one who fought it. Kind of felt like I was fighting with my dick in my hand the way it didn’t do anything…” I leaned across the table and stared at him. “What? Is it the jokes? I can stop…”

“you fought off a bear?” I whispered harshly. Roman nodded. “A real live bear. You. Fought it off.”

“yeah.” He said, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“sorry but you don’t seem like the type.” I said, still raking my eyes over him.

“Yep.” He nodded in agreement. “I’m like 25 pounds overweight, can barely pick up my kids, and I swear sometimes I feel like I’m gonna lose it with the customers being assholes. But I did.” Roman listed off. I scoffed. “What?”

“at least you tried to fight the thing. What did your ex do? Or your brother in law until he shot the damn thing? What about his wife?” I shot back. Roman shrugged.

“yeah my in laws are something.” He muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at his watch. “I’ll uh let you get back to writing. My breaks nearly over. If you want something else to eat just let me know. On me.” He smiled at me as he stood up and took the empty plate with him. “I’ll be back with a refill.” I nodded as I watched him go. He refilled my cup, winking at me as I pulled my laptop back over and went back to work, new motivation flowing through me.

[shipthecarsons]

WAS IT A DREAM?

Elsie started slowly opening her eyes. The intensity and amount of light trying to pierce through her eyelids were unbearable.

In the end, she wasn’t as shocked as one would expect when she fully took in her surroundings. Maybe it was because she thought it was a dream or maybe it was because she knew she was very old, and that this day would have to come eventually.

“Elsie Carson?” She heard a man’s echoing voice. At first, she didn’t realise where it was coming from, but there was a ray of light showing her the way and so she followed it. She was holding her long nightgown up, her bare feet landing softly onto an unknown surface covered with clouds.

“Elsie Carson?” Said the man again once she appeared in front of him.

“Am I dead, Peter?” She recognised him immediately.

“Funnily enough, no. You are not dead Elsie.” Peter sniggered under his beard.

Elsie just narrowed her eyes, inhaling deeply, readying herself for whatever is to come.

“Good news for you, you are only here for a reference so to speak.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your husband who’s dead.”

Elsie cried out loud , trying to cover her crooked expression and wide-open mouth with her palm.

“How is that good news?” She said once she pulled herself together again.

“Well, perhaps not the best way to put it.” Peter ran his hand through his beard apologetically. “Good news is I think your reaction might be taken as a good sign-”

“Could you stop referring to things as good news-” Elsie stopped herself and added “-please,” playing with her long braided grey hair.

“I’m sorry, I won’t say it again.” He offered her a sympathetic smile.

“What am I here for then?”

“To vouch for him.”

“Ok.” She held her chest up high.

“The boss isn’t necessarily sure if he should let him in here.” Peter was studying his nails.

“Why ever not?”

“Let’s say your husband wasn’t always a kind man.”

“But he was.” She argued, her fists clutched together.

“Are you sure?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “Because according to our records, Charles Carson was a bit of a bully.”

“He might have made some mistakes in the past, but at heart he is a very good man.” She understood her assignment well and was eager to fight for him.

“Was a very good man.” Peter corrected her and then jumped slightly upon seeing fire growing behind her teary eyes. She could run the whole of hell, he thought, they’d love her down there.

“Well you just said he wasn’t.” She snapped back at him.

“I don’t think you getting clever with me will necessarily help your husband, Elsie.” Peter warned her steadily.

“Mr Carson was sometimes acting out due to the pressures of his job.” She decided to continue calmly.

“Is that an excuse, when he drove a man into committing suicide?”

Elsie swallowed loudly. “I don’t think that this situation is as black and white as you say” She bit her lips. “Mr Barrow always has been the author of his own misfortunes. Not everyone understood his nature, but I think Charlie did understand, as much as a man of his time could. When it came to his constructed dismissal, there was pressure from outside or rather upstairs and I know Charlie regretted it deeply afterwards.”

“Did he?”

“He did, he was upset for weeks.”

“Alright.”

“You’re not going to level with me?” Elsie asked carefully.

“Not necessarily, we just want to hear what you’ve got to say, whether it’s enough or not is another question. We already heard his poor arguments, and that’s why he had to call you in.”

“He called me in?” Elsie stepped closer to Peter as if she was hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband behind the gate.

Saint Peter looked behind his shoulder and back at her. “He’s not here now.” He shuddered at seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he got up and walked around a bit. “But we asked him for suggestions. Suggestions of people that see him for who he really is. When he put you forward, God wasn’t best pleased. There is a reason why people say ‘love is blind’ he never lets spouses and lovers vouch for people, they can never stay objective.”

“Then why am I here?” Elsie was blinking fast in confusion.

“I insisted.” Peter admitted as he was sitting back down in his highchair.

“You did?”

“I like you. I like you a lot because you remind me of me.”

“Why.” Elsie was baffled.

“Your keys for one.” He pointed his finger toward her hip.

Elsie suddenly felt her keys heaving her down, dangling by her thigh. She looked down only to realise she was wearing her housekeeper outfit out of the blue (literally).

“You are very fair, and you guard the house, and most importantly people, the same way I do with Heaven.”

“I see.” Elsie didn’t know how to take such a compliment.

“So I wanted to see you, see how you fight for your sinful man.”

“Sinful, is that what you call him up here?” Elsie had to laugh sarcastically.

“We do now, but that’s why you’re here, to prove us wrong.”

“Try me.”

“What about Mr Molesley then? The poor man only needed a job, a few shillings to survive… Yet your husband was adamant in not hiring him.”

“He hired him in the end.”

“Then bullied him for wanting to be the first footman, then bullied him some more for wanting to change his career…” Peter raised his eyebrows. “The list goes on, Elsie, I’m waiting.”

“Well… he…” She needed a minute to gather her words.

“I can see you agree with me, Elsie, I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’m not ashamed to admit I think his behaviour was wrong, but I also remember he had to deal with other things at the time. Alfred was leaving, for one, his favourite subordinate.” She explained. “He would never let on it made him upset, but it did. Then the tremors started and he was terrified he might not be able to do his job properly.”

“So?”

“Well it’s only human, no?”

“Is that your argument, Elsie?”

“I’m sure he regretted it afterwards.”

“That’s a bit better.”

“He was kind and helped Mr Molesley on many other occasions.”

“Give us an example.”

“He erm-“

Saint Peter just laughed.

“He guided him through his work. He always looked out for all of his subordinates.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.” Elsie stood her ground not willing to budge.

“What about Miss O’Brian, Daisy, Jimmy, or even your friend Mrs Patmore?”

“I am not sure why you are mentioning Miss O’Brian and Jimmy, whatever treatment they got from my husband they thoroughly deserved” She said sternly.

“Alright, what about the other ones?” Peter was testing her.

“You know he learned through his mistakes. Maybe a little slower at times. That surely doesn’t make him worthy of hell!” She wailed the last sentence with such urgency. Tears started falling from her eyes again like raindrops.

“Hmm.” Saint Peter was gaping at her for a few moments as she was quietly whimpering, before he continued. “Why don’t you give me an example then? An example of his kindness.”

“There is myriad of examples.”

“A person then, that he was kind to.”

“I mentioned Alfred already didn’t I.”

“You mean the boy he was unnecessarily rude to for having bad relatives?”

“You call it rudeness I call it caution.” She claimed decisively. “And he gave him a chance and became a good friend and a sort of father figure to him.”

“Hmm.” Peter was observing her with interest. She really was quite determined.

“And what about the family and lady Mary? He was nothing but kind to them.” She was still sniffling a bit but her voice was steady.

“At the expense of others perhaps.”

“Not always.” She corrected him.

“At the expense of you for example.” Peter probed her.

She looked him in the eye and frowned.

“Or your friend, Mrs Patmore.”

“Hm.” Elsie ran her tongue over her teeth thinking. “I know what you’re doing, but you are never going turn me against him.” She exclaimed.

Saint Peter just smiled slyly.

“Charlie’s always been so kind to Lady Mary, even when she was a little girl.” She tried to hide her own feelings regarding that matter even though she suspected Peter knew. “He protected the family no matter what, he did his duty more than very well.”

“Well-“ He wanted to continue bit she jumped in.

“He always guided and set an example to all of his and my staff.”

“Including Mr Branson?”

“He warmed to Mr Branson in the end, and he was never unkind to him.”

“Because of you.”

Elsie bit her lips again. “Why should that make a difference.”

“Do you not think it should?”

“Surely not.” Elsie rolled her eyes in frustration.

“Why not?” Peter kept being insistent.

“Because it’s still the same kindness coming from within his heart and not mine.” She shook her head and earned a smile from the saint.

“Very well then,” Peter started again. “That’s his kindness towards others but what about you, Elsie? What about his lack of kindness towards you?”

“There’s always been more than plenty of kindness in our marriage - never a lack.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Saint Peter just raised his eyebrows.

“I never complained.” She gradually succumbed to his omnipresent judgement.

“Never?” His eyebrows were so high they seemed to be floating just above his forehead.

“No.” Elsie said inaudibly, swallowing her nerves.

“Not even to Beryl Patmore?” He reminded her.

“Well-“

“I didn’t ask you here to fabricate a wishful story-“ Peter thundered but the housekeeper interrupted him.

“Maybe one or two times I complained.” Elsie was now fidgeting with her skirt. “But we always resolved it in the end.” She added with fervour. “We love-d each other dearly.”

“Hmm, I see.” He backed down a tad.

“To me he is…” She dithered. “He was a kind husband, a loving companion, a caring friend…”

“And?” Peter sensed she had something on the tip of her tongue.

“…and a selfless lover.” She added proudly, unashamed. She never felt as loved and worshiped as she felt during their nights of passion.

“I’ve seen better.” Peter said levelly after a moment of awkward silence.

“I didn’t know you watched!” Elsie looked up at him - embarrassment now replaced by exasperation.

“Well-“ Peter started blushing as well. “We see everything.” He cleared his throat hoping they’d change the subject soon.

“Well then you must know.” She started again with passion. “Then you must know what a kind man he is-“ She continued reiterating everything that she already said and more. And Saint Peter just sat there, listening until he raised his hand to stop her heartfelt monologue.

“I’ve heard enough!” He rumbled decisively but also offered her a proud smile.

“I-“ Elsie found it hard to suddenly stop talking.

“Thank you, Elsie,” He said and pulled a lever covered with pearls beside him.

It opened a double-door under Elsie’s feet and she fell through it within seconds.

Then she opened her eyes again. She was back in their cottage, in their comfy bed. It was still dark. She could sense her husband’s body laying next to her. She turned to face him and hugged him from behind, whispering “I love you so much, Charlie.” He didn’t respond and she squeezed him tighter. “Charlie?” She checked after a moment and then panicked. “Charlie?” Her blood turned cold as silence prevailed…

[meowmeow-motherfucker]

The Fox & the Squirrel- Chapter 14

Summary: Chasing yet another demon in a long line of hunts, the Winchesters get help from an unlikely source. But their new recruit isn’t exactly who she says she is. Savannah is used to looking over her shoulder. Life in hiding doesn’t leave much room for enjoyment, but traveling with the Winchesters just may give her a new lease on life.

Fic pairing: Dean Winchester/OFC Savannah Hart

Trigger warnings: elements of horror and witchcraft, references to past torture/trauma, Crowley is a dick, lies and deception, mutual pining, flirting, sex, typical Winchester shenanigans.

Read it on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242644/chapters/37972217

“Absolutely not.” 

     “Please Savannah? It's the easiest way for us to get in and investigate.” Sam pleaded. 

     “Once again, absolutely not! ” Savannah hissed, turning her angry gaze from the strip club to the back of Sam's head. The Impala sat idling on the rainy street, Dean wisely keeping quiet as he watched the heated exchange between Savannah and his brother. 

     “Look, we need to get in-”

     “I agree, but this is not the way to do it!” 

     “Yes it is!”

     “No it's not! Believe it or not, this job has a skill requirement- yes it does, Dean, shut up- and that is not a skill I possess!”

     “Oh come on, it can't be that hard!” Dean argued.

     “Well by all means Dean, if that's how you feel then you do it!” Dean visibly paled at the challenge.

     “I mean...I don't exactly have the right equipment…” 

     “And this isn't that kind of establishment, so we are once again at square one.” Sam turned in his seat to glare at Savannah. 

     “What do want me to do Sam? I can't just snap my fingers and magically know how to pole dance.”

     “Well let's canvas the town, maybe there's a dance studio that offers lessons,” Sam suggested. “I know it's not great, but it's the best we've got. People are dying, Savannah.”

     “Oh my god, fine. Fine! Let’s just get settled for the night.” Savannah grouched, sinking back into her seat and grumbling about stupid stripper-killing monsters.

~~~~

     “Savannah? How's it going?” Sam knocked on the bathroom door.

     “Don't you dare rush me, Sam!” Savannah called through the door. She’d been working at the club for a week, strictly as a server while she took intensive pole-dancing lessons. Even for someone like Savannah it was fucking exhausting. But tonight was different. Tonight, Savannah had been scheduled as a dancer, and she couldn’t be more nervous. 

     “Are you okay?”

     “No! I'm really uncomfortable with this whole situation. I don't know how to do this, Sam! I hate being the center of attention and I hate people! I don't know how to-to flirt and be sexy.”

     “What can I do to help?” Sam asked. 

     “Next time there's a case that requires one of us to take our clothes off, you're doing it.”

     “Okay,” Sam shrugged. “Or we could make Dean do it.”

     “What am I doing?” 

     “Stripping.”

     “What’s the big deal about it?” 

     “She's nervous, Dean. You could be a little more supportive.” Sam shot his brother an angry look. Dean shrugged apologetically.

     “I guess I don't understand.” 

     “Well bully for you Dean; why don't you quit hunting and become a fucking Chippendale then?” Savannah hissed from the bathroom. “I think I'm gonna puke.” 

     “You can do this, Savannah.” Sam tried to boost her morale, frowning when he heard her groan on the other side of the door.

     “Can I stab people if they try to touch me?” She asked timidly. “I really don't think I can handle people touching me.”

     “If you can find a way to conceal a knife, you go right ahead and stab people,” Sam laughed. “But really, you shouldn't have to worry about people touching you. It's against the rules and there's security there to keep you safe.”

     “Plus you and Dean.”

     “Plus me and Dean,” Sam nodded. “It's only for a little while. We'll keep you safe.”

     “Fine, but don't look at me.” Savannah said. 

     “Well uh...we kinda have to in order to-yeah, okay, we won't look! Everything will be fine!” Sam backpedaled when Savannah groaned loudly. 

     “You two owe me big time after this!” She shouted. “Can I have my coat please?” 

     “Yep! Getting it right now!” Sam scurried to collect her coat, dutifully looking away when she cracked the door open to take it from him. “You good?”

     “Let's get this over with before I change my mind.” Savannah sighed.

~~~~

     “You gotta stop doin’ that,” Dean chided Savannah sharply. “It's freaking me out.”

     “Oh you're nervous for me? How thoughtful of you.” Savannah hissed. 

     “I'm just saying, you're gonna give yourself away. You can spot your nerves a mile away.” Dean put a hand on the knee she was bouncing.

     “Gee, maybe it's because I'm nervous!” Savannah swiped his glass of whiskey and emptied it. “I don't do this, Dean. I barely talk to people, let alone show off...this.” she gestured to herself in agitation.

     “You talk to us.” 

     “Yeah, and before we met I was a shut in who tried to skate through the day by drawing as little attention to herself as possible. Maybe this is easy for you but it's not for me so please just shut up.” 

     “I'm just trying to help.”

     “I know!” Savannah exploded angrily, immediately looking sheepish when he flinched. “I’m sorry. I know you're trying to help, but you can't. This room is full of men who are looking at me like they want to eat me alive and I feel like a lamb on the killing floor-God, I'm actually going to be sick.”

     “Okay, okay, okay,” Dean dragged Savannah's chair closer to his, pulling her rigid frame against his chest. “Sam, take a walk.”

     “Yep.” Sam grabbed their empty glasses and disappeared into the crowd. 

     “Listen, obviously there's a story here and you don't have to tell me anything, okay? Just tell me how I can help you.”

     “I don't know,” Savannah murmured into his jacket. “I'm really scared, Dean.”

     “I know, sweetheart. But Sam's here, and I'm here. We're not gonna let anything happen to you.” 

     “I know you won’t, I just-.”

     “Flashbacks?”

     “Yeah.” Dean let Savannah cling to him, rubbing her back as he scanned the room. He spotted Sam by the bar, being chatted up by a scantily clad waitress. He was stalling; he had no idea what to say to Savannah. There had to be something, some piece of advice she could wear like armor. 

     “If you had to choose between Velma Kelly or Roxie Hart, who would you choose?” he asked, struck by sudden inspiration.

     “Velma,” Savannah replied instantly. “She's my favorite.”

     “Okay, let me ask you this- Velma's husband travelled with her, right? So presumably he went to her shows?”

     “I guess?”

     “Let’s say he went to her shows then, and he definitely saw her dancing for other men which probably wasn't the greatest-”

     “What's your point Dean?”

     “Well ultimately, what's-his-name would have supported Velma, right? And maybe there would have been times she was nervous, but she could find him in the crowd and know things would be okay.”

     “What?”

     “You know, cause they were a team and...at the end of the night, they went home together.”

     “Dean...Velma Kelly killed her husband because she caught him fucking her sister.”

     “Whatever, that’s not the point. The point is: no matter what happens here, you’re going home with me and Sam,” Dean promised. “I mean...not in the same context, obviously, but you see my point.”

     “I guess...” 

     “Okay, think of it this way; do you think Velma Kelly ever got stage fright?” 

     “God no, she's fearless.” Savannah laughed. 

     “There you go. Be Velma.” Dean suggested.

     “I can't just be Velma, Dean.” 

     “Sure you can! I bet it'd be as easy as breathing. Goodbye Savannah, hello Velma. Temporarily, of course.” 

     “Of course.” Savannah snorted. 

     “Well yeah, Savannah is much more fun than Velma.”

     “Really? You don't think Velma would be better?”

     “God no, Velma is terrifying,” Dean shook his head. “It is kinda bad ass though, how she owned her sexuality and the way she used it to take control of her destiny.”

     “Yeah,” Savannah grinned. “It is.”

     “So maybe...just pick somebody, and pretend they're your...what's his name again?”

     “Charlie.”

     “Of course it is,” Dean muttered bitterly, brushing off Savannah's confused look with a shake his head. “Alright, so...find a Charlie. Don't worry about anyone else.”

~~~~

     Savannah stood backstage, practicing deep breathing exercises to keep herself calm. It was a little hard to focus when she was still unpacking Dean’s behavior out on the floor- the bitterness in his voice at the mention of Charlie gave her pause. She’d gotten the impression of a lot of things going through his mind at once; he was feeling hurt, jealous of Charlie, guilty about the jealousy because he wanted Charlie to be happy, and conflicted because he wanted Savannah for himself but thought her untouchable because of her involvement with Charlie. The man’s head was busy, and it made things even more complicated for Savannah to navigate the precarious position she’d put herself in. 

     She was trying to take Dean's advice to mentally replace herself with Velma Kelly: inhale- Velma, exhale- Savannah, repeat, but her knees still felt like jelly. She tried to visualize the opening song and soak up the confidence Velma exhibited. As she hummed All That Jazz to herself, the trembling subsided and she was left with a sense of determination. She could do this, and do it well. Maybe being a succubus could have advantages after all. 

     Embrace it. Be it. She heard her stage name being called and turned on her best catwalk. Once she was at the pole, she scanned the crowd, looking for Dean. 

     There!

     He seemed surprised when she winked at him. But honestly, who else would she have looked for? It was always going to be Dean. With his green eyes focused on her, she found she didn't care as much about the other men in the room.

     Huh. Guess he was right. He's going to be insufferable later.

     Her eyes were drawn to one of the servers. The woman was weaving through the crowd seamlessly as a human, but Savannah could see her true face. It was a wraith, just like they thought. Savannah found Dean's eyes, directing her gaze to her left rapidly before returning to his face. Dean stared back at her, apparently clueless. Huffing in annoyance, Savannah signaled him again, mentally screaming at him to look over there!

     He made no move, and the opening notes of her song pounded through the speakers. Savannah couldn't stall any longer. 

     Embrace it. Be it. Be Velma. 

     With a final exhale, she started to dance.

~~~~

     Dean blanched when Savannah winked at him from the stage. Oh. She'd taken his advice and found a Charlie. It was him. That made him feel about ten different things at once: pride, lust...definitely smug when he saw how the other men in the club were looking at her. Eat your hearts out, ya bastards, she’s goin’ home with me. 

     “You okay?” he heard Sam ask. 

     “Yep. Yeah. 'M’good.” Dean stammered, earning a stern look from Sam.

     “Kay, I'm gonna do a sweep. Stay focused.” Dean rolled his eyes as Sam melted into the crowded room, settling back into his seat to watch the show.

     Oh I’ll stay focused alright. His eyes went wide as Savannah executed a complicated looking spin. Wait, when did she learn to do that?! That's not fair! Shit. Okay, think about Sam- or hunting! Yes, hunting! Ghouls can only be killed by fire, Djinns have to be stabbed with a silver knife dipped in lambs blood, vampires have to be beheaded.

     “You still good?” Sam reappeared, making Dean jump. “Dude are you okay?”

     “Yeah. Fine,” Dean grunted, shifting in his chair to hide the tent in his jeans. “Anything?”

     “Not yet. Maybe Savannah's seen something.” Dean vaguely remembered Savannah trying to signal him, but toward what, he couldn't recall. 

     “We'll have to wait til she gets off stage to ask.” 

     “I'll make another round.” 

~~~~

     “Fantasy? Really?” Dean scoffed when Savannah sidled up to his chair.

     “It was what came to mind.” Savannah shrugged. 

     “How ya doin’?” He asked.

     “Velma.” Savannah tapped her temple, flashing a small smile. 

     “Oh I see you did take my advice. Glad that worked out for you.” Savannah rolled her eyes.

     “Knew you'd be insufferable.”

     “Fantasy! I ain't payin’ you to stand around!” The manager barked. 

     “Shit.” Savannah jumped. “I have to go.” 

     “Wait, I need to talk to you about the case!” Dean said. 

     “Dean if you want me to stay you’re gonna have to pay me,” Savannah hissed. “The manager is watching me like a hawk.” 

     “Oh. Right,” Dean blanched as he realized what that meant. “Uh...one second.” he dug out his wallet and fished out all the cash inside, offering it to her without so much as batting an eye. 

     “Jesus, Dean,” Savannah double counted the cash in disbelief. “There’s like $250 here.”

     “And?” 

     “That’s enough for like five lap dances!” 

     “Guess you’d better get to work then.” Dean couldn’t resist teasing her with a wink. 

     “Shut up.” Savannah grumbled, folding the bills he’d handed her and tucking them inside her top. “I’ll keep your money safe for you.” 

     “Not worried about it,” Dean replied, his eyes focused on her breasts. “So uh...what do you need me to do?” he asked as if he hadn’t done this a million times before. 

     “Sit down,” Savannah laughed, pushing him back into the chair with a hand on his shoulder. “And tell me what you know.” 

     “O-okay. Well uh...we still don’t know a whole lot. Have...you...I.D.’d who we’re after?” he asked, ignoring the appreciation for her outfit that was steadily growing in his pants. 

     “We’re after one of the staff members. Female with brown hair. She seems mid- to late-twenties,” Savannah said, running her hand across his shoulders as she stepped behind him. She appeared on his other side, and planted a booted foot between his spread thighs, gyrating her hips to the beat of the song. “Hair up or down?” she asked.

     “What?” Dean asked dumbly, letting his eyes wander up from her hips to her face, his face warming at the knowing look on her face. 

     “Down it is,” Savannah decided for him, tugging her hair free from its confines and shaking the strands loose. Dean, still enraptured by the movement of her hips, barely noticed her hand brushing through his hair until she tugged his head toward her crotch. 

     “Jesus Christ!” She released him just as quickly, giving him a light push back into the chair. Dean grunted in surprise when her hair whipped him across the face as she spun. So much was happening at once he didn’t know where to look. He audibly gasped when she climbed into his lap, resting her weight on her knees as she straddled his thighs. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she leaned into him, her fingers trailing through his hair. 

     “Focus, Dean.” she purred. 

     “Oh, I’m focused, sweetheart,” he muttered, drawing his eyes down the length of her. He was painfully hard and it was difficult to keep his train of thought going. “Soooooo focused.” 

     “Is that right?” Savannah giggled, pressing in closer to whisper in his ear. “Then what did I say, Dean?” she nipped at his earlobe, reveling in the thrill of power she felt when he shuddered. 

     “Uh...staff. Lady. Brown...hair?” he replied brokenly, making a noise of disappointment when she pulled away.

     “Close enough,” Savannah curled her fingers around his chin, gently guiding his line of sight from her body to the room. “Watch the room, Dean.” she ordered.

     “Whatever you say sweetheart.” 

     “DEAN!” They both flinched at Sam’s thunderous shout, looking toward the source of the noise to see Sam chasing the brunette staff member from earlier into the back.

     “That’s her!” Savannah said, taking off in their direction with a cursing Dean shambling after. 

     They caught up with Sam just in time to see him kill the wraith. Thankfully the back hallway was empty apart from them, the emergency exit leading to the alley behind the club mercifully close. 

     “Go on out to the car, we got this.” Dean tossed Savannah the keys to the Impala.

     “Awesome, these shoes hurt like a bitch.” Savannah caught the keys in midair, quickly sashaying away to the dressing room. She threw on her coat, and walked out the back door, pretending she didn’t see Sam and Dean shoving the wraith’s body into the dumpster and setting it on fire. She rounded the building to where Baby was parked and ducked inside the car, groaning with relief when she plopped facedown on the backseat. 

     By the time Sam and Dean got to the car, she'd recovered enough to turn the radio on.

     “Wow, your taste in music sucks. 4 Non Blondes, really?” Dean rolled his eyes as he and Sam settled into the front seats. Savannah, too busy singing along with Linda Perry to reply, flipped him off.

     “Fuck you, I love this song.” She finally said during the bridge.

     “Yeah well, this song sucks.”

     “Your face sucks.” Savannah scoffed. 

     “So mature.”

     “Shut up, I'm a goddamn delight. Here’s your money back.” Savannah held out the wad of cash for him to take back. Dean plucked the bills from between her fingers and pulled out his wallet to put it back. As he tucked it inside, he noticed two of the fifties were missing.

     “Tipped yourself, huh?” he teased.

     “I think I earned it.” Savannah cackled.

     “Yeah, you did.” Dean grinned as he started the car, easing them out into the street and back to the hotel. He needed a cold shower if he was gonna sleep next to Savannah tonight.

[sevi007]

So I’ve been working my new job – an IT-support hotline, well, okay, a very limited category of IT-support, only for the products our company offers – for three months now and just realized I never rambled about it on here, so.

Have some funny outtakes from hours and hours of phone calls (and one kind of sad one):

   Customer: “Fair warning, miss – I’m an old man, so explaining all this computer stuff to me will take a while!”

Me: “Alright then, fair warning back – I’ve only been working this job for three months now, so might be that we have to figure out some stuff as we go.”

Customer: “HAH, what a pair we make!”

   Waiting to see if the problem is now fixed

Customer: “We should do a prayer circle or something. You got any candles?”

Me: “A prayer circle with only two people is kind of pathetic, no?”

Customer: “Well, yeah, with that attitude for sure!”

Me: “So sorry to ruin the moment!”

 Same Customer, half an hour later, problem fixed: “Thank GOD – is there some kind of feedback chart I can fill out for you? You’re getting gold stars all over.”

Me: “Even though I didn’t do a prayer circle with you?”

Customer: “I will let it slide this once. Gold stars all around.”

   Customer: “Welp, since we gotta wait until that software does its job – might have to flirt with each other to pass the time.”

Me, as ace as they freaking come: “Wrong address for that, sir. I can ask a colleague to take over for me though?”

   Customer: “Has anybody ever told you that you have such a nice, calming voice? I mean. I feel like I’m drinking a sleeping draught, here.”

Me: “That makes me sound like I’m boring you to sleep.”

Customer: “If I start snoring, don’t be offended, that’s a compliment.”

   Customer: “I’ve been kicked out of the call for no reason for the fourth time today!”

Me: “Oh. Want to see how far we get in trouble shooting before it kicks you again?”

Customer starts laughing so loudly I have to take the phone away from my ear. “Miss, I like the attitude!”

(He did get kicked out three more times, but we fixed his problem)

   Angry Customer, as soon as I pick up the phone: “Oh, no, no!”

Me: “Sir? What is the-…”

Customer: “No, I want a man on the phone. Get me one of your colleagues on the phone!”

At that point I had already been warned that computers and stuff are still considered a “man’s job” for some people, so sometimes, there’s the rare customer who does not a woman helping him. I had been advised to just hand the call over. Me, perplexed dork that I am, just blurt out: “Would it help you if I talked with a deeper voice, or…?”

Let’s say HE was not happy, but my colleague nearby burst out laughing so hard he had to skip the next phone call.

   Customer: “… and so I told your colleague he has to pass me over to you, Miss Sevi, because you already know I’m a hopeless case!”

Me: “Mister Smith, we talked about this – no badmouthing my favourite customer, please.”

Customer: “I’m literally calling you every two days with another problem.”

Me: “Yea, and it makes my day. So hush. Let’s fix your problem now.”

   Customer, super nice elderly lady: “I like talking to you, you know. You’re so kind and patient.”

Me: “Aw, thank you. You’re also a very nice customer.”

Customer: “You know. You remind me a lot of my granddaughter.... I miss her every day.”

Me, after an “aw fudge” moment: “Ma’am? Do you maybe want to call again?”

Customer: “Can I? Not too often, I know you’re busy of course-…”

Me: “I will find the time. Just ask for me, okay?”

(We have been talking once a week now. Like, ten minutes, just talking about her day, or some funny moments I had in the office, but she seems to love it. I haven’t told my boss, so shhhh)

[reflection-s-of-stars]

Along the Road

Or, Rose Red meets the Fiddler and talks with the Pusher, across four generations. A gift fic for @lucemiir, for the Malloysical secret Santa!

1.

The world was covered in brilliant white snow. The only non-white colors as far as the eye could see were the dark gray of hearth smoke and the crimson scarf that just peeked into Red’s vision. There might have been other things she missed, but her glasses were so fogged she couldn’t see a damn thing. She hadn’t counted on being outside in the middle of December.

She also hadn’t counted on being exiled from her village for murder, had she?

The council had picked the right time to do it, too. The ocean was far too cold to gather any salt, and the village could survive without her in the spring. They wouldn’t miss Red for anything.

She’d miss her village, though, if only for the food and shelter that it gave her when she couldn’t work. And now that was gone…

Red forced herself to open her eyes. She was following the River, and she couldn’t let herself off her course. If there were any other villages to be found, they’d be along the River just like hers. In the white dead of December, someone would want to offer her a meal.

It occurred to Red for the first time that her sister must have floated along this exact route. She smirked. She could picture Pearlie even now- dead on the water, golden skin showing only on her long, bony limbs, thin brown hair pulled from its neat braid.

Two black eyes, nowhere to be seen.

And her body must have washed up on the little bank here, and been seen by the man who lived in the house just a few yards away. Red could tell it was a man. No self-respecting woman would ever leave her home un-decorated so close to New Year’s.

Well, if the house was wanting for a woman, she could most certainly do that job. Red knocked at the door, feeling the little bits of warmth through the walls, listening for footsteps.

2.

“Wanna play twister?”

Eddie has stuff to do tonight. So does Pearl, apparently, so Brent is at the apartment Rose normally shares with her boyfriend. Rose doesn’t know why the two of them don’t hang out more often.

“I don’t think you can play twister with two people,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Who would win?”

“It’s just for fun,” Rose retorts. “But I suppose we could just talk, if you want.”

“Please. Do you have any whiskey?”

“Boy, do I!”

Brent likes Evan Williams. Rose is partial to Jameson herself, but she has nothing against the former, even if it is suspiciously cheap. Most of her glasses are in the dishwasher, but Eddie bought two new ones last week, she’s sure of it.

“Hey, Brent?”

“Hm?”

“If you see two big glasses with little red swirlies on them, will you let me know?”

“Swirlies?”

Rose sighs. “I dunno what else to call them, wise guy.”

“Well, if you mean whorls, they’re right here on your table.”

“Sweet,” shouts Rose, bursting through the door with a big bottle of Evan Williams. “Now we can have a proper drink.”

“Please.”

3.

The first thing Red noticed upon entering the house was its roaring fireplace. Thank the gods, she said to herself. I was liable to die of hypothermia out in that nightmare.

The next thing she saw was the very confused face of the man who let her in.

“I don’t mean to intrude on whatever you’re… doing in my house,” the fellow said flatly, holding his door open. “But this isn’t a tavern, miss, and I’m not sure why you’re treating it as such, and please don’t put your feet on my-”

Red had already swung her boots onto the coffee table.

“…That’s really nice mahogany.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me the meaning of all this, then?”

The gentleman had green eyes. Green, green, green like envy, green like the trees that had long stopped growing in Red’s village. Green, her opposite.

“I was exiled from my village two days ago and I’ve been trying to find somewhere to stay,” Red stated, trying to match his nonchalant tone. “The taverns won’t let me in, so I was just following the River and I found your place. Dunno if I can stay, but you’ve got a real nice fire going, so…”

He just looked at Red, if only for a moment. They’re not quite green, she thought. Hazel, more like. Or a yellowy-green, but that’s being generous.

“Why were you exiled?”

“What’s that?”

“Why were you-”

“Oh, just look at the color on that fiddle,” she cried, pretending not to have heard. “What is it, beech?”

His eyes lit up. “Would you believe me if I told you it was made of bone?”

Bone, bone, bone…

Red was too tired to put the pieces together.

“Tell me more.”

4.

“And all they ever found was the money and the clip-on tie!”

Rose can’t help but hide a smirk. She was expecting Brent to be able to hold his liquor. Either that, or he’d be a flirt or something. Maybe a really angry drunk, but never this.

“Really,” she says, making her eyes as wide as saucers. It’s a little like talking to a child, if the child was obsessed with DB Cooper.

“Really! Well, they didn’t find all the money. But this- this- ugh, just a sec-”

Brent pauses to reach for the long-empty bottle of Evan Williams. He sighs at its lightness, instead turning to Rose’s Jameson. He’s been through that routine at least six times since the bottle emptied. Rose doesn’t even mind, as long as it keeps him talking. This is hilarious.

“This little kid found a bunch of twenty-dollar bills in Tina Bar. Serial numbers all matched, and lemme tell you- everyone freaked out.”

“I mean, I would too.”

“Right?”

“Right, man!”

“Hello?”

Pearl is here to pick up her roommate. For all the time Rose has lived in this apartment, her sister is still apprehensive coming inside. Pearl isn’t afraid of a lot of things. It’s weird. Her eyes are weird. They’re so dark you can’t see where the pupil ends and the iris begins. They’ve always confused Rose.

Rose is also pretty tipsy right now.

“Come in,” she shouts. “Door’s unlocked, Pearlie, and you gotta hear this.”

“Hey, Pearl,” Brent slurs. “Did you know that DB Cooper-”

“Yes.”

It didn’t occur to Rose that Pearl has probably heard all of this a jillion times before. It must get old.

“We should probably get going,” says Pearl, facial expression barely moving. “It’s freezing outside.”

“D’you want my scarf?”

Both Rose and Pearl turn to look at the crimson scarf hanging on the wall. Rose hasn’t worn it in years. It’s old enough that she couldn’t give less of a crap if her sister never gave it back.

“Thanks, Rosie,” says Pearl with a little smile. “You stay warm, okay?”

[abbatoirablaze]

SDAU-My Best Friend's Brother, Chapter 2

Word Count:  2k

“No fucking way!” Ransom wrapped his arms around Charles, accepting the Sigma into the party, “What the hell are you doing here, Blackwood?  You never show up when we invite you to the party!  I can’t believe that those pushy sigmas let you out of the house to come play with the big boys!”

“Charles!”

Ransom’s brow raised when Loki met them at the door, his arms wrapping around the human.  Charles hugged Loki, and when he backed up, Loki pulled him in for an excited kiss.  The sophomore smiled, pulling Loki back against his chest.

“So that’s a thing…” Ransom smirked, pointing at the freshman and the sophomore, “you wrecking my pledge’s ass for fun or for sport there, Blackwood?”

“Loki is my mate!” Charles proclaimed, giving Ransom and the other freshman who was at the door a confident look.  The freshman gave him a pained one in return and turned his attention back to his job, opening the door for the next set of people arriving for the party. Charles frowned, his immediate thought that the freshman he’d recognized as one of the new football players didn’t accept his sexuality.

“Don’t worry about Buck…he’s going through a pretty rough break-up…his boyfriend was…well is one of your pledges…Steve…he’s an omega lion,” Loki offered, pulling him more into the place, “so it’s not what you think.  Come on, let me get you a drink, Charles.”

“So…when did this happen?” Ransom asked, following closely behind the two men, his own curious nature and want to stir the pot coming forward. 

“We uh-“

“We’ve been dating since the first week of practice!” Charles answered, cutting Loki off.  Loki stopped, and turned around to face him, a look of happiness on his face.  Charles could vaguely hear the rumble in his chest, but could feel it assuredly vibrating up his arm, “D-did I say something wrong, Loki?”

“Y-you want to be dating me?”

“Yeah…”

“You two are cute,” Ransom teased, gently pushing the two men, “don’t go breaking my fellow pledge brother…but you…Laufeyson, break him so I can pitch our first game.  That’s an order, pledge.”

Both men laughed at how Ransom was teasing them, before he parted from them. 

“I’m sorry about Ransom…he-he’s different outside of the team…as you can see,”Loki apologized, pulling his boyfriend into the kitchen where the drinks were, “and I’m sorry about not calling you my boyfriend…I just…we haven’t talked about it and I know you wanted to take things slow.  Sometimes us shifters can go too fast into a relationship, since we can tell who our mates are, and I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Yeah…about that,” Charles smiled, a blush rising to his cheeks about the thought of what he wanted to do with his boyfriend, “do-do you think that maybe we can go to your dorm?  Like cut out a little bit earlier?  Or do you have to stay for the whole party?”

“I-is everything okay?” he asked nervously. 

“Yeah…I-I just want to try something…”

Loki smiled, his arm wrapping around Charles’ waist.  Every time that Charles had said that he ‘wanted to try something,’ it usually ended in Charles spending the night and both men pleasuring each other until the early hours of the morning, “we can do whatever you want, mate.”

Loki lay pinned to his bed, his boyfriend above him, thrusting deep into his ass.  His eyes rolled back into his skull as his thrusts were met in perfect timing with the hand that Charles had snaked around his waist to pump Loki.  With every firm stroke, Charles’ cock hit his prostate, sending the wolf into yet another dizzying tightrope walk between staying coherent and a string of orgasms he’d been fighting off. 

“Ch-Ch-Char-Charles.  Oh, fuck,” the wolf growled, his rumbles spilling from his chest while his cock leaked cum all over his sheets, “mate….I-oh, god, right there!  Please…please don’t stop!”

“I’m not stopping baby boy!”

“Don’t stop daddy!  Please!”  

But the coup de gras happened when Charles’ playful kisses and nips to his boyfriend’s shoulder turned into a bite, hard enough to break the skin, right over his mating gland as the lovers came together. 

Loki felt the world open up to him, as his bond coursed through his veins.  Charles had marked him, and claimed him as his mate, which made his own orgasm barrel through him like an oncoming train, “MATE! CHARLES!”

Charles’ hips bucked one final time, stuttering as his warm seed filled his partner.  He released Loki’s neck just long enough to start lapping at the wound.  Loki shuddered under his boyfriend’s touch.  He knew that Charles was a human, and the act itself might have seemed too primordial, but Loki felt all the emotion behind it. 

He saw the hours Charles had spent talking to friends and researching the importance of shifters marking one another when they mated.

He could feel the love behind the action.   

“Ch-Charles…”

He tried to reach back behind himself, a half coherent attempt to hold his boyfriend even closer.  Charles grabbed Loki’s hand, kissing it gently as he rolled them to their sides. 

“I know baby,” he said gently as he pulled out and laid behind his boyfriend, spooning him, “I-I want this.  I want to share everything with you.”

Loki turned around, feeling lost in his boyfriend’s warmth, “Y-you marked me…”

“I want you to know I’m serious about us,” Charles promised, “I-I did a lot of research about shifters…and I asked my best friend about it…he said that if I loved you, and I was sure that we’re mates…that I could claim you…”

“Y-you told your best friend about us?” Loki’s voice nearly betrayed him.  He knew that Charles was his brother’s best friend.  And he wanted to find a way to tell him, but he just couldn’t muster the strength of it.  He didn’t want to put Charles in a bind.  His hand reached out to him, and Charles smiled softly at him, “you told Tom?”

Charles bit his lip, “I-I didn’t…he knows I’m in a relationship though.  He-“

“Thinks I’m some girl, doesn’t he?”

“I’m telling him I’m gay in the morning…I-I don’t want our relationship to be a secret anymore,” Charles replied, cradling his boyfriend’s face.  He-he’s graduating and all, but I still want him to know you. You’re my everything, Loki.”

“T-there’s something I need to tell you, Charles,” he sighed, “an-and I think maybe I should have told you before I let you mark me…but-“

“Nothing could change how I feel about you, Loki,” Charles said sweetly as he stroked his boyfriend’s cheek, “I love you.”

Loki’s breath hitched in his throat, “you-you love me?”

“With all my heart, Loki…I love you more than life itself.”

“Charles…Tom…he-he’s my brother…”

Charles brow furrowed, “what?”

He could smell the slightly acidic taste of confusion on his mate’s scent.  He could feel the gears turning in his head as the bond linked them, “I-I get it if you regret marking me bec-“

“Loki, that doesn’t change that I love you!” he said confidently, cutting his boyfriend off with a kiss, “T-Tom is my best friend…but you’re my future…I want us to be full mates.  I-I want you to mark me too, and-“

“I want to wait to mark you,” Loki admitted after a moment, “I-I appreciate that you’re wanting to respect shifter ritual…but I want to do it right by your side too.  Marking is like marriage, Charles…I-“

“I want to marry you, Loki…I’m sure of it!” Charles exclaimed, kissing his boyfriend, “I want you, and only you, Loki.”

“I want that too…”

“Then it’s settled…” Charles smiled, “tomorrow, I’ll tell Tom about how I’m gay…and then I’ll introduce the two of you…or rather, let the little family reunion happen…and then next year, I’ll be a junior and you’ll be a sophomore…we’ll live in our frat houses, but we could start talking about the next steps…of our relationship…”

“Okay…” Loki agreed, kissing Charles once more, “okay, my sweet mate.”

“What-what are you trying to say, Charles?”

“I’m gay!” he proclaimed to his best friend, finally happy to get it off his chest, “my relationship is with a man, not a woman.  And his name i-”

“Charles, you’re not gay!”

“I’ve been dating him for months!” Charles said simply, “I-I marked him last night.  It’s official.  Now he wants to wai-“

“You marked him?”

Charles nodded, “Yes…because I love him, and he’s my mate, Tom.”

“YOU’RE NOT GAY!”

“Yes I am!”

“I don’t have time for this,” Tom grumbled, shaking his head at the younger man, “whatever confusion you’re dealing with…you need to properly sort out.  I-I can’t talk to you right now, Charles.”

“But Tom…I-I want you to meet him.  You already know him.  He’s yo-”

“I’m sorry!” the man frowned, closing the door on his friend, “I-I can’t, Charles.”

“I’m sorry that things didn’t go the way that you wanted them to, my love…”

Charles frowned as he sat on his mate’s bed, sadly looking over to the sigma house through his window, “it’s not your fault, Loki…”

Loki pushed his boyfriend down on his bed and straddled him, “no thinking about that…no thinking about him, or the sadness…today is my move in day to the house, and I have my strapping mate helping me with it all…”

“Loki…”

“And he’s shirtless and all sweaty from moving all these boxes…and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts,” Loki smirked, wiggling his brows at the man as he grinded his ass on his mate’s clothed cock.  Charles groaned and instantly gripped Loki’s hips.  Loki smiled even more, “oh…does my human mate like when his little wolf is doing this?  Riding his cock like a good pup?”

“Sweet wolf.  Sweet baby boy…you’re so dirty sometimes,” Charles cooed, pulling his boyfriend’s face towards his own.  The moment went from lust-filled and flirty, to a more tender moment, as the two men held one another, “I love you, Loki.”

“H-he’ll come around, my love…” Loki whispered.  Charles sighed, and Loki lay beside him.  His hand reached down, and his fingers laced with that of his mates, “have I ever told you about why I was so eager to leave England?  To leave my mother?”

“You don’t talk about your family, or England,” Charles shrugged, “I didn’t want to press the issue.”

“My mother believes that homosexuality is wrong…she was a lot like your family…only instead of straight camps and beatings it was something else,” Loki replied shortly, “she hated me for it…looked at me like I as an abomination…”

“Loki…”

“She molested me when I presented…she tied me to the radiator during my ruts and would force a prostitute or herself on me…she told me that someone would fuck me straight…I tried to run away a few times, but I never got very far.”

Charles felt his heart breaking as he looked at his mate, “my sweet wolf.”

“I ran to the States because of the opportunity with this college,” he said firmly, “I did work study here all last year while I finished my senior year, and my brother sponsored me I didn’t see him though…not once.  Met a boy, and fell in love for the first time ever…I-I tried to take him back home to meet my mom…to tell her that I was a proud gay man…and that I didn’t need her…my brother rejected me when I came out to him…didn’t seem to blink when I told him that mother hurt me…so I told him that when I told mother, she had a heart attack…and I left her to die to meet him at the pub…his world looked like it ended.  He ran to her, and left me, sitting in the dust…”

Charles stared at the man that he loved, unsure of what to say.  He squeezed his hand, reminding him that he was there for him, and Loki gave him a small smile, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that even if he doesn’t…come around, you know…you’ll always have me.  And we shouldn’t be ashamed of our love.”

“Loki?”

“Yes, Charles?”

Charles leaned over and gently began wiping away his mate’s tears, “this summer…I-I want us to complete our mating ceremony…and I-I want us to get married…”

“Charles…you don’t have to rush-“

“It’s not rushing it,” he assured his mate, “I don’t want to be ashamed of our love either.  I want you to be my husband, Loki.”