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seumyo · 2 days

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BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 3:58

No amount of hectic schedules, exhausting patrols, rowdy villains, and never-ending legal paperwork could ever keep Bakugou from attending his daughters’ extracurricular activities—because he’d literally go through literal hell and back than to ever see a disheartened pout along with the silent treatment after he gets home from work.

You think he’ll ever miss any of his daughters’ milestones? Fuck no!

Bakugou insists on being at every event, his phone—and even an actual camera during a good day—in hand, his heart swelling with pride and unconditional love that makes his chest figuratively hurt; it might as well be a medical problem at some point.

Because, if anything, Bakugou Katsuki is a father first and a hero second.

“Shit, ‘m late. Have they started yet?”

He’s sweating as if he just used his explosions to propel himself in the air to get to you quicker, but, in truth, he sort of had to just run since the traffic on the highway today would’ve only angered and slowed him down. He left patrol to Halfie, who offered to take his shift, knowing how many times Bakugou covered for him when he was in his son’s piano recital.

“They just started doing warmups,” you answer. “Did you run? You’re drenched to the bone; you’re going to catch a cold if you don’t get changed into some dry clothes.”

“Hah, doubt it.” He snorts, though he does appreciate the thought of you bringing him a spare shirt for just-in-case purposes.

You're always the one who thinks ahead, aren't you? Bakugou knows he’s a very lucky man to have such a doting, caring wife that humbles him whenever he gets too focused on his pride. The balance that he didn’t know he needed!

Ignoring the gawking stares of the other parents—because it’s not everyday you see the Pro Hero Dynamight in mundane activities such as watching his kid take gymnastics’ lessons—he looks through the glass in search of his little princess.

Just as he saw her, his lips curled to that oh-so genuine smile, one that just said, “That’s my daughter, right there! Look at how awesome she is!”

Bakugou remembers how his parents were the same and how they were very supportive of his interests and hobbies, no matter how odd they may be for a five-year-old. How often do you see someone learning to take on both hiking and archery at the age of five? Bakugou was sure he learned most skills during his childhood that made him a firm hero in the field today.

“She has a bit of trouble with tumbling because of her tummy.”

“Yeah? And does that have somethin’ to do with my awesome cooking?” Bakugou replied smugly. “Besides, ‘ts just baby fat, and I’d prefer to see her like this than to see her thin but often sick.”

“Mhm, and she makes up for the cutest ending pose.”

“And her effortless splits. Have the coaches seen her do that?”

You shook your head. “Not yet,” you say, “but I think they’re about to do it—oh! Look, look!”

And he does; his phone’s camera is already recording his youngest daughter doing a perfect vertical split, while the other girls somewhat struggle to maintain a consistent posture.

“She’s a natural, hun.”

“She is,” you chuckle, “just like her Daddy to a certain extent.”

“Damn right, she is.”

Bakugou tries to hold back his laughter when your daughter once again attempts a forward roll with the guidance of the staff. Her tummy somewhat makes it a bit difficult for her to do so. The way she hesitates but then does the forward roll, albeit a little lopsided with a smile that shows her adorable tooth gap—it was safe to say that your daughter was over the moon with her gymnastics lessons.

It’s all too much for him to take.

And when all is over, he greets his daughter by picking her up and blowing raspberries on her neck that have her squealing in laughter before he insists that he’ll be the one to talk to the coaches about the upcoming schedules and the progress your daughter has made.

“Mr. Bakugou, she’s a good listener, and I believe that she’ll be moving onto the next class with the older children in no time,” they told him. “Has she received prior training before this one?”

“She’s also taking ballet lessons,” he answers, “but gymnastics is what she really likes. Ballet was just a compromise since your services weren’t available in our area at that time.”

“That’s wonderful to hear. It’s a joy to have her in class. I’ve already sent Dr. [Last Name] the schedules we offered, and we are looking forward to having your daughter in the upcoming lessons.”

The walk back to your car was light and quiet for a change. Your youngest daughter, Kusami, was out like a light in Bakugou’s arms, having worn herself out with socializing, rolling, doing splits, and whatnot the gymnastics’ instructors told her to do. And Bakugou was just letting the simple moment sink in because this is what he considers the most rewarding part of his day.

Time spent with his family.

Bakugou also warmed up to the thought of having to interact with other parents. He chatted with a single father earlier, whose daughter was the oldest in Kusami’s class. It was nice to converse with equally enthusiastic and supportive parents that you meet through your children's extracurricular activities.

“Let’s go through a drive-through; get Katsumi her usual order,” Bakugou murmurs, remembering how his oldest daughter, Katsumi, would’ve probably woken up from her nap by now and was probably anticipating her family’s return.

“Alright,” you nod. “Katsumi and Kusami have swimming lessons tomorrow at five in the afternoon, too. Do you think you’d get home that early?”

“Of course,” he answers. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 2 days

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"concrete" - hotch x fem!bau!reader

your crush on your boss is so nearly at its breaking point; based on the request found here

cw: canonical violence, mutual pining, mild miscommunication, not a happy ending but not an unhappy ending lmao sorry luv ya

word count: 1.4k

------

You’ve been crushing on your boss for exactly ten months and nine days. You’ve known him for close to a year, but when you think about it, that two month difference in time is just about what it takes to warm up to Aaron Hotchner.

He was a statue when you first met him. Unwavering, stoic, and maybe even a little strict (definitely very strict). He didn’t crack a smile around you until the first case you ever worked with the BAU was wrapped up, and he definitely didn’t make any jokes until much later on. You discovered underneath the stalwart, brick wall you met was the same man, only softer. Like one of those hard-shell candies with a jelly center. He was incredibly kind, patient, observant, and honorable.

And he would do anything for anyone on his team at the drop of a hat.

You also got to see the more playful side of him as you got to know him, as your caseload with the BAU only grew. Sure, he was a stickler for paperwork and procedure, but was he though?

You once saw him take over a report JJ was supposed to finish so she could make it to Henry’s t-ball game. You definitely witnessed him reassuring Penelope that it was okay that she hacked into the Interpol database for info on an UnSub, and when Derek needed help tracking down his cousin in Chicago, Hotch had the whole team pitch in, which was certainly some kind of ethics violation.

Little did you know that Aaron was crushing on you, too. He didn’t word it that way in his head, of course, but the second he watched you stride into the conference room to consult on a case, he knew he was in trouble. He expedited the transfer paperwork himself, even followed Strauss in the elevator on her way out one night to make her sign it.

He grew fond of you quickly, of your insights, your compassion with victims’ families, your quick wit. You always bring homemade cookies or cupcakes for the entire team when it’s someone’s birthday, and you always have a different perspective to offer on cases. He especially loves when you are clearly thinking hard about something, so you cross your ankles - sitting or standing, he’s noticed - and tap your toes against the floor.

Aaron’s ways of showing affection were not lost on you. He brought you coffee on more than one occasion, but he also brought coffee to the rest of the team. He straddles the invisible line between Caring Boss and More Than That so well. You’re not exactly sure what his actions mean.

Like today, for example. The team is in a small town in Kentucky, and you’re deep into a case - a spree, four murders in four days. You have been awake for about twenty straight hours, give or take, and the world around you has turned hazy.

You are combing through a suspect’s letters with Spencer, your eyes growing heavier by the second. Your chin is propped up by your arm, and you finally close your eyes, just for one second of respite. Your arm gives out and your head whacks against the table, a wake-up call no amount of espresso could ever provide.

“Shit, Y/N. Are you okay?” Spencer’s out of his chair in an instant as you lift your head, rubbing the already-formed welt on your forehead.

The spot is tender and red and you’re dizzy, the wheels on your chair not helping matters. Why are there three Reids hovering over you? They meld back into one Reid after you blink a few times, and as you’re nodding to reassure Spencer you’re okay, you hear Hotch walk in. “I heard a thud. What happened?”

The conference room in the police precinct is teeny and already cramped, so Spencer has to move out of the way for Hotch to get to you.

“She smacked her head on the table,” Spencer explains hurriedly. “I’ll get you an ice pack,” he scurries off, likely to ask one of the local officers, leaving you alone with Hotch.

You’re still reeling and a bit disoriented from the contact with the solid oak table. Hotch takes the rolling desk chair beside yours, previously occupied by Spencer, and is hunching to meet your eye line. “You should really go back to the hotel and sleep for a little bit,” he says.

“Nobody else is,” you protest just as Hotch squares up to you to examine the welt on your forehead. You see him visibly grimace, his lips pressing deep into his face.

His thumb is suddenly on your forehead, padding around the bruise. It’s tender, and you know it would hurt if he touched you even a centimeter to the left, but he’s hitting it at just the right spot. You can see the lines on his palm.

“Yeah, well, no one else just concussed themselves,” he points out. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s tired, too. His eyes are heavy, the bags under them puffier than usual.

“If I’m concussed, then I really shouldn’t go to sleep,” you point out, and Hotch’s expression tightens.

“What day is it today?” He asks, retracting his hand and pulling back into his own space.

“Wednesday,” you reply, then your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. 12:17 AM. “Thursday,” you correct.

Hotch releases a pressure-cooker sigh and narrows his eyes at you scrupulously. You lean forward in your chair in a challenge. “I’m fine,” you insist.

“I just wish you’d take care of yourself so I wouldn’t have to.”

This catches you off guard. Your brows furrow and you frown at Hotchner, crossing your arms over your chest. “Excuse me?” you ask, feeling offended. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “You don’t think I take care of myself?”

Hotch’s mouth is hanging open just slightly, and he’s shaking his head. “No, Y/N, that’s not what I-”

“You and I both know you would tell me if my performance was inadequate,” you decide in that moment - maybe it’s the potential concussion, or maybe it’s the exhaustion - to rip into him. “I don’t need a babysitter, Aaron.”

Hotchner shakes his head again. “I know you don’t need a babysitter,” he says calmly. Irritatingly calmly. “I just meant that there are many other things I’d rather be doing…”

Your mouth goes dry. Obnoxiously, with the cadence of a confused basset hound, you say, “huh?”

Aaron’s cheeks are pink now, and he swallows hard. “I’d better go check on Reid and that ice pack,” he murmurs, but before he can roll away, you grab the arm of his chair.

“Aaron,” you breathe out, and suddenly he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world, like there’s a spotlight shining down on you from the ceiling of a little police precinct in Middle of Nowhere, Kentucky.

His brown eyes are so soft at this moment. His eyebrows have softened from their usual piercing, investigative furrow. He knees press into yours, and you want so badly to bridge that gap between his face and yours. His mouth is hanging open, only slightly, and you watch with bated breath as his tongue juts out - just barely - to moisten his lips.

The door flies open at that moment, and Spencer’s shifting three different ice packs among his hands. “I’ve got gel, I’ve got water-based, and they also had one of those beaded eye masks that people put in the freezer for self-care at home,” he laughs at this, stopping at the head of the table when he realizes he very clearly interrupted something. “Should… should I go?”

You’re rolling back from Hotch, crossing your ankles and shaking your head. “No, you’re fine, Spence,” you say hurriedly and squeakily, just as Hotch clears his throat and rises from his seat. He lingers in the door on his way out. As you’re taking the gel ice pack from Spencer and placing it gingerly against your forehead, your gaze meets Hotch’s.

He’s boring into you with those beautiful molten chocolate eyes, and he purses his lips pensively for one fleeting moment, as if to say, to be continued.

“What was all that about?” Spencer asks as he sits back down. You shake your head.

“Nothing,” you feel concrete tension in your jaw that radiates all the way down to your toes. You grab the next pile of letters and open one. The fact that you have to pretend like nothing just happened, like you didn’t just share an absurd amount of tension with your boss? It feels like your entire body is on pins and needles. “Let’s just keep going.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x bau!reader #hotchner x you #hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner imagine

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carmenized-onions · 3 days

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Ad Interim. | No Service

logline; The days and doubts and desires; the air, underneath the shoe.

[!!!] series history, this is the ninth; the amount of links are getting nauseating just go to the landing LMAO.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. I listen to this playlist too much in my day to day now, fr.

portion; 3k+

possible allergies; you're almost ten chapters in, you know very well by now that these two are rife with anxiety and insecurity.

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets she/her'd mb)

fun fact: i finished this one 19 hours after the last chapter, whoops, but let it sit in my drafts to give some breathing room and do some rework

It is t-minus three days, until the worst Friday of your life.

But today’s Tuesday, and though you feel a touch uneasy, you figure it’s probably just the breakfast from yesterday at La Mattina settling in your stomach— Or, at least, hope it is.

You’re at home, sitting on your couch, pensive, haggard, leaned over. Elbows to knees, prayer hands to face, staring at your phone on the coffee table in front of you.

Just send it. Just send the text. Don’t be a fucking wuss. You’ve re-written it in your notes app like five fucking times— He does not care this much, he doesn’t even have basic reading comprehension— Okay, that’s mean— But it’s just not that deep. Just fucking! Send it!

Actually no, no, upon sixth review, the paragraph you had written out was way too intense, way too presumptive. Backspace, backspace, backspace—Just say hi. Let’s just start with Hi.

‘Yooooooooo’

Are you fucking possessed? Good Lord. How is he already typing he never used to reply this fast, what the fuck—

‘Are u fucking haunted?’

‘Fuck is yooooooo’

‘Yooo to you too, cousin’

Faster texter now, but Richie is still the same guy, at the end of the day.

‘this is a loaded fucking question’

‘but do you think you’ll be free any time this week?’

‘not unless ur dead or dying’

‘are you dead or dying?’

‘not that I’ve heard’

‘but I was thinking maybe we could like, get food or smth’

‘chat one on one. Been a minute, yknow’

That was too much. You didn’t need to do all that. Now he’s gonna go well who’s fault is that? And it’s yours. You know it’s yours. And then you’re gonna have that fucking conversation— Which is what this whole meet up thing was supposed to be about in the first place—

‘heard’

‘can’t get time off but fak needs to have his training wheels ripped’

‘could have dinner at the bear this week? Like 2 hours. Then I can watch him and keep him from shitting the bed’

‘and still get to do a fucking one on one, you corporate speak ass’

‘I didn’t know how else to fucking say it alright!!!!!!’

‘Dinner @ bear sounds good to me’

‘but probably ask carm/syd first if it’s cool’

‘yea yea I’ll fuckin check in with daddy don’t worry’

‘that sucked for me. That sucked to read. Go to jail.’

‘already have.’

‘I’ll let u know a time when I know. See u chip’

You heart it. The classic signal that it’s the end of a conversation. Holy shit. You did it. You actually texted someone that you miss that you miss them— Not directly, but you know Rich knows. And specifically, to book a dinner, to talk about what happened, to apologize for it. That’s pretty fucking huge. Which means—

It’s time to eat a whole freezer cake and lay in your pyjamas all day and interact with not a single soul on this entire planet. You’re absolutely at your social limit, for the day. Maybe you’ll talk it through with Mikey, actually. To the air, more accurately, but, y’know, same thing.

You’re gonna get dinner with Richie. You’re gonna get dinner, with Richie, this Friday. And it’s not gonna be awkward or weird, at all.

It is t-minus two days, until the worst Friday of Carmen’s life, so far, at least. There’s always next year.

But today’s Wednesday, and though he feels a little nerve-wracked, he’s pretty sure it’s just because the kitchen was so fucking dysfunctional this morning, and now that their prep’s off, the tempo of the whole fucking day is off, and they're behind on two tables. And fucking seriously this time, can someone get him a fucking marker that fucking works.

Okay, maybe it’s a little more, than nerve wracked.

Sydney is ever the intuitive, and always correct, at the station next to him— Because yes, they’re still down a hire since the meth guy, so now Carmen is on line.

She can tell, that somethings wrong with him, something’s always wrong with him. “Take your ten, Chef.”

Carmen shakes his head, obviously, there’s still prep to catch up on. And if he doesn't do it, it's not gonna get done, and even if it does get done, it's not gonna get done right. He’s pressing the dead sharpie down on the tape, like if he just brute forces it, it’ll start to work. “M’good, Chef.”

“Carmen.” She turns to him fully, stopping her work. And so, he does too. “Take your fucking ten.” She deadpans, she’s not taking no for an answer. She rubs her fist over her heart.

Carmen takes a beat, before nodding, doing the same. “Heard, Chef.”

He needs to look over expense reports that he can’t quite comprehend, anyways.

He really needs his sister. He steps into his office. Despite the fact that they re-constructed just about everything in the restaurant, this musty office remains the same. Untouched. After caving down walls, they had to cut the budget somewhere. He’s glad though, that it's untouched. It might be crowded, poorly organized, have an off smell (probably because of the birth in here, just a few weeks back), but it’s exactly as his brother left it, and that helps him feel… Connected, somehow.

What the hell is Var vs Budget? He’s googling every other word, here. He’s more than grateful, that before going home on mat leave, Sug set up a good enough automated Excel sheet that he could just plug in numbers and it did all the calculating for him. Doesn’t mean he knows what any of the numbers mean, but, they’re there.

He knows that red equals bad. Natalie told him that very specifically. Which did seem like she was calling him fucking stupid, but he let it go. There’s a lot of red. That’s a lot of bad. Well, not a lot, but like, a third of this is red. That’s probably more than it should be. How many months do they have again? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He is never gonna get to pay himself, he’s never gonna be able to pay Syd, he's never gonna get her a star, she’s gonna live with her dad for the rest of her life, you are never gonna get to work here, you’re gonna work as a bottle girl for the rest of your life, he’s never gonna get his shit together so he’s never gonna get to call you his, he’s gonna have to hand the deed to Cicero and then fucking everyone is gonna to lose their jobs and he’s still gonna be him. He’s still gonna be him. Carmy Berzatto, the chef that lost everything, little brother to everyone's hero who blew his brains out. Starless in Chicago, unable to feel anything more than sorry for himself. Carmen’s gonna die as Carmen, and nothing more. At the end of the day.

Take a deep breath, Bear. Relax.

He’s catastrophizing. You told him that. He forgot to look into it. He googles that, instead of another business term he doesn’t understand.

‘Fixates on the worst possible outcome and treats it as likely, even when it is not.’

Well, it does seem pretty fucking likely that he’s doomed to fail and fall into a Sisyphean nightmare of opening restaurants and falling on his fucking face, dragging everyone he loves down with him with his stupid failed pipe dreams. He's no better than his brother.

He tries his best to think of whatever level-headed bullshit you'd give to him, right now, tries to taste the hot chocolate, the lavender and cardamom coffee. He smells your shampoo, in his hair, that helps.

Maybe, maybe it’s just been a bad week. Maybe there will be a lot of bad weeks, maybe there won’t be. Maybe things will be fine, maybe they won’t. You and Syd will still succeed, even if he fails. Everyone will, even if he fails. He has a very capable crew. And while he cannot escape the thought that failure is around the corner, at the very least, he is comforted by the idea that at least he will be the only one sinking with the ship he commands.

The thought of drowning alone is still impossible to rid of. Though.

But you’ve sent a text. And isn’t that a wonderful distraction?

Your connection results in response to his, from this morning, of course. You actually got it today. He swells with what feels like pride, and despite the fact that no one's looking at him, he has to hide his smile with his hand, embarrassed by how happy he is, when he sees the photo you’ve sent, just now. A selfie, sitting next to an oven, Other Tony’s oven. You’re holding a fried wire in your hand.

The text below it is a wonderful salve, ‘If you ever fuck up your ovens, I’ve got like, 10 thermocouples in my personal stock now :))’

So good to him, too good to him. Too good to anyone. ‘Heard.’

Carmen so, so fucking desperately wants to ask you to come to The Bear, right now. You’re only two blocks away, at La Mattina. You’d come, if he asked. He knows that. But he also knows that even if you calm him down, in the long run, it’ll set his day even further off tempo, he’ll be distracted the rest of his shift, and that’s the last thing he needs. He can handle this himself.

‘:)’ For levity. Or something. He’s trying. You give it a heart, so that means he’s done something good, he’s pretty sure.

There’s a knock at his door. Richie does not wait for an answer before coming in. His knocks are more like warnings, really. Carmen’s quick to tuck his phone away, he knows it’d be perfect cannon fodder to be teased into oblivion.

“Aye, cous—”

Carmen does not let the man get a word in inch wise, “Who’s on expo?”

Richie grimaces, this fucking song and dance, again. “Syd.”

“Who’s on her station, then?”

“T.”

“And hers?”

“She’s doin’ fuckin’ both Carmy— And—” Richie pulls a sharpie out of his breast pocket, throwing it at him. Carmen catches it. “Fuckin’ works. Alright?”

Marker works, and the system works. He catches the double meaning, too. Carmen nods, “Heard.”

“Christ.” Richie looks to high heaven, looks to his best friend, really, to give him strength. “Can I take my fuckin’ turn now?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ‘head.” Carmen turns to his desk, looking over the excel sheet, again. He can’t imagine Richie needing all of his undivided attention, right now, he’s not you.

Speaking of you, he can’t find your repair expenses anywhere on here. He needs to text Sug, about that. No, she’s got a fucking baby, he’ll at least look for a physical copy, first.

“I need to take two hours, on Friday.”

“Huh?” Carm’s head snaps up. Okay, maybe he does need to give his full attention to Richie, right now. “Eva got a fuckin’ recital, or somethin’?”

“No, no, uh— Chip wants to get dinner.” Rich scratches his nose with his thumb. “Thought since Fak's been training to host f'like, the whole fuckin’ month, could do dinner 'ere, let him do a run on us. Two birds, one bullet, y’know.”

“It’s stone.”

“I’m not fuckin’ high, cousin—” “No, it’s— Alright.” Carmen closes his eyes, hand over his face, deciding this is not the fight he wants to choose. “Tony’s getting dinner with you?”

“If I’m allowed, your fuckin’ Majesty.”

If it were up to Carmen? He wouldn’t be. But you specifically asked. Why, he has no idea. Carmen crosses his arms. “Yeah, yeah, s’fine. Just start at like, a not peak time. Like 4:30? Then when rush starts after 5 Fak’ll have a lil' momentum.”

“Heard. I’ll tell ‘em.” Richie nods, turning to make his way out.

Carm’s leg bounces, a tick that he’s pretty sure he’ll never get rid of. “… Ey Rich?”

He stops, turning back to Carmy, “Yeah, cousin?”

Carmen taps the end of the sharpie on the table, not looking at Richie, “What’s uh— Why d’you call Tony ‘Chip’?”

Ever so slightly, Richie’s brows furrow. “Did'j'ya ask her?”

Carm shakes his head, “S’why I’m asking you.”

Richie takes a beat, head rocking to the side, “Y'should ask her, she’ll tell you.”

Carmy squints, at that, “Is it fuckin’ dark or somethin’, cousin?”

What’s so secretive about Chip? He figured it would be some stupid inside joke with chocolate chips, like Sug with the salt mix up. Richie swallows, frowning just a bit. He clearly does not know how to answer this question, which just makes Carmen even more curious.

“S’ not dark, kinda, it’s just, y’know. Personal.” Since when the fuck did Richie have respect for personal? Probably since he sent him to stage. Goddammit.

“Did you not coin it?”

“Mikey did.”

Oh.

Huh.

Mikey got to do that first, too, eh?

“But, y’know, ask her, she likes you well enough to tell you, I think.” Richie shrugs, palms out. “Kinda tells stories like that better than me, anyways.” That's high praise— Not in the sense that Richie's a great storyteller, but that he's willing to admit it, for you.

“Oh, she doesn’t bury the fuckin’ lead?”

“Oh, fuck you.” But it’s true, so Richie’s amused. There’s something nice, about being known. Even if it’s to tease.

There’s a lull of silence. Quite frankly, Carmen’s hoping that Richie’s general disdain of silence will force him to confess your nickname backstory, just to fill the void. It doesn’t. Instead, it just gears him up, in the worst way, able to read the look on Carmen’s face.

“You really wanna fuckin know, huh?” Richie tilts down his head, teasing. Carmen groans. Oh dear god, why him. “Oh, fuck, you fuckin’ like her, don’t’chu, cousin? You fuckin’ dog.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rich—”

“Aye, Chip’s a real catch, I gettit— Works hard, plays nice, cleans up good— Y’have my blessing.”

“Didn’t ask for it.”

“Aye,” Richie snaps his fingers, pointing at Carmen like he could smite him. “Don’t gimme no talk back, she was my boy first, a’right? One bad word from me, n’ your lil’ fantasy—” He gestures an explosion with his hand, making a ‘pop’ sound with his lips.

“Gone, cousin.”

Carmen leans back in his seat, playing with the sharpie in his hand. He’s essentially Kubrick staring down Richie, but the guy is unaffected. “Friday, 4:30, two hours. If Fak fucks up, you’re on deck.”

“Heard.”

“Jeff, can I please get an all day, baby?” Baby is Tina’s new HR approved version of ‘for the love of fucking god’ She’s definitely at her limit, meaning Syd’s definitely at her limit on expo. Richie starts to step out, walking backwards.

“You comin’ cousin?”

Carm scratches his nose, straightening up back to his desk. He wishes he could go back to the kitchen, where he knows he’s good, instead of in here, with some goddamn spreadsheets that he cannot comprehend beyond bad. “Uh, one sec, I just need to finish this fuckin’—” He shakes his hand in the air, “Whatever the fuck this is.”

Richie nods, tapping the doorway on his way out. “Heard… g’luck.”

Carmen does not look at the spreadsheets. No. He thinks. He doesn't think about business.

That wasn’t true, was it? A phone call from Richie wouldn’t be the end of him, end of you, would it? Carmen is on the losing playing field here, practically everyone here has more history with you than he does. If he had a… lapse in behaviour, and it got back to you, would that ruin him? God, even his work family ruins things for him. Or could. Which means they will. Catastrophizing.

Whatever. What the fuck ever. He needs to find your invoice. After some flipping through last month’s file, he finds a sticky note from Sug between loose pages.

‘reminder: ask carmy 4 tony invoice’

He squints. You said Nat took care of it. Maybe it’s an old sticky note, he’ll text her about it, it’ll be a solid forty hours before he’ll get a response, anyways. Mom stuff. He really needs to go visit his niece again, soon. Maybe this weekend. Take Richie’s car. But then he'll probably will be forced to take Richie, too. Maybe he should just ask you, instead. Let Nat thank you for the heating pad she’s been loving, properly. Have dinner, all together, in an actual family home, instead of just each other's apartments. That'd be nice.

Yeah. Yeah. He’ll ask you on Friday, when you come for dinner. He grabs a pad of paper, biting the cap off his sharpie. He’ll make you something off menu, on Friday. You’re coming before the rush, anyways, he’ll have time to play, on Friday.

He’s gonna do right by you, this Friday.

Tomorrow, you’ll be getting dinner with Richie, and it’ll be the worst Friday of your life.

But right now, it’s Thursday night, and you’ve finally finished Carmen’s piece for The Bear. You know you told him if he didn’t like it, he didn’t have to put it up, but admittedly, if he doesn’t like it, you will be crushed.

One big white canvas.

Nine perfect squares, perfectly equidistant from each other at all angles.

Each square a snippet, a photo transfer. The squares themselves are messy, sun damaged, bleach stained, light flared. All twinged blue and yellowish. But so perfectly cut and curated.

Each image, something new. Starting at the top left, it’s The Original Beef. Then, the inside. Then the booths.

Then the second row, the sandwiches, held in hands.

The center photo. You've taken almost all of these photos on a disposable from yesteryear, but this is the one you like the most.

Mikey. The only transfer completely unbleached, unaltered, unruined. He’s holding two cut outs. One, Food & Wine and the other, a small section in the off off off pages of the New York Times.

Both specifically the one’s that mentioned Carmen, winning Best Chef and the James Beard.

Mikey was so proud. So so proud, silently, just with you— Couldn't look soft. Carmen does not know this photo exists. No one does. You hope this piece will act as the catalyst for you to be able to talk about the elephant in the room you’ve yet to open for him.

Right next to Mikey, is a balloon on a pipe— A photo you grabbed from Sydney and printed. You can only imagine the stress you could’ve eased, during their fire safety test. C’est la vie. Fak got to prove himself.

And on the last row, the new, ritzy, booths. The Seven Fishes dish— Also a photo you stole from Sydney. And finally, The Bear’s sign. Taken at night, lit up in all its neon glory.

Though the images are disconnected, starting from Mikey in the center— Clean, the flaring and staining grows more intense at the pictures in the corner. Just bordering on illegible. It all feels interconnected, woven.

It’s Carmen. Or, at least, you think it is. That’s what you were trying to achieve. You took inspiration from the way his brain works, the way he cooks messy but produces orderly, the way he’s grown something out of what was barely more than nothing. The way love and grief is at the center of everything. He’s awfully inspiring.

You’re excited, to show this to him tomorrow, on Friday. Hopefully all goes well, on Friday. You’re coming before the rush, you’ll probably have a little time to talk, on Friday. You won’t be able to get into everything, no, you’ve promised most of your bandwidth to Richie, but you’ll make a good start, on Friday.

You’re gonna do right, by Carmen, on Friday.

Tomorrow.

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE

i've still got 2k of beats to cover for the next chapter, and have 7.9k already written out, for it. This is going to be fun. lmao. I'm genuinely very very excited for you to see it, when it comes out. Cannot believe I thought like 4 chapters ago that'd this next chapter would be the one to be released next. I almost briefed over all of these past few chapters to be nothing more than snippets in a chapter, I would never forgive myself if i went through with that plan, fr.

Anyways, no time for the future, this is NOW!! I hope I described Tony's paintin' good. I think it'd be nice. MBMBAM reference in the intro, are you fucking HAUNTED? ARE YOU FUCKING POSESSED? Love griffy, had to. Carmen CANNOT stop having anxiety attacks, someone get him on prozac frfr.

Tell me your thoughts or I'll eat my hat, I'm gonna need some words to chew on while I write, anyways. Hitting a wall choreographing this back half of chapter ten my GOD. Also oh yeah, silly aesthetic thing. I dunno if anyone noticed or cared, but i do a different ombre banner when it's carmen's perspec-- Did it last chapter too, aint that cute?

Also, I must finally give in, I was lazy to do taglists, but have folded, so here u are mfs. If you'd like to be added, you gotta leave me an essay somewhere. It's the RULES! Well, leave an essay and also ask to be added to the taglist that is but IT'S THE RULES!!

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101

fully added people that never asked to be on here, you're just like, top fans, so i thought it would be nice, but if you WANT TO BE TAKEN OFF LET ME KNOW I'LL DO IT IMMEDIATELY ALSO IF I'M FORGETTING ANYONE WHO ASKED PLEASE DO REMIND ME

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen x oc #carmen berzatto x female reader #carmy x reader #the bear fanfiction #the bear x reader #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the bear #fanfic series

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renecdote · 2 days

Note

The prompt "sit still and let me take a look!" spoke to me 😌

hiiii frida this has been in my inbox for so long but I finally figured out how to write again so here you go <3 also sorry. I think. it got angsty oops [Read on AO3]

The problem is that Eddie tries to catch the glass. It slips, and he doesn’t want the shattering sound to wake Buck, so he tries to catch it, and—

“Fuck.”

It slips out louder than he means for it to be, the pain catching him by surprise. It slices through his hand and up his arm, reflexive tears springing to his eyes before he blinks them away. Blood blooms on his palm, just a thin line at first, but spreading rapidly, red running over his fingers, his wrist, dripping onto the floor. In the middle of it all, a jagged piece of glass sparkles in the morning light. Eddie curses again.

Sometimes he feels like he has been dealing with emergencies his whole life. He’s good at it—he has to be—but there’s always a moment of hesitation when it’s himself, a split second or a minute, mind and body frozen even though his survival instinct in any other situation is to fight.

This is hardly an emergency, but Eddie feels frozen anyway, his mind blank even though he’s already moving, reaching for the tap. Water gushes out, tepid for the first few seconds, then cold enough that he has to grit his teeth against the ache. The blood isn’t slowing, but it’s turning pink under the water, washed away before Eddie can think about how much of it there is. Cuts usually look worse than they are, he reminds himself.

“Eddie?” Socks shuffling on the linoleum, half asleep still. Then suddenly much more awake: “Shit, are you okay?”

“Yep. Pass me a tea towel?”

There are two hanging from the oven, but Buck goes for the drawer of clean tea towels instead. He passes over a red one—fire engine red, Eddie’s mind automatically supplies—and it could be a coincidence, or it could be because it won’t stain as easily as the lighter ones. Eddie wraps the material awkwardly around his bleeding hand, trying not to move too much so he doesn’t jar the glass and make the cut worse.

“Here,” Buck says, turning a chair around one-handed, “sit down, let me take a look at it.”

Guilt gnaws at Eddie’s stomach.

“I really don’t—”

“Eds.” Serious. Too serious for a broken glass, but just the right amount of serious for the years of history between them. “Please?”

Eddie sighs, and nods, and sits down. He holds out his hand and Buck takes it carefully, fingers gentle under the back of Eddie’s hand, like what he’s holding is something precious. It makes Eddie’s heart quiver in his chest. He has to bite his cheek hard so he doesn’t do something ridiculous like cry. Or kiss his best friend.

“It doesn’t look too deep, I think it’ll be okay if we pull the glass out,” Buck says, the furrow between his brows deep in concentration as he inspects Eddie’s hand from every angle. “Do you have tweezers?”

“First aid kit,” Eddie answers, gesturing towards the hallway with his good hand. It’s not like he needs to explain where the first aid kit is, Buck already knows. Hell, Buck helped him stock it.

“Don’t move,” Buck tells him, that same flash of seriousness in the look that comes with the words.

“Where am I gonna go?” Eddie asks rhetorically.

Buck rolls his eyes. “Just—hold that towel on your hand. I’ll be back in a second.”

Eddie re-wraps the towel carefully around the glass piece and keeps pressure on his hand, holding it up so it’s above his heart, more out of habit than because he thinks it’s necessary. Without Buck, it’s hard to focus on anything except the pain. It’s nothing compared to getting shot, or broken bones, or a dislocated shoulder, or the whole body ache from being at the bottom of a collapsed well, but pain is pain. Eddie stares at the photos on the fridge and tries to put it out of his mind. There’s Christopher’s latest school photo, a shot of Eddie and Chris in Texas last time they visited, another of Buck and Christopher at the zoo, one of the three of them grinning like maniacs at the go-karting place in the desert.

It means nothing and everything, Eddie thinks, that dozens more photos just like them fill the photo albums lined up neatly on the bookshelf in the living room. Mostly nothing. Mostly everything. Sometimes it feels like they were living their lives with a hole left just for Buck to fill before they even met him. Eddie isn’t sure he believes in things like soulmates, or fate, or divine providence, but if he did, he thinks it would be because of Buck. Because of the way they fit together, a neat little family of three.

Except for how they aren’t. Buck will go home to Tommy in a few hours, and Chris is willing to speak to Eddie on the phone these days but he still isn’t ready to come home, so it will just be Eddie in his lonely house, eating a lonely dinner at the empty kitchen table.

He presses a little too hard against his hand and the pain flares, the hard lump of emotion in his throat numbed for a moment by the sting. Eddie presses down again, breathing through the hurt until he feels like he is in control again. It’s harder and harder to keep hold of these days. His eyes feel permanently gritty with exhaustion, a long shift and a heavier heart weighing him down, but sleep as elusive as it has been for the last two months. This isn’t even the first glass he has broken in the last few weeks, just the first to draw blood.

Eddie doesn’t realise how much he has slumped in his chair until he hears the squeak of the hallway floor under returning footsteps and he straightens back up. The first aid kit clatters when Buck sets it on the table, his fingers already flicking up the latch to open it. It’s more cluttered than Eddie remembers it being, and he makes a half-formed mental note to reorganise it when he has a chance. House upkeep hasn’t been his biggest concern recently. Buck has to push aside band-aids and tape and rolls of bandages before he finds the tweezers at the bottom of the box. He tears open an alcohol wipe and sterilises them, then hesitates.

“Should we—?”

“Sink will be less messy,” Eddie agrees before the question is finished, squashing down the part of him that doesn’t really care if he bleeds all over his kitchen.

He stands up awkwardly, even though it isn’t something he really needs his hands for, and Buck’s hand hovers under his elbow for a second before dropping away. Eddie feels the not-quite-contact like a tingling up and down his arm. It tingles, too, when Buck holds his hand to keep it still, the movement of his thumb over Eddie’s fingers almost a caress before his grip settles. The tweezers hang over the cut and Eddie tenses, instinctively bracing for more pain.

“Careful,” he warns, and Buck glances up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Would you rather do this yourself?”

There’s no judgement in his voice. Well, not real judgement. It’s all teasing fondness, the same kind of tone he uses when he gives Chimney shit about his extravagant coffee orders, or gives Eddie shit about his cooking, still, even though he knows his way around the kitchen at least half as well as Bobby by now.

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I trust you,” he says, just the right amount of serious for the years of history between them. “Go on, do your worst.”

Buck’s hand is steady around the tweezers. The shard comes out easily and he drops it in the sink. He rinses away the freshly welling blood under the tap, then tilts Eddie’s hand under the light to check for the glint of any smaller pieces of glass hiding in the cut. The look of concentration on his face makes Eddie think of burning buildings and tricky extractions from bad accidents. It’s a little overwhelming, having all that Firefighter Buckley energy directed at a comparatively measly cut.

It’s not that he isn’t used to it by now: Buck taking care of him. It might actually be that he’s too used to it. At some point, it stopped being something that surprised him and became something he’s comfortable with, something he expects, something he can ask for, and… It’s dangerous, the way Buck makes him feel safe and comfortable and cared for, because Eddie’s traitorous heart wants to hold onto that feeling forever.

“Looks like that was all the glass,” Buck says. “Can you wash the cut? I’ll grab the gauze to wrap it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, relieved to have some control handed back to him.

The antibacterial soap at the sink is gentle enough, so he presses down the pump and braces himself against the sting as it hits the cut. Reflexive tears spring to his eyes and he blinks them back as he cleans his hand thoroughly. He tears a piece of paper towel off the roll one-handed and pats the area dry, then lets Buck take his hand again to press a piece of gauze over the cut and carefully wind a bandage around on top. That familiar furrow of concentration stays between his brows until he tapes the bandage in place and steps back.

“Thanks,” Eddie says quietly.

Buck shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Maybe it shouldn’t be.

“Do you want me to…?” he gestures towards the counter, the broken pieces of glass still lying there.

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

He half expects Buck to push, but he just nods and turns away to pack up the first aid kit instead. He starts organising it without Eddie saying anything and Eddie’s heart throbs, hit with a wave of love so strong it almost takes his legs out from under him. He forces his attention back to the broken glass before he can let that love carry him to his knees and beg Buck to stay forever. He’s pretty sure that would only make Buck worried. He’s also pretty sure it would be nice, letting go and drowning himself in all the gentle care that would come with that worry.

Eddie turns away from temptation instead. He sweeps up the pieces of glass carefully with the dustpan, then folds a catalogue from yesterday’s junk mail around them before dropping it all in the bin. The first aid kit closes with a snap and Buck squeezes past him to carry it out of the kitchen, his body heat there and gone before Eddie can let his heart take control again and lean into it.

There are a hundred reasons he can’t have Buck any more than he already does.

There are a hundred more for why he wants him, why it makes perfect sense. If Eddie was a little less damaged, he might have realised that early enough to do something about it.

Or maybe he would have just fucked it all up; he seems to be good at that.

Eddie flexes his hand, feeling the cut pull under the bandage. He closes his eyes for one second, two, and his hand is hanging back by his side by the time Buck comes back, yawning, and beelines for the coffee machine. He grabs out two mugs, holding one up in offering, and Eddie nods, feeling guilty all over again about waking Buck up.

“Thanks,” he says again. “Sorry I woke you up.”

He’s not even sure why Buck followed him home after shift, only that he did, and it made sense at the time—still makes sense, which doesn’t really make sense at all—and even though Eddie probably should have suggested he go home and nap before whatever date he has planned with Tommy, he just pulled out a spare pillow and blanket and nudged him towards the couch.

“It’s okay,” Buck says easily. “I’m glad I woke up.”

He smiles, gentle and a little lopsided, and it’s the kind of smile that makes Eddie wonder whether Buck has always smiled at him like that. He wonders if it means anything, or if he just wants it to.

It’s dangerous: wanting.

He steps back, reaching for the bloody tea towel, careful not to use his injured hand. “I’m going to—” He gestures vaguely towards the laundry. “Before it stains.”

“Oh,” Buck says. “Yeah. I can—”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

It’s not running from a situation if the situation is entirely inside your own head, he tells himself. It’s just… doing laundry.

And it doesn’t mean anything when Buck’s hand lingers as he passes over a mug of coffee after Eddie drags his feet back to the kitchen. It never means anything, because if it does—

Well.

“Hey,” Buck says, leaning in close before Eddie can pull away again, his arm warm through the fabric of Eddie’s shirt. “We didn’t really get to have breakfast earlier, so I thought we could go out for pancakes? I saw a new place on Instagram that has, like, twenty different flavours.”

Eddie loves him. He shouldn’t, he can’t, but god, he loves his best friend so much it hurts. Why the hell has his heart been hiding that from him for years? He takes a quick sip of coffee and tries to swallow the lump in his throat back down with it.

“Yeah,” he says when he can trust himself to speak. “Sure, pancakes sound good.”

Buck knocks their shoulders gently together, but instead of pulling back he just—stays. He always stays. Eddie closes his eyes, inhaling the steam from his coffee, and carefully, deliberately, he does not think about anything except the bittersweet taste of coffee and creamer on his tongue, and the stinging heat of the mug against his hands.

#Eddie Diaz #Evan Buckley #911 abc #fic #if this is terrible pls nobody look it's been 84 years since I last had words

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chimivx · 3 days

Text

ghosting ↠ txt

now playing ↠ your needs, my needs • noah kahan

He left you with letters. Envelopes that took you five years to finally read, acknowledge. They take you back through your past, forcing you to make moves not only for yourself, but for your family, for your children… His children.

part two of six ~ masterlist

word count ↠ 1396 warnings ↠ (same for all parts) 18+. mentions of drugs, alcohol, smoking. swearing. explicit sexual content. these people have kids, there’s family talk, pregnancy talk. absent dad, messy family ties. stepsib shit, stepcest. infidelity. if any of these things bother you, please keep scrolling. if i missed anything PLEASE let me know!! a/n ↠ if you are new to this story, don't start here! please go to the masterlist! major thank you to everyone who's read this story. <3 xo posted ↠ 6/9/24 ~ 12:50 p.m. est

~ january 2020 ~

A melody of Christmas music played from the tv, a soft joyful sound in the background to fill the noise between the babies babbles. The holiday was just over a week ago, the movies should be retired, but your boys couldn’t get enough. They bounced on their bottoms and giggled whenever the music would start all over again.

“Think I’m going to be singing Jingle Bells for the rest of my life,” Soobin said, his warm voice comforting you just as his arms around your shoulders as he settled on the couch behind you.

Cross legged you sat on the floor, keeping a watchful eye over your twins, Chan biting on the colorful blocks sprawled everywhere while Sunoo crawled around on the carpet exploring his favorite space in the house.

They were a year and almost three months old, having celebrated their birthdays back in October right here in their home. Your entire family showed up, Joy and Jin popping in an hour earlier than expected with piles of wrapped boxes in their arms for your boys to open later. Later finding out they were boxes of clothes and shoes, specially ordered from a designer Joy was currently hyper fixated on, along with a check in the card for an amount of money you and Soobin positively could not accept, and a promise to redo the boys bedrooms as they grew older.

The clothes were nice, as were the shoes. You’re sure Sana accepted these kinds of gifts when her baby’s were turning a year old, but your boys simply wouldn’t last. They’d get all but one use out of each outfit with how careful one needed to be with the fabrics. You were raising twin boys, twin boys that were just learning to stand and still needed assistance with eating. Blow outs were still a common occurrence, both you and Soobin were tossing out multiple onesies weekly.

Both Chan and Sunoo hated shoes. Hated them. Once they were slipped on, they were kicked off. Soobin began keeping track of when the boys did it, when they were frustrated by sensory things, even though they were only a year old. Both of them, to a certain degree, were already showing signs of sensory distress.

Important things to pay attention to, Soobin had told you one night after a day of fighting with the little ones to put any kinds of clothes on.

He reminded you that they were still babies on top of everything else that flooded your brain, leaving you in equal distress. Somehow his words relieved you for the time being.

About a week ago, Christmas Day, your mother and step father insisted on the stacks of presents you and Soobin’s disapproving eyes fell upon. Many of the gifts weren’t even for your twins, but for the two of you, and they were unseriously backhanded.

A brand new toaster the two of you couldn’t even begin to afford, to replace that old thing you’ve had since college, Soobin! A blender, an ice maker, an air fryer, a whole new set of silverware… All things you and your husband didn’t want. Things you didn’t need.

Things you accepted with grace, and gratitude. Though you joked a few times about selling them online to add to the boys bank accounts. As much as you appreciated the gifts, helping with the boys' futures was ideal, and something you’ve mentioned. Many times. Soobins mother was the only one to listen, and she could barely afford to do so herself.

Taehyun and Sana didn’t come around for Christmas, they spent it down at their home in Avida. Sana’s parents and apparently many members of her family spent it there with the family of four, or so as Joy informed you while the two of you each cradled a twin as your husbands cooked dinner. It didn’t surprise you to learn her family stayed there, their house could fit a plethora of couples within it, the thing was giant, nearly bigger than the one you were raised in.

You hadn’t seen Taehyun since the twins' birthday party, only him and his son, Minho, who was five years old making an appearance for a couple of hours before Sana called him home. They mostly stuck to themselves, Minho exploring around the twins' toys for a bit, or snuggling on his grandfather's lap.

Few words were exchanged between you and your step-brother, who was surprisingly sober.

Hopefully for the sake of his son, Soobin had mumbled, having exchanged no words with the man dressed in black. Those two had it out for one another, whether your intuition over Taehyun’s aversion to Soobin was true or not.

Taehyun watched the boys crawl around, watched them interact with Soobin’s family, and kept his eye on them all while hugging the walls, like he was collecting recon. From time to time he’d send messages on his phone, and you wondered if it was to his wife, or to one guest invited not in attendance.

A boy you hadn’t spoken to in almost two years.

Behind you, Soobin pulled you closer between his legs, either one settling by your sides. You slotted in perfectly between his knees and allowed your head to lull backward onto him. Looking up at him from where you sat on the floor, you gave him the smallest of smiles, one he returned. Leaning over you, he pressed an upside down kiss to your lips, staying there for a few seconds before he pulled away and pressed one to your forehead.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered against your skin. A slight pain speared through your heart, one that made an appearance on your brows. Soobin clicked his tongue and kissed you in the same spot, willing the discomfort away. “None of that. Look at our boys.”

Our boys.

Lifting your head, Soobin wrapped his arms around your chest and rested his chin over your hair. You both let out a laugh at once as the twins suddenly became aware of one another occupying the same space. Sunoo had crawled in front of Chan, the two sitting on their bottoms smiling at each other. They babbled incoherently at the same time, making the other laugh. Then, Sunoo lifted a hand and attempted to grab onto Chan’s foot, making his brother squeal and kick his legs like crazy. The oldest of the two watched his twin make a scene, then copied him.

“They’re best friends,” Soobin said quietly to not distract the boys. “Two happy little best friends, how lucky are they?”

“So lucky,” you whispered, holding onto his wrists with a grip that had potential to leave a mark behind. The little ones wouldn’t be here smiling at one another if it weren’t for the man wrapped around you.

The pain within was too much to bear. The dizzying nausea, the crippling, stay in bed type of sadness that infected your limbs every single day. The heartbreak that came in waves, typically crashing whenever Soobin held one of the boys, or both, rocking them to sleep, or soothing their cries. An emptiness, a disconnect that kept you so far away from accepting his love no matter how hard you tried, making you wonder if the guilt was ever going to leave, or, if you’d be forced to live your life stuck this way, in a push and pull of loss, shame, and gut wrenching heartbreak.

10/7/2020

…You’re getting so big, you’re walking already, that means you guys are smart. That means you guys are taking after your mom because no way in hell will you be getting any smarts from me. Part of me feels guilty writing this all down on paper instead of saying it to you, when I could be saying it to you, but I know one day you’ll understand why. I have no clue what comes of these letters, these pieces of me to you, so I have no idea when you’ll ever read this, so I’ll spare you your dads complaints. It makes me so happy to see your mom smile. Last time I saw her she was smiling, she was happy. You make her happy. Soobin makes her happy. You’re living a beautiful life, and that makes me happy. You’re safe, taken care of. You deserve that. Don’t forget to love her…

☼ AO3 | wattpad | support | share with me ☼

thank you so much for reading. <3

#txt fanfic #tomorrow x together smut #tomorrow x together angst #txt angst #txt smut #txt x reader #txt x you #txt x y/n #soobin x you #soobin x reader #soobin x y/n #soobin fic #soobin angst #soobin fluff #nmwid #cruel summer

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catscidr · 3 days

Note

«grip on your top is so tight you think he might even rip it, god knows the last time he had to trim his nails» 😭😭❤️‍🔥

I've always wondered how Zandik's hygiene is. I'm sure he doesn't give a shit about it. The only thing he cares about is the mechanisms. And how do you think 500 years ago students washed at sumeru?

you’ve come to the right person nonnie i love elaborating about seemingly boring and mundane details lemme ramble for a hot second (￣^￣ )ゞ

-> i talked about what i think his shaving habits would be like a couple of weeks ago (here). i think he would be less inclined to shave as an akademiya student than when he’s “Prime” because he just has.... so much to do, so little time. as a young adult he does grow a decent amount of facial hair (not enough for a full beard though i think), and as much as he dislikes having it, he doesn’t really bother to shave it unless it starts to get on his nerves. like, if he’s head-first into machinery and he keeps rubbing his stubble on the metal...... he’ll get back to his dorm room and quickly shave off the annoying stubble lol. but he doesn't shave it regularly, no. he doesn't gaf about his appearance, really, so doesn't care enough to have a routine

(naturally i like to think there's dorms in the akademiya LOL a shame genshin doesn't expand on living spaces other than just a couple of houses here and there sadge ˙◠˙ )

-> i like to think he’s a heavy nail biter to make up for having barely ever touched a nail file/clipper in his life. it helps him focus sometimes when he's locked tf in. some of his nails are less affected than others, like his pinky fingernails. even though they're all mostly dull, cracked or bitten off there’s definitely potential for him to scratch someone if he truly wanted to. and i'm sure he’d just rips his nails off when they got in the way of whatever research he's doing..

-> but boy oh BOY best for last. i think that they would maybe handwash their clothes in a tub/basin with soap, or if they don't have anything of the sort they could go up north to sumeru city and wash their clothes in the river.

.......but at the same time they did have akasha terminals (going off dottore's vague lore timeline because greater lord rukkhadevata created the akasha system and died around 500 years ago, so im assuming maybe dottore would have been in the akademiya when she died? but my brain hurts thinking about the possibilities so lets assume they all had akasha systems when he was enrolled lol)....... so maybe they had the technology to create basic washing machines (maybe something like this?)

though i'm sure he wouldn't bother himself with a proper hygiene routine, probably only washing himself and his uniform when it got dirty enough (which was probably often anyways) (and i'm sure the akademiya would basically just dresscode him if he showed up to class with soot and oil all over him, too)

and i like to think that maybe the akademiya dorms would have communal bathrooms/"showers" as well. but at the same time it's a super prestigious school so they could have individual bathrooms for each dorm room...... but at the same time² we're talking about 500 years ago........ so............. hmm..............................

in general he's more focused on research and conducting experiments n getting results, so being spotless would be the least of his worries. if he ended up getting sick as a result of his less-than-socially-acceptable hygiene he'd probably just use it as learning experience and use that knowledge for future experiments, like on his eleazar patients in that abandoned hospital. he'd do the bare minimum to Not get sick, has to dedicate as much time as he can in the akademiya to study forbidden knowledge. can't be bedridden with a fever, that's for pussies and he's Not a pussy... probably his daily affirmation. "i'm not a pussy, i am better than everyone. they all suck ass and i'm an alpha". yeah anyways

but WHATEVER!!!!!! tl;dr: he's a grimy little guy and reeks of blood sometimes but its ok we love him either way♡

#i hope u all get my vision #i will never say no to rambling about seemingly useless things #if u need me to overanalyze things im your guy #୧ ‧₊˚orderup!#dottore headcanons #il dottore headcanons #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #dottore x reader

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n4nase · 16 hours

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somethin' stupid

| you and toji, the love in your relationship severed many years ago-- but kept together solely by your children and the agreement to keep a complete household for your children. toji understands that you may not love him as much anymore; but the admiration for you is ongoing, eternal.

based on the song somethin' stupid - frank sinatra, nancy sinatra!

! toji fushiguro x female reader, sorta angst, comfort, established relationship,.... idk

' i know, i stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me'

"y/n, do you wanna go out for a drink tonight..?" toji asked shyly. a small amount of blush creeped into his cheeks, dark black strands of hair just slightly covering his eyes. "--i mean, we've been on edge lately.. i thought i could treat you..." he continued after a small silence. fiddling with the bottom of his shirt as he awaited your response.

you agreed.

*'and if we go someplace to dance, i know that there's a chance you wont be leaving with me.'

you guys walked beside each other that night, a little closer than you guys usually do. toji felt the warmth of your body radiate onto his. he was happy settling at that closeness. you could hear the aura of party downtown-- the same aura felt the day you guys first met.

toji wanted to take you somewhere meaningful that night. he feared losing you more than he already has.

*'then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two..'

you and toji stopped in front of a small jazz bar. you used to always want to adventure to jazz bars with toji, daydream about you and him in themed attire to enjoy a peaceful night at the bar.

"you've always wanted to come here right?.." toji sort of mumbled. it was hard for him to talk to you when it wasn't about the kids.

you hummed in satisfaction, taking a sip of the drink that toji ordered for you-- the classic, its been years and he still knows you well.

"thank you, toji." you looked into his eyes. they glistened a little, the light reflecting off of his alluring green eyes.

*'and then i go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like,'

"you're welcome, i love you." he said softly. those three words being the loudest of the restaurant chatter happening throughout the bar. you tilted your head slightly. you blushed a little. but no reaction.. do you love him still?

toji thought you didn't. your lack of response had confirmed things for him.

'i can see it in your eyes that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before'

you swirled your drink softly. the nights he had come home exhausted, the days you felt neglected by him. you both failed to nurture each other. it was exhausting when you bombarded each other at the wrong times.

regrets, a marriage of love.. feelings of regret. are there some things that we should have gotten over..? it hurt.

'and though its just a line to you for me its true and never seemed so right before..'

but despite those feelings of hurt. toji still loved you after it all. unconditionally. but you didn't love him back.

even so. the air was thick between you two. the remembered feelings and memories attached to jazz bars had caused you two to reminisce.

'i practice every day to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come true...'

toji tried. every morning, he would try to come knocking on your (separate..) bedroom door to ask for you to fix his tie perfectly as you did before. or bring you breakfast in the mornings as you woke up.

he ended up covering your plate in saran wrap. a small note attached with the rilakkuma sticky notes you had purchased.

he had to watch a youtube video on how to fix his tie.

'but then i think i'll wait until the evening gets late and i'm alone with you.'

he played with the straw in his cup. he looked at you for a while. you knew that, you let him.

'the time is right your perfume fills my head'

you walked back together. you had .. many drinks extra, clinging onto his arm as he guides the two of you back home. your familiar scent lingering onto him. he breathed in heavily--the fresh cold air purifying his thoughts.

'the stars get red, and oh, the nights so blue'

he daydreamed about moments like this with you. for years almost. to be this close with you again. he looked up at the sky. you stumbled a little, grasping his arm a little tighter.

he pulled out your spare pair of shoes. sitting you down to slip your heels off gently and hold them for you. he knew your feet were hurting.

a habit he built, because he loved you.

'and then i go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like,'

your breath showed in the soft lighting of the night. blush tainting your cheeks and nose perfectly. you could not do anything but stare.

when you’re drunk, its your subconscious right?..

"i love you." you softly said.

a/n: i CLEARLY am a first time writer. saur many typos but im fixing them i swear plzzz i dont know how to work this

#toji fushiguro #jjk x reader #jjk toji #toji x you #toji x reader #toji angst #toji fluff #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu toji

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babyseraphim · 2 days

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Here's a scrap of writing about Charles and Edwin's relationship that I deleted from a fic and likely won't use in anything else (for context, this fic takes place 10 years after they met, so their relationship is still developing):

All Charles has ever tried to do is treat Edwin with understanding. Charles knows that he isn’t always able to understand exactly what Edwin is going through, but he’s long since decided that Edwin will never go through any of it alone again. He is determined to be someone that Edwin can depend on, someone that will protect him from a world that seems intent on beating him down at every turn.

When he was alive, Charles often took pride in the amount of compassion and consideration he was able to spare for others. As much as those around him had insisted, though, Charles knew that his kindness did not come naturally. His immediate reaction to most adverse situations was anger, burning hot and raging like a wildfire. It terrified him, thinking his anger could spin out of his control someday. His father’s anger had burned twice as hot and three times as long, often resulting in the destruction of people around him. Those people, unfortunately, were most often Charles and his mother. As he grew older, Charles had promised himself that he would never inflict the same fear and harm on others that his father had inflicted on him. He took it upon himself to become a peacemaker, putting himself in the middle of hostile situations as often as he could. Charles’ short life had been filled with pain and rejection, and the idea of anyone else being forced to feel the way Charles felt made his stomach churn. It became a habit, after a while, to always act as kindly and compassionately as he possibly could. Even though Charles expected no reward in return for his kind gestures, it had always seemed unfair that so few people in his life were intent on returning the gesture. His compassion is what ended up getting him killed in the end, but he still couldn’t bring himself to regret the decisions he made. Not when it had led him to Edwin.

Though Edwin is not one to naturally offer reassurances or heart-felt admissions, Charles knows that his daily presence must be significant for Edwin in some way. It has to be, otherwise Edwin would not have put up with his near-constant company and incessantly playful behavior for the last decade. It’s no secret that Edwin had lived quite an isolated life before his death, but it seems as though his seclusion has somehow grown to include Charles’ presence in the afterlife. Charles is eternally grateful for that fact.

#dead boy detectives #dbda #dbdshow #edwin payne #charles rowland #my writing

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bonesxbows · 2 days

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Colors of the Underdark (Astarion x Reader)

My Masterlist

A trip to the Underdark goes south and you're left with no light source. Your human eyes become useless and you start to panic. You're terrified of the dark and there's nothing but darkness around you down here. Astarion can tell and can actually see you start to panic. He tries his best to comfort you.

-WARNINGS- Descriptions of the dark Descriptions of fear Anxious feelings Descriptions of a panic attack

I'm still trying to get a sense of writing his character, this is my first attempt so pls be nice if it's bad. This was also written over the course of a couple of days so sorry if it's a bit choppy. The idea came from the fact that humans are like one of the few species that don't have dark vision. I'm also afraid of the dark so it's a tad self-indulgent lol. Hopefully, you still enjoy it, reblogs are much appreciated :)

A sudden gust of wind blew your burning torch to mere embers, encasing you and your party in pure and utter darkness. The only source of light anywhere around was the few glowing mushrooms miles away, but the only thing they did was remind you of the cavern system that surrounded you, threatening to suffocate you at a moment's notice.

“Fuck…fuck!” You screamed, your heart immediately beginning to sputter and race.

“Relax darling, it's just a little darkness, nothing to worry over.” His voice was relaxed, calm, collected, and in control. Every emotion opposite of what you were feeling.

“Relax?! Are you insane? We need to get out of here, now!” Your voice was laced with panic and you were beginning to hyperventilate.

“Are they okay?” You could hear Gale ask, although the answer he was looking for was very much apparent. Astarion was starting to worry, though we didn’t let the others see. He didn't answer Gale and instead barked an order.

“Set up camp, we’ll stay here for the time being.” He told him.

“But-”

“It's not up for debate and I didn't ask for your opinion nor your advice. Go.”

Gale scoffed but did as he was told and Shadowheart followed him without any comment. You were now on your knees scratching the head of your torch on the rocky ground, desperately trying to spark it alight again. As soon as Gale and Shadowheart were out of earshot Astarion kneeled next to you and his confident exterior fell away to sadness. The sight of you being so scared and desperate broke his heart. Of course, he could see every detail around him easily, even the crease of your brow as you concentrated on your futile task. He couldn’t imagine what your perspective as a human was like; was it pure pitch black? Could you still see the outlines of your surroundings? Did you even sense him near you? Trying to put himself in your shoes reminded him of his punishment of being locked inside that mausoleum so many years ago and he hated that feeling. Most of all he hated the idea of you experiencing that same amount of fear.

“Darling? Can you look at me?” He asked you in a soft voice. You didn't reply and he could now see tears start to flood your face. His frown deepened and so he reached forward and grabbed the torch out of your hands before you started to scrape the tips of your fingers raw. Your fingernails were already suffering from the constant friction. You practically jumped out of your skin from his unexpected interference. “I'm sorry my sweet but you're starting to hurt yourself. This torch is beyond dead anyway, beating it against the ground won't do you any good.” He tossed it aside and both of you could hear the wood bounce against the stone ground with a hollow clunk. You stared right at him, whether you realized you were doing so or not, and your face tore a new hole in his undead heart; you were seriously frightened, tears stained your face, and your eyes took no hesitation in replacing them with fresh ones. You were visibly shaking and you were constantly blinking, no doubt trying to find any sense of purchase of your surroundings.

“Astarion…”

“Yes?”

“I can't see you.”

“I know darling.”

“I'm afraid of the dark.”

You spoke in whispers, he almost didn't hear your confession. For once he was glad you couldn't see him, his first reaction was shock and it showed on his face. You were so fearless in battle, nothing scared you then, and you were always so confident in your actions, nothing like the person in front of him now. How could someone like you be so afraid of something so non-threatening? You continued to stare at him, tears still streaming down your face. He could hear your heartbeat start to speed up even faster.

“Astarion…? Are you…are you still there?” Your voice was scratchy from fear. His eyes widened as he realized what he had inadvertently done; his delay in response had given you the impression that he had gotten up and left you all alone. He quickly remedied his mistake by reaching out and grasping your hands in his, again making you jump out of your skin from the sudden unexpected contact. He silently cursed himself for scaring you again, he'd get better at this one day he promised himself, but immediately your heart began to calm down slightly from his cool touch.

“I'm here my sweet, I won't leave you.” You breathed a sigh of relief and you let go of one of his hands, fumbling it around to find his shoulder. He stayed still, letting you find him through touch and letting you get a sense of your surroundings by comparing your location to his. He wanted to laugh, your hand movements were adorable, like a puppy using its nose to find food, but he held his tongue. He didn't want to make this moment any more uncomfortable for you than it already was. It took you a minute but eventually, you grasped his shoulder.

“Can I…can I come closer?” You asked. He couldn't help but smile at your timid question. You were still shaking with fear but yet you still remembered to ask before touching him in any intimate way.

“Oh, my love…how could I say no to you? Come here, I’ll help you.” As you began to scoot closer to him he moved his hands to your upper arms to guide you, pulling you in the right direction towards him. You fumbled a bit but he helped you settle in his lap, nestled in between his legs with his arms wrapped around you. You were facing away from him, but you didn't mind this time, you couldn't see his face anyway regardless in the darkness. You could sense his arms around your waist and you could feel his cold hands on your stomach even through your armor. Your surroundings were still nothing but pitch black from your perspective, but the feeling of his body pressed up against yours helped start to calm your frazzled nerves. You couldn't see him, you couldn't see anything, but you knew you were safe with him. He was being your eyes and he would protect you when you couldn't protect yourself. You leaned back into him and he tightened his arms around you, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“You're safe with me darling. The darkness can’t hurt you.” He whispered into your ear. The trust you had built with each other was enough for you to let yourself believe him. Your body had started to return to normal, your breathing was becoming even and your heart rate was turning into a steady rhythm.

“Where are the others?” you asked. You had no sense if they were even still around, you still couldn't see anything and you couldn't hear them either, but you assumed Astarion could.

“Don't worry your sweet little head about them, they're alright.” As soon as he finished his sentence a faint orange glow lit up the nearby area. You had stayed as still as possible so far but your head whipped in the direction of the new source of light as soon as it appeared. Your hair brushed against Astarion’s face aggressively when you turned, but he was too relieved to mind. He could feel the tension melt from your body. He watched as you forcefully blinked, adjusting your eyes from the pitch darkness to the now faint light. The rest of the party had finally sparked the campfire and they were now preoccupied with trying to roast something over it. You turned back to Astarion and caught the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

“Are you alright? Better now with the light?” he asked, moving one of his hands to push a strand of your hair out of your face and tucking it behind your ear. You nodded, grateful he had stayed with you.

“Can I…um…” your words were failing you again but you glanced down at his lips and he understood. His smile grew a little wider.

“Of course my love.”

You were quick. He barely had time to react before the force of you sent you both tumbling backward. Your lips crashed into his and your hands grasped his shoulders, holding on to him like a lifeforce. Once he had balanced the two of you again he gently grabbed your face, deepening the kiss and teasingly nicking your bottom lip with his fangs. You retreated after he did so, but you were smiling. You placed your forehead against his and stared into those ruby eyes you loved. He returned the same look of admiration and love.

“Thank you,” you told him. He pecked your lips again.

“You don't always need me to protect you, but I most certainly will whenever I can. Nothing will harm you while I'm around. Not here in the Underdark, nor anywhere else. I love you too much to let anything happen to you.”

#my writings #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion

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little-cereal-draws · 3 days

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Hc that Polites has a massive squish (platonic crush) on Odysseus

a follow up to this post, this post, and this post. you don't need to read them to understand this post tho

It's difficult to explain because in a lot of ways it feels a lot like a romantic crush but it's not. He spent a few years when they were younger debating if what he was feeling was romantic or not but when he saw how Odysseus and Penelope acted, he knew that wasn't right. He had all the same intensity and the longing that they had but he just wanted to hang out, nothing more. It's a weird thing, to be laying in bed, kicking your feet, and giggling with joy like you've got a crush because you spent all day with your bestie but know that you never want it to go any further than that.

Admittedly, he was jealous when Odysseus was falling in love with Penelope. Who did this girl think she was?? Sure, she was smart, pretty, and talented but what about him? He had known Odysseus almost for their entire lives, did that mean nothing to him? Why would he not want to spend time with Polites in favor of this random girl he didn't even know existed until a few months ago??? It didn't make any sense. He was bitter and angry; he wanted to take it out on Odysseus by acting distant and closed off but he couldn't do it. He thought if he acted like he had other people he'd rather hang out with then Odysseus would realize what he was missing. But every time he came by, it felt so much better to let all the giddy affection that buzzed in his heart out. Polites found he didn't care one way or the other about Penelope when Odysseus was talking to him.

By the time Odysseus and Penelope got married, he had made peace with it. Penelope might be Odysseus' first choice now but that didn't mean that he would stop hanging out with Polites entirely. Seeing Odysseus' blinding smile as he celebrated with his new wife made everything worth it. If Penelope made him happy, Polites could be happy for him too. He finally stumbled home from the festivities feeling warm and content.

When Telemachus was born, it rekindled an aspect of his relationship with Odysseus that had been forgotten lately. His friend was stressed, sleep deprived, and bursting with love for his tiny son. Polites would let him lean on his shoulder while he rambled incoherently about how amazed he was that such a small person could fit so much poop in him. It melted Polites' heart that his friend felt so comfortable with him; that he would press into his side, half asleep, and finally let himself relax. Odysseus had always been very tactile in showing his affection for people, but it had been reserved more for Penelope lately. Polites' heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest.

They sailed to Troy and the war slowly, very slowly, began. They stopped spending as much time together -Odysseus was needed by the kings- and as the years dragged on, Polites thought he had finally gotten over his feelings. The ones that Odysseus would unknowingly entertain but never understood the full depth of. When he laid in his tent at night and thought of his friend, no strong feelings came. Just two friends who enjoyed each other's company a normal amount. Honestly, he was fine with this. Odysseus wouldn't shut up about how much he missed Penelope even though Polites was right there with him and the unrequited yearning was starting to grow old. No matter how close they were or how much time they spent together, Odysseus would never return the level of feeling that Polites had for him.

After the ambush of Troy, the whole camp spent a night celebrating before they packed up to finally go back home. People were drinking, singing, making sacrifices to the gods, and admiring their new treasures. Everyone was having a good time- except Odysseus. He stumbled into Polites' tent and collapsed to his knees. Polites was by his side in an instant, pulling him into his arms so he wouldn't completely fall. His friend sobbed and sobbed as Polites gently rocked him back and forth. He didn't know where this had come from, not a single man under Odysseus' command had died, but he would spend as long as he needed to comforting his friend. Odysseus eventually cried himself to sleep, still in his armor and still in his arms. As Polites gently laid him down on his mat, his heart gave another kick of longing. It startled him -he thought he was over this- but when Odysseus refused to let go of his hand, even in sleep, he decided that he was more than happy to get pulled back in headfirst.

They start the trip back home. Time was running out until Odysseus is distracted by Penelope again. If Polites ever wanted Odysseus to feel the same way about him, he needed to do something now. But he wasn't sure what to do; he didn't want to do anything besides what they're already doing. Hanging out, talking, teasing each other, etc. He jumped at the chance to explore the island alone with him and to cheer him up. He was still not sure why Odysseus was upset but if he could help him... then maybe that'll be the thing that finally get Odysseus to return his feelings. It's a long shot but he had to try. And if not, then he still got to spend a day with his friend, making him feel better.

The club came from above and Polites didn't see the shadow until it was too late. There was a split second of wind in his hair. Then pain. So much pain. He was sure his ribs were piercing through his lungs. He doesn't remember calling out for Odysseus. He doesn't remember reaching out for him either. He only remembers the look of terror on his friend's face and the tears already pouring down his cheeks.

#:D #you're welcome!#i will happily be the captain of this ship lol #polites: cuddling/taking naps/holding hands/getting food/talking/spending the rest of our lives together: yes. kissing/sex: no #(lowkey based this off me and my long distance queer platonic partner. she's romantically dating as well and i am... so fine abt it)#not jealous at all #i need to talk to her abt it #anyway... here are some regular tags #epic the musical #odysseus #polities #penelope #odypen #odysseus x penelope #polites x odysseus #odysseus x polites #polites epic the musical #odysseus epic

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ghirganatik · 1 day

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THE NARANCIA BOAT SCENE AND WHY IT'S A CRUCIAL CHARACTER SCENE: A half assed introspective

As I stated in another post, one of Narancia Ghirga's major recurring themes is 'youth'. To put things short (im currently sick rn but im trying to muster up the energy to type and word out my thoughts) he had to grow up early. He was a young boy who lost his mother, faced neglect from his father and was betrayed by a group he sought love and trust from. Even after joining the gang, though in a better shape, Narancia still seeks out love and respect. But unfortunately, even though he's got two whole years on mr. Giorno "buddyboy" Giovanna, he's seen as a rambunctious, childish subordinate with a horrible temper. Despite his endeavors to prove himself in order to feel like he's receiving the same level of respect as his peers, it's still true. Without proper guidance (and formal education) growing up he doesn't know how to manage his emotions, and he's seen to latch onto people whom he trusts despite what happened to him in the past. (He's seeking love and respect, remember?) That attachment earns him the title of being a fiercly loyal member to Passione and his friends. Like cmon, the guy BURNT DOWN AN ENTIRE STREET as a last attempt to not let down his peers.

"looks like I don't have to burn down the whole city." NARANCIA WAS WILLING TO BURN DOWN AN EVEN LARGER AMOUNT OF TOWN FOR HIS GANG. REMEMBER THAT.

now let's talk about his pivotal character moment: the boat scene.

Sure, I completely understand it was a HUGE risky decision, you're literally betraying the fucking italian mafia how is a normal person not supposed to go in a dilemma when presented with that decision??

But from a personal perspective, as someone who had a series of similar betrayals and previously had abandonment issues, back then, being able to detach or have a differing opinion from those you trust is hard. It has a "oh, what if I fuck up? I can't just let them down like that. What will they think of me? Will I do the wrong thing?" mindset and it just goes over your mind over and over again. Fugo was the guy who helped him out of the gutter, being a friend he could trust after a series of betrayals. So naturally, he holds Fugo in a high regard, he just can't let him down like that or even let alone, ABANDON the guy who saved him from abandonment. now what was Narancia gonna do?

I can't assume as I am not Narancia, but given how similar my past circumstances have been to his, I'm so, SO sure that was a floating factor when he was trying to decide on what to do. Was Narancia going leave behind his found family? Or was he going to leave the one that brought trust back into his life?

However, that mental dilemma suddenly took a turn towards one decision when Narancia felt empathy towards Trish upon learning of her situation. Now here's the thing about Narancia's character; Narancia may not be academically intelligent, but that guy has such a high emotional intelligence.

He would NEVER wish his experiences on anyone he trusts or knows. Narancia knows the pain, and seeing others go through similar situations pains him as well. Even without proper guidance and practically being a street rat for most of his early teen life, he displays so much empathy and EQ. And honestly, that's what makes his character just so human. Despite the pain and all the wrongdoings done to him, Narancia still chooses to do the right thing. And hell, given EVERYTHING that has happened, one nudge into the wrong direction and Narancia could've been villainous, he could've been a drug addict, a senseless criminal etc.

Look, if you've noticed a pattern in Narancia's backstory/character, he's following others. His blonde friend? "Sure, I'll follow him so I seem cooler!" And yeah, one can argue that Narancia joining the mafia and disregarding Bruno's statement is his first act of paving his own path and yeah, it is. But I'd like to say that scene is the equivalent of opening a door while the boat scene is the equivalent of his first step.

When you open a door, you have two options: it's either you proceed forward or you shut it without proceeding.

Even after joining the mob, he still keeps that element of loyalty. He follows Bruno's orders out of both respect towards his hero and wanting to be respected by his peers. Now, what if Fugo didn't find him? Narancia literally lived in the streets of Naples, and it's safe to say he had higher odds at becoming a senseless criminal or drug addict in comparison to being found and fed by Fugo and Bruno. He was willing to do anything for respect after all, at that time he didn't have a sense of what peer pressure was, so who knows where that could've led him?

Anyways, back to Narancia's empathy.

It requires so much mental strength to maintain that kind of empathetic mindset with that background. Bravo, Ghirga.

Youth, empathy and trust. those are three Narancia's major character themes. (There's one more, but let's save that for another post.)

so him jumping into the water to pursue the boat is such a pivotal character moment for him, he took his first step.

Additionally, it is to be noted that it is also stated in PHF that Narancia was never proficient at swimming, but he jumped in anyway. IF THAT IS NOT RAW HUMAN DETERMINATION RIGHT THERE, I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IS.

His first step into pivoting his own path on his accord, no influences from other parties. He was starting to go on his own path, he was growing up. But not in the same sense as him having to enter the mob as a teenager, but in a mental sense.

This was his character moment, Narancia began to grow up.

His titles in the official weiss schwarz cards also further this character theme.

"Narancia, Choosing His Own Path" "Narancia, Way Forward"

"Narancia, PIONEER OF FATE."

#narancia ghirga #narancia #jjba #jojo #golden wind #jojos bizarre adventure part 5 #jjba part 5 #vento aureo #bruno bucciarati #sources: just search for weiss schwarz narancia #and for the phf source this is the line im referring to:#“Fugo stared after him blankly. Unable to react at all. Narancia was never a great swimmer.”#why did i have fun writing this like lowk

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radiocreature · 1 day

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The Rose That Broke The Camel's Back (Radioroseweek Day 3)

Word count: 3,852

Summary: Rosie invites Alastor over for dinner after she kills her husband. She thought killing him would be all the closure she needed, but when Alastor asks about it, she realizes her feelings about it are more complicated. Alastor is a good listener, and more empathetic than she thought. This is pre-canon and their friendship is still young.

Warnings: cannibalism, brief mention/implications of spousal abuse, emotional hurt/comfort

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56569879

The Rose That Broke The Camel's Back

It started the way any good cannibal romance should: over dinner. Decades ago, after the extermination, Rosie ventured outside of cannibal town to scavenge any useful carcasses. Her luck after an extermination varies, and the angels left a massacre behind them last year. Bodies ripped apart. Organs contaminated with dirt and motor oil. She never resorts to violence or aggression to get what she wants, but that day, she did use her reputation to make other scavengers back off the ones she wanted. Rosie’s Emporium serves only the best.

One didn’t back off, though; not right away. A well-dressed stranger with sharp eyes, a warm smile, and a voice too soothing for Hell. He introduced himself as Frank, and since he got to it first, offered to split it with her. Or, she could have the whole thing in exchange for dinner with him. She agreed, and offered to cook. The exorcists only blew its brains out; by far the most intact carcass she encountered that night. Entertaining a stranger for one evening—especially one so easy on the eyes—was a fair enough trade.

He helped her haul everything back home. They agreed to meet at her Emporium the following night, and he vowed to dress to impress. With a bow and a kiss on the top of her hand, he left. The ghost of his lips stayed a little longer.

Their first dinner revealed their love of the same authors, musicians, and Rosie’s cooking. She prepared the left thigh of the sinner he let her keep, testing a new recipe on him. Simple but bold: rare, with a dusting of mixed spices, and enough heat for a kick but not enough to overpower the fragile taste of blood. He would later cite this as the night he fell in love with her.

For their second dinner, Frank brought candles to light and a dish of his own to share. The best recipe he can make. Not quite up to par with her standards, but she appreciated a man who tried any amount of cooking. He opened himself to her advice and expertise. He listened; she appreciated that in a man, too.

They spent their third dinner outside on a blanket, away from the worst of the city noise, where the sky gets darker and the glow of Heaven’s eye can almost pass for moonlight. His hands fidgeted and he stumbled over his words more than usual. So she kissed him first, with her teeth still bared through her smug grin.

She insisted on having their fourth dinner at Frank’s house so they could cook together, because she doesn’t allow other people in her kitchen. This time, she lit the candles, and puppeteered his hands to teach him how to pare delicate skin without losing any fat, and let him lean against her when the closeness derailed his sensibilities. His confused expression when she insisted on serving dessert from the living room, then turned down the wrong hallway, danced delight and anticipation on her skin. She rode him twice that night to make sure he saw stars, not the contemptuous eyes of Heaven that watched them through the roof.

Their courtship drew the envy of many across Cannibal Town, not that any of them would dare try to steal such a romance away from Rosie. With all her efforts as a matchmaker and relationship expert, they all wanted this to work as much as she did. It’s your turn, they’d tell her. Though she admonished anyone for trying to call her relationship “perfect,” the word felt appropriate. In the beginning.

He proposed to her with the largest rock she’d ever seen, the ring still affixed on the last sinner’s finger, and the box custom-sized to fit both. Neither could keep their teeth out of the kiss when she said yes, all smiles and excitement and a few drops of blood.

It stayed perfect for a good stretch after their wedding. Long enough that, when the sweetness started to sour, she could explain it away for herself.

Men and women want different things out of marriage, this she knew. She took pride in her ability to mediate the give and take from both sides. This skill and insight elevated her to Overlord status without need of owning souls or making deals—thousands of relationships blossomed, matches made, marriages mended, hearts ignited or saved from tragedy, and they all credit her with their happiness. They give her their devotion without her needing to take it; they feel indebted to her, and Hell does the rest.

She knows the warning signs. She knows how to spot and pull on every loose thread. She knows how to analyze the smallest details and bigger picture in tandem. The situations and disasters she helps her clients with would not befall her, because she knows the signs and threads and bigger pictures.

The honeymoon phase lasted around a year. In its stead settled a baseline sense of comfort and belonging in one another’s lives. A new homeostasis as “I,” “he,” and “us.” Frank quit his job to help run the business Rosie founded, fixing up existing wear-and-tear and building a long-overdue expansion on the building. When they opened the new space to the public, Rosie’s Emporium rebranded to Rosie and Frank’s Emporium.

His pushiness and micromanaging of the Emporium demonstrated his passion to help her business succeed, of course. His growing criticism of her abilities aimed to help her improve them, of course. He dismissed the value of her relationship and matchmaking services as a joke, of course; he knew she built everything she owned on that foundation. He wanted to find his place in her life, not overtake it. Surely.

The decades passed in relative peace, with only the occasional biting joke to hint at possible unrest at home. The Emporium flourished, her clients sang her praises, giving her the power to protect Cannibal Town from anyone that might wish the cannibals harm. Her marriage, while not perfect, fulfilled her enough to stay with him. She preferred the boring nights over the ones spent berating and arguing and threatening to eat one another’s left foot. The Victrola helped calm them both sometimes, but their first radio helped them laugh together again.

The advent of radio caused the first real widespread sensation in Hell. Sinners scarcely intermingled with the other cities in the Pride Ring due to the significant distances between all of them, and communication was slow. They tended to stay put wherever they spawned. When radio first popped up, it spread like wildfire, and brought the many subcultures of Hell to each other for the first time. News, music, plays, and comedy for all the realm to enjoy together.

Not long after, it brought screams.

She remembers all of those broadcasts. She recognized every voice. The other Overlords, some of whom she considered acquaintances, howling with pain and begging for mercy. Their torment lasted anywhere from a few hours to a few days before a sound unlike any she’d heard before silenced their screaming. The broadcasts reached every radio, including ones turned off. Nothing stopped them from reaching the ears of every sinner, every Overlord.

Her thoughts on it argued with each other. On the one hand, the fellow sounded like an arrogant try-hard. On the other, he sounded fascinating and charming. Fear of him targeting her never occurred to her. The Overlords he’d killed so far wielded their power and influence like toddlers, making their demeanors horrid and their status fragile. Though she had considerable strength, she never pursued anything more than what she needed to keep the cannibals safe and happy.

The first time she met him, she didn’t know. While dropping off an order for a butchery on the west side of town, she struck up a conversation with a handsome sinner clad in all red. Outsiders rarely set foot in Cannibal Town, let alone purchased meat from them. She couldn’t remember the last time she assimilated a human soul into the colony.

He introduced himself as Alastor, with a light bow and a kiss to the top of her hand. His voice had the gravel of a radio speaker; an odd charm, and almost soothing. Had she a clearer mind that day she may have connected the dots right then.

He had such an animated face for someone who stood so still. No idle gesticulation as he talked, every movement had intent. He spoke with honest enthusiasm, an unusual vivacity for a condemned soul. She told him a little about Cannibal Town and welcomed him to her Emporium whenever he liked for a treat.

“Oh, you’re too kind, sweetheart!” She remembers his words verbatim. “I would be delighted to. I’m afraid I must get going, but it was a pleasure to meet you, dear, quite a pleasure.” He kissed her hand again before departing. The memory still makes her smile.

He visited the Emporium one week later. She bounced on her toes behind the counter to contain her excitement. Rather than kissing her hand, he presented her with a pair of roses: one deep red, one lighter pink, close to the color of her dress. His sharp smile and soft eyes stirred such warmth in her chest. She squealed and giggled with delight, then handed him his gift, too: light-roasted salted fingers, one of her bestselling little snacks.

Not ready to let him leave, she invited him to have lunch with her. She learned that he prefers coffee over tea (so she made him coffee), takes it black, doesn’t like vegetables but will eat them if they complement the meat, also doesn’t like wine much but, again, will drink it if it complements the meat, but otherwise enjoys whiskey and scotch. In life, he hosted a radio show, and featured as many unknown jazz artists as he could in between the popular names. Good music can come from anyone, and when he found it, he featured it. The way he spoke captivated her.

When she shared about herself and her business, he clung onto every word, his attention never straying once. Beady, hyper-focused pupils above a gentle smile that may have put off others, but she found endearing. He listened, valued her thoughts and insight into how all this worked.

When she had to get back to work, she welcomed him for lunch or coffee anytime he liked. The next time he visited, he brought a damask rose. Their next lunch, he gave her an ausmas rose. They bumped into each other at the butchery again, after which they decided to get coffee. When they sat down, he pulled a lady banks rose out from inside his coat. After he revealed himself as the Radio Demon (she had connected the dots by then), he brought an entire bouquet of peace roses. A different rose every time he saw her. It made her laugh and blush without fail.

What made it sweetest, though, was his intent. Not a drop of romance or lust behind any of it, only a desire to see her smile. And she did. She smiled more around him than her husband.

If Frank even noticed the growing number of roses in the vase on her vanity, he never asked about them. He did notice her pushing back against his attitude more, which made him worse. Bickering degraded into arguing, degraded into fighting. Raised hands with implications of violence make their way into verbal fights from both sides. Lucifer so help her, if he so much as tries, she vowed destroy him.

And then it clicked.

And she felt like such a fool.

She fixed foolishness in others all the time, though. She can fix it in herself. It started with sharpening her old axe.

A knock at her door in a familiar rhythm sets her alight. “It’s open, sweetie!” She shouts from the kitchen.

The front door opens and shuts. Dress shoes click across her floors. The reflection in the kitchen window announces Alastor entering the room with a bounce in his step. Both hands and his microphone sit clasped behind his back, and his sharp grin relaxes to a more comfortable smile. A smile she hasn’t seen him give anyone else.

“Evening, dear,” he greets. “Can I help with anything?”

“Absolutely not,” she says while she works. “Get out of my kitchen. It’s almost ready, you can sit at the table if you like.”

He lifts onto his toes an inch, nods, then spins on his heels towards the dining room table.

When she comes out carrying the steaming tray, he helps clear space for it on the table. He hung his coat by the front door and pushed up his sleeves, revealing his waist jacket and the gradient dark-into-light skin on his forearms. He plans on staying for a while. She beams at him as she puts it down.

“It smells delicious,” he says, licking his lips.

“It better be,” she says, grin turning wicked, “it’s been a long time comin’.”

Before they sit, he hands her a trio of roses. It gets a giggle out of her every time, including now. She moves a vase over to the table after prepping their plates so they can have a modest centerpiece.

“Did you know there are over 300 species of roses?” Alastor says as he cuts his first bite. “I’m afraid I’ve run out of them, so these are ones I’ve given you before.”

She covers her mouth to chuckle. “How insulting. You should have bred new ones.”

“Oh, if only I’d taken those gardening classes,” he says. The banter stops for a moment for him to make blissful sounds as he chews. “You’ve outdone yourself, my dear.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. Rosie tries to keep the conflict off her face, but the glint in his eye tells her he notices. She says nothing, for now, letting him enjoy the meal while she figures out what she wants to say.

The lanky bastard always finishes his meals too fast. She wants to hit him with a rolling pin every time he hoovers up his food like this.

“So,” he props his elbows on the table and rests his head on his hands, “what did Frankie old chum do to end up on your dinner table?”

Her hands freeze, her mouth hanging open to expose the tips of her teeth. Despite their hollowed sockets, he can see the panic in her eyes.

“You didn’t ask me to take my shoes off,” he says. “You didn’t give me a little fib about why Frank couldn’t join us again. You put your apron on backwards—”

She looks down at herself and notices the visible seams poking out of her apron.

Alastor pushes to his feet so he can tap part of the succulent roast she spent hours on. “And I recognized this mess in his hindquarters. I broke his leg once when he said something rather untoward about you in my presence. Crushed the bone, popped his femur right out of his pelvis, and I know he didn’t reset it properly until several weeks later because of the way he walked. It would have left scars.”

She waves her fork at him, her smile genuine for the first time since they sat down. “Careful there, perception like that’ll get you in trouble.”

“Indeed it does,” he agrees. He settles back into his chair with his elbows on the table again, chin resting on folded wrists. “Now, then. If I may ask, what did he do to deserve tasting this good?”

“He tasted horrible, I had to glaze and marinate this overnight so it stopped tasting like Frank.” Alastor blinks once. She snorts. “He pissed me off while I was holding a meat cleaver, what else did he expect to happen?”

“Oh, I’m sure death by cannibal wife crossed his mind at least once.” His gaze locks with hers.

For all she teases Alastor about not understanding slang or catching the constant barrage of innuendos thrown at him, no one matches his powers of perception when he decides to use them. She swallows around the discomfort in her throat.

Shrugging, he picks his head back up and prepares himself a second serving. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful we’re not married. Heaven knows I’ve angered you enough times while holding something sharp. Good for you, though. You haven’t seemed happy with him in some time.”

Oh, that tone. That tone of his when he wants to dig something out of someone, even if he doesn’t know what, and she leans in to it because these all feel like such new emotions to her. “I haven’t?”

He takes another bite, his posture all straight lines and poised limbs. “Now, of course, I didn’t know you before you married, but I remember some things you used to do that you haven’t in a while. Getting him little gifts, kissing his cheek on your way out the door, talking about things he’s done for you, or talking about him at all, really. It didn’t bother me when you stopped because I’ve never cared for him, but,” he cracks an eye, and the way his smile shifts stirs something in her ribs. Not pity, not condescension, like a hand on a shoulder before a warm hug. “I care for you. So, my dear, are you alright?”

She exhales a puff of air. “If I’da known this would have become a whole thing I’d have made dessert.” His nose crinkles at the suggestion of sweets. It warms her heart. “It was a lot of things built up over time. It didn’t really hit me until he threatened to hit me. Our arguments were turning into shouting matches, and when he raised a hand at me, I guess I’d had enough.”

Alastor considers his words. His pupils constricted around ‘threatened,’ and the tension in his arms and fingers don’t escape her notice, but his smile stays relaxed and patient. “Were you arguing a lot?”

She groans. “All the time. I feel so foolish that it took me so long to see how bad it’s been, and for so long. Romance is supposed to be my specialty, and seeing through the warning signs of a bad partner is a cornerstone of my business—”

Alastor holds a hand up. “‘It’s infinitely easier to see other people’s problems than your own.’”

“Who taught you that?”

“You, darling.”

She takes a sip of her drink to hide the emotion on her face. “I’m not sure I like how well you pay attention when I talk. I might have to kill you to keep you quiet someday.”

“Now that would make for a fine night’s entertainment,” his grin sharpens to a devilish point as he takes a sip of his drink to mirror her. “And the first real challenge I’ll have faced. I may even break a sweat, for once.”

“Ah, yes, the terrifying Radio Demon,” she feigns shock and horror, “fearsome slayer of Overlords. Whatever will I do?”

“Are people really set on that monicker?”

“‘Fraid so. If you don’t give them one, they’ll choose one for you. People down here aren’t the most creative lot.”

His nose crinkles again. She adores him. “So you were arguing, and he raised a hand at you, and it brought some other transgressions into perspective?”

“Pretty much.”

“Anything in particular you’d like to… get off your chest?” That same smile from before, the one that offers a moment to breathe before wrapping her in an embrace. On anyone else, it may look like a reserved smile, nothing more. But on this man, who keeps a measured smile on his face at all times and his hands folded behind his back, going out of his way to avoid any physical contact until his next murder spree? On him, it speaks volumes.

With a tear in her eye, she reaches across the table, grazing the tips of his fingers with her own. “Not right this very moment, but I appreciate you being willing to listen. I might be a little outta sorts for a few days, but I’ll be alright.”

He looks down at their hands, his head tilting to one side by a hair. Several beats pass, then he opens his fingers and slips hers between them. Her hand moves with his, and she gives his a squeeze when they slot together. When she looks up at him, his gaze stays focused on their joined hands. Still processing, or committing to memory? Either way, it makes her heart churn. What a strange, wonderful unicorn fell into her lap.

She lets him break the contact. When the moment passes, she makes herself a second plate to let dinner resume as normal. “If you wanna help, though, there is one loose end to tie up after supper.”

Alastor hums in understanding. “He’s going to respawn after we finish eating him. Say no more, I’ll find him. Don’t want him crawling back to you.”

Rosie erupts into laughter. “I forgot they respawn. Sure, go ahead. The rest of him is merchandise. No, it’s something else.”

They pick Frank’s leg to the bone. Alastor revels in breaking his femur in the same place, then offering the marrow to Rosie. He clears the table and helps dry the dishes after she washes them. When they finish cleaning up, she beckons him to follow her for that loose end she mentioned.

She doesn’t remember what possessed her to hold on to it, but when the store rebranded to Rosie and Frank’s Emporium, she kept the old sign. Perhaps the nostalgia of designing, painting, and lettering it herself made her hesitant to part with it.

They carry it outside to dust it off. Rosie climbs onto the balcony to remove the current sign. The dirty old thing puts up a fight, so she fetches her tools to remove the nails and pry the damn thing off her storefront. It falls to the ground with a cathartic, thunderous crash.

Alastor waits, and when she signals him, he lifts the new sign with two black tentacles, glowing green around the edges from his magic. He holds it in place for her while she secures it one nail at a time. When she finishes, he lets go, and gives her a thumbs up from the ground. Old to her, but new to him; a fresh start.

He joins her on the balcony with something cold and strong to drink. They touch their glasses together, taking one generous sip while admiring her handiwork from upside down. The skyline of Pentagram City paints the background, with the nighttime glow of the Pride Ring’s crimson red sky and Heaven’s all-seeing eye looming above. Everything changes, everything stays the same.

Her hand brushes his. He lays his overtop hers. Whatever the future holds for her in romance and love, as an expert or fool in, she knows one thing for certain: she has Alastor in her life, now, and she’ll never let him go.

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