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d3add0vedonoteat · 15 days
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Look I love Hotch (bc I wasn’t hugged enough as a child OBVIOUSLY) but sometimes I read fics about him and I’m like ???? Are we watching the same show???
I love yall but PLEASE HE WOULD NEVER ACT LIKE THAT 😂
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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Yo, cousin, I don't understand why you can't just let something good happen for once in your fuckin' life? Are you fucking kidding me right now? Are you fucking kidding me? No, I'm not fucking kidding you right now. Someone's gotta tell you this shit.
Carmy Berzatto & Richie Jerimovich
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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writers whenever they’re starting a new fic: I have these ✨ vibes ✨ now I’ll have to build an entire plot and write an entire fic about those vibes
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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I love love love your Carmy stories! They are so cute and you write Carmy so well, he’s so in character!
My loving, completely unsolicited advice to you as a new writer would be to add “read more” breaks on your fics over 500 words, it makes them easier to handle and reblog!
Can’t wait to see more of what you write! 💕
I actually appreciate that advice a lot! And thank you! I really try to keep it true to his character while also shamelessly feeding my yearning for this man 😂
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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Carbonara (or Carmy Cooks for You)
Pt. 2 of Chicken Soup for Carmy
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This is part 2 of Chicken Soup for Carmy! I hope you love it. NO WARNINGS. Pure fluff
Your apartment was warm. You entered ahead of Carmy, hanging your coat on the wall and kicking off your shoes. “Make yourself at home!” You invited, jovially.
Carmy followed suit, taking in your space. It smelled like you. It was small, but cozy. Personal touches littered every inch of the space. Your kitchen was to the left, a small wooden table against the wall for your dining area. The kitchen counter looked out to the moderately sized living room. Your little orange velvet couch sat before exposed brick and two tall windows. The wall to the left was covered with posters and picture frames, to the right were a pair of bookshelves without an inch of space that wasn’t occupied by a book or trinket. Several plants crowded the windowsills. The rug was soft and plushy on his feet. It would seem hectic to the blind eye, but Carmy could sense the intention behind each item present. Drumming his fingers on his leg, he chose to look at the wall of pictures. It was an eclectic mix of old posters; there were vintage Coca Cola posters, fashion campaigns from the 70s and 80s, music posters like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zepplin and such.. There were pictures and Polaroids of you with people he didn’t recognize and a few random things in picture frames; a pressed flower, a movie ticket, an unused tea bag, a coffee cup sleeve with a scrawling handwriting on it that said “don’t look back”.
You emerged from the bathroom, your hair free from the bun Carmy was used to. It fell about your face, messy and wild in a way that made the breath catch in Carmy’s throat. You joined him at his side, smiling at the wall before you.
“My scrap wall,” you explained. “I love the idea of scrapbooks but I like seeing things everyday.” Carmy nodded, staring at your profile. The slope of your nose, the curve of your lips. He could reach out and caress your cheek… he wrenched his gaze from you and forced it to the wall. “I uh, I had no idea you were into vintage stuff.” He said.
“Likewise.” He raised his brow at you sideways and you laughed. “Loopwheel? Very Americana.” Carmy’s face felt hot. Was this real? It couldn’t be. How could you be any more perfect. You were still wearing his shirt. “Come on, I’m starving.”
Carmy had perused your fridge and pantry, settling on the dish he’d make. You sat at the little table, one leg pulled up to your chest and scratching away in a notebook before you. Music from the playlist you put on floated through the space, complimenting the ambient sound of Camry hard at work. It was so domestic. Usually, Carmy was anxious. His head pounded, his heart raced, and he could never catch his breath. But here with you, Carmy felt peaceful. It was like he’d done this a thousand times before. It was comfortable, safe. Carmy’s chest felt warm and relaxed. His mind wandered as his well practiced hands moved through the recipe. He imagined being here with you, making dinner together after a long day at the restaurant or curled up on the couch watching something on tv, how his arms would wrap around you and you’d lay your head on his chest. Little things filled his mind: going grocery shopping together, washing dishes, folding laundry, having coffee in the morning sitting in your couch and discussing vintage American icons. Sleeping beside you, feeling your skin against his, feeling your-
“Fuck!” The hot sear of the pan against Carmy’s hand snapped him out of his thoughts. You leapt to your feet, rushing over to him.
“Are you okay?!” You asked, grasping his hand in both of yours and guiding it under the stream of cold water. Truthfully, Carmy couldn’t even feel the burn. Not when your hands were on him. You cooed and tutted, closely inspecting his hand.
“I’m alright.” He assured you. You looked up at him and released his hand, much to Carmy’s dismay. You were close, the sink pressed against your back. If you took an extra deep breath your chest would brush against his. Carmy wasn’t particularly tall, but the way he looked down at you, his eyes dark and glued to yours, lips parted slightly, and his uninjured hand resting on the edge of the counter beside you, it felt like he towered over you.
“C-can I help?” You didn’t mean for your voice to come out as such a whisper, but you couldn’t help it. His proximity made you dizzy.
“No, no… it’s almost done.”
It felt like an eternity while you stared at each other. You forced yourself away, resuming your place at the table while your heart screamed at the four foot distance. The next few minutes passed in silence until Carmy set a warm bowl in front of you.
Your jaw dropped.
Carmy kicked the door to the alley open, flicking his lighter. He felt like he was going to explode. Richie’s constant bitching, the endless mess of the office and the kitchen, everything was fucked. It was fucked. Carmy ran a frantic hand through his hair. He couldn’t breathe. He took a few steps into the alley, fully intending on having a total meltdown until he heard it. A sniffle.
You sat with your back against the bricks, your head in your hands. “Hey,” Carmy tried to make his voice as gentle as he could. “Are you, um- are you okay?”
Carmy felt his heart drop out of his body when you turned your face to him. Your eyes were red and puffy, tears staining your cheeks. Shit. Shit shit shit. What had he done? How had he fucked this up already? What happened? Was it Richie? He’d kill him.
“I’m sorry, chef.” You said, wiping your face.
“Carmy.” He said, quickly. “Sorry um… just you can call me Carmy.”
You smiled softly, despite the tears in your eyes you were beautiful. “Carmy,” you tested it on your tongue. Carmy thought he’d explode hearing your sweet voice say his name. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying at work it’s just-” you choked up, averting your gaze and shamefully wiping your tears.
Carmy sank down to sit beside you, unsure. You sighed. “My mom uh… she’s kind of fucked up. And my brother keeps calling and screaming at me because he wants me to go home and take care of her but…” you shook your head. “I just can’t go back there, ya know?”
Carmy’s heart panged with empathy. “Yeah, I know what you mean…”
“It was so fucked up when I was a kid, though.” You stared up at the sky. “When I was 10, my mom would make carbonara every Wednesday. It was my favorite day of the week because I loved carbonara. When she started to get worse, I’d make it on Wednesdays just trying to hold onto it you know? I haven’t made it since I was a kid… I don’t know, I just… couldn’t bring myself to. I miss it though.”
Carmy let you vent but truthfully, he didn’t know what to say. It was a little too close to home for him. He just watched you. The sun on your face, the puffiness subsiding from your eyes. He looked down at the ground, worried he’d say something stupid if he kept staring at you. You sighed again. You turned your head to him with a soft smile on your lips. “Thank you for listening to me rant. It feels good to say it out loud.”
Carmy’s cheeks tingled as he met your gaze. He smiled in return, the anxiety that had driven him into the alley in the first place was a million miles away.
“Yeah, anytime.”
You stared at the bowl before you. A nest of creamy spaghetti, dusted with grated Parmesan, crispy pancetta, and vibrant green chives. You felt your throat grow tight, tears pricking at your eyes. Carmy settled in the chair across from you and you stared at him in disbelief. “Carbonara?”
Carmy was suddenly nervous. Had he overstepped? “You uh, you said you hadn’t had it in a while.”
Nothing could have prepared Carmy for the look on your face. Eyes wide at him and beaming with adoration. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words seemed to fall short so instead you lifted a forkful of the creamy noodles to your lips. You sighed with delight when it touched your tongue. “Oh my god…”
“Good?”
You nodded, vigorously. “That is the best carbonara I’ve ever had.” You shook your head with a chuckle as you continued to eat. “You’re so annoying.”
“What?” Carmy practically choked he was so confused.
You laughed again, the melodic sound easing his nerves. “You’re SO good at this. Better be careful or I’ll have to make you cook dinner every night.”
Carmy couldn’t think of anything he’d like more. The warmth in his chest was threatening to spill over as he gathered all his courage into one single word: “promise?”
Seeing Carmy outside of the restaurant already gave you butterflies, but having him in your apartment so close you could touch made your knees weak. You stood at the sink side by side washing the dishes from dinner. Your shoulders bumped every few seconds. You had just made Carmy laugh with your very strong opinions of John Lennon. You’d never heard him laugh like that before, so earnest and carefree. His shoulders seemed lighter, his eyes brighter. The stress of family and the restaurant was far behind both of you, kept out by your apartment door. You hummed, wishing this night could last forever.
“Yeah… me too.” Carmy was grinning at you, cheeks tinged red and bashful. Your eyes widened, had that been out loud?
“Sorry, I uh- I just mean um-” you looked shyly over to him. He was drying his hands, leaning against the counter with a pleased smile on his perfect lips.
“It’s okay,” he assured. Carmy stepped closer. The warmth in his chest was boiling over. He reached up slowly and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His hand lingered against your cheek. “I like taking care of you too.”
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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mouth: open
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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That chicken soup fic was so soft …. I loved the yearning so much 😩😩😩you’re an amazing writer!!!
Thank you so much! 🥹 yearning is my drug of choice 😂
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 months
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Chicken Soup for Carmy
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⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ harsh language, sexism and violence in one scene (not from Carmy). Hurt/comfort, fluff.
A/N: I’m literally feral for this man. I’m sick atm and I started thinking about taking care of Carmy while I was making chicken soup. Bonus combo with Carmy protecting you from an asshole customer. Not proofread bc my brain is rotting. Plz be nice this is my first time posting a fic 🥺
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It was cold. You braced yourself against the harsh Chicago wind as you made your way briskly down the street. After a late night phone call from your brother sent you into a spiral, you couldn’t sleep. You’d been tossing and turning all night until finally, at 4am, you flung off the covers and got dressed. It wasn’t a surprise that you’d come here. This place consumed all your mind and your heart since you started working here a few months ago. You used your key to unlock the door in the alley, sighing with relief as the warmth of The Beef welcomed you inside. It was quiet, the lights were down, it was peaceful. You slipped off your sneakers trading in your kitchen clogs and tucked your things safely away in your locker. You tied your handkerchief on your head as you moved. It was so comforting, the routine of The Beef’s prep work. You felt so at home, moving from the prep area to the walk in, diligently beginning the tasks that didn’t need to be started for a few more hours. He would understand. You thought to yourself as you began to prepare fresh stock for the day. He was a man after your own heart, your boss, Carmen Berzatto.
Avoidant, chaotically emotional, one wrong thing away from a complete meltdown, that you both disguised as workaholic tendencies. As you finely chopped onions, your mind quieted. Everything was shut out except for the task at hand. Your brother’s angry voice on the phone accusing you: “you never come home! You don’t even care about us! You can’t take come take care of your own mother?!” was drowned out by the rhythmic pound of your knife on the cutting board. You were in the zone.
Until a voice startled you out of your bubble. “Chef?” You jolted, looking up at the man before you. Carmy’s hair was messier than usual, the bags under his eyes were deeper and more purple. His lips were parted with each soft breath he took. He gave you a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”
“I uh-” your mouth felt dry and you tripped over your words, as usual when he set those intense blue eyes on you. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Carmy nodded, not pushing you any further. All he said before moving toward the office was a simple: “Heard, Chef.”
You watched him go, noticing the slump of his shoulders and the labor of his normally spry step. There was no mistaking it, Carmen was sick. You stared at the office door for a long moment before you made up your mind.
You set a heavy bottomed pot on the stove with some olive oil. Your hands moved with well practiced efficiency as you chopped garlic and onions, celery and carrots. The garlic and onions went in first. Then the celery. A sprig of thyme and a dash of white wine. While that simmered you quickly seared some chicken breast and chopped it into perfectly bite sized pieces. All into the pot with chicken stock and water, tightly covered to develop the flavors. Next came the pasta. You cracked eggs into the well of flour, mixing and kneading until it became a smooth golden dough. You carefully, tenderly rolled the dough and cut it into thick, short noodles. A bath in hot water to cook, then they too joined the pot. In no time at all, you were ladling a generous portion into a bowl. You set a toasted piece of chibatta on the side, grabbed a spoon, and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle your nerves. Softly, you knocked on the office door.
“Yeah?” His voice responded.
“Chef?” You entered, nervous. Words failing you as they so often did in his presence, you set the bowl before him. Carmy’s eyes widened. The aroma made his mouth water. He looked to you, gaze softening. “You made me chicken soup?”
Your cheeks grew warm. “Y-yeah, I mean chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”
Carmy couldn’t believe you. You noticed? He smiled at you. You were so beautiful. You were always so confident and sure on the line, delegating with efficiency, respect, and authority. He had hired you the second you stepped into The Beef. Your resume was impressive but there was something in the way you carried yourself that truly earned the golden reputation you had in the culinary industry. But you were different with him, in the occasional moments like this where it was just you and him. Shy, almost bashful, gentle, and soft. He loved it. He wanted more of it. He lifted the spoon, bringing a bite to his lips.
“Gotta get a little of everything.” You muttered, eagerly awaiting his response.
Carmy shot you a sideways smile. It was good. No, it was better than good. The warm broth slid down his throat and each bite exploded with a depth of flavor he couldn’t believe. It was pure comfort. It reminded him of being a little kid staying home sick from school. Curled up on the couch while Jerry Springer played, eating crackers and ginger ale until his mom would bring a bowl of chicken noodle soup. But this soup, your soup, was more than that. People always talk about cooking with love but he swore he could taste it. Each ingredient had been so carefully handled. Perfectly chopped vegetables, moist and flavorful chicken. The warm feeling in his chest grew as he inspected the bowl.
“Did uh, did you make this pasta fresh?” He asked, eyeing you.
“Yeah, it’s better that way.” You blushed.
“Thank you, chef.” He said. “It’s really, really good.” Carmy looked down, suddenly feeling heavy. The fear of closeness set into him and all he could think about was how he’d fuck this up. “You-you didn’t have to make this for me.”
“Oh, it’s okay!” You insisted. “It was no big deal.” You began to leave, giving him one last truthful smile. “I like taking care of you.”
“I like taking care of you.” Your words rattled through Carmy’s mind all day. Throughout all of lunch, prep, and dinner he couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said. The soup you had made was the first thing he’d eaten in too long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for him and you’d just done it because you noticed he wasn’t feeling well. No motive, no games, just tender love and concern.
Love.
Carmy shook his head to try and shake the thought from his mind. No, no, no there was no way you actually cared about him. Not like that. You were just being nice.
That’s just who you are; nice. You were always so kind. The way you’d help Marcus workshop pastries, the way you’d make Tina laugh and listen to her talk about whatever trouble Louis had gotten in, how you’d encourage Sydney and remind her that she can do this. Even the way you’d throw snark right back at Richie or how’d you’d always set aside a portion of Family for Fak and Sugar, even Pete. You were always thinking of others. Carmy wasn’t special.
Yeah. Not special.
Carmy insisted the thought as he scrubbed the grill. Not special. Not special. Not special.
“Carmy?” There you were. You were always there. You had a thick denim jacket on, bag on your shoulder, knit beanie pulled down over your hair. Your brow furrowed at the sight of him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Carmy shook his head. “I’m fine… you uh- you heading out?”
You shrugged, hoisting your bag a little higher on your shoulder and eyeing him skeptically. “Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah, in a bit.”
You chuckled, more exasperated than humorous. “No.”
“What?” Carmy asked, confused.
“No, you’re leaving too.” You insisted. You were feeling bold. Months of long looks and his hand on your lower back every time he passed you had culminated tonight.
You had taken over the front for Richie while he ducked out to take a call from his daughter. You’d insisted. It was slammed for dinner but everything was going fairly smooth until an irate customer approached you.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He’d asked, slamming his plate onto the counter.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean are you retarded or something?” He continued. You were stunned into silence. You had never had anyone speak to you like that. “How hard is it to make a fucking sandwich? I know your tits are bigger than your brain but Jesus fucking Christ it’s not hard!”
“I-I…” you were shaking. “I’m sorry that you’re not satisfied, sir. If you like, we can-”
“Not satisfied?!” He screamed. “How can I be satisfied with this piece of shit!”
He hurled the sandwich at you. It hit you in the chest, toppings and sauce splattering everywhere. Before you even knew what was happening, a blur of messy curls shot past you. Carmy launched over the counter, tackling the man. His fist collided with the man’s face over and over while Richie and Fak rushed after him. There was a cacophony of yells as Richie pulled Carmy back. “Get your girl!” Richie yelled. “Cousin! Go get your girl!”
Fak and Richie dragged the man out and threw him into the street. Carmy’s hands grasped your cheeks.
“Hey, hey, are you okay?” He wiped the sauce splatters from your brow. “Look at me.”
Carmy burned with anger as he watched you shake. Your white shirt and blue apron were covered in the sandwich. He imagined what you would do for him if he was in your position. How you’d care for him, how you’d tend to him… so he tried to do what you would. Gently he guided you to your feet and wrapped his arm around your waist. He practically carried you to his office where he sat you on the couch and quickly went to grab a clean shirt from his own locker. You were in the same place he left you when he returned. Carmy knelt before you, taking your face in his hands once more.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tears welled in your eyes and you collapsed into his arms. He smoothed his hand over you back, repeating “it’s okay” over and over again. He felt like he was on fire. The feeling of you clinging to him, nuzzling your face into his neck, the smell of you, how you fit in his arms… it was too much. He wanted to run away and never speak to you again. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of his life. He wanted to scream. He wanted to feel your lips against his. He wanted to find the piece of shit that yelled at you and rip him to pieces. He wanted your chicken soup every time he was sick.
All those feelings were closing in on Carmy once again as he stared at you across the kitchen. You still had his t shirt on. You were looking at him expectantly.
“Sorry, uh… what did you say?” Carmy’s voice was softer than he expected.
“I said I’ll walk home with you.”
“Oh, no that’s okay. Ive got to-“
“Carmy,” you stepped closer. Your voice was firm but so tender. “You need to get some rest. Come on, I won’t take no for an answer.”
He couldn’t help but smile back at you. “Alright…” he conceded.
The two of you braced yourselves against the cold and hurried down the sidewalk side by side. You argued about who would walk who home. Carmy insisted on walking you to your apartment but you protested on the grounds that he’d just go back to the restaurant once he dropped you off.
“Fine,” you gave in. “But you have to call me when you get to your place so I know you made it home!”
Carmy looked at the ground, smiling. The warmth in his chest from your soup was steadily turning into a molten pool of lava.
“Heard.” He grinned. You wanted to know he’d made it home. You wanted to make sure he rested. I like taking care of you.
“Well, I’m just up here.” Your voice stopped his thoughts from spiraling before it could even start. Carmy’s brow furrowed. “What?” You asked, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.
“You live over there?”
“Yeah? Like a block down?”
There was a beat of silence before Carmy let out a breathy laugh. “I live right there.” He pointed to the building on the other side of the street.
“No shit!” You laughed in earnest. Your hand came to rest on his arm. “Guess I’m gonna be walking you home more often.”
Carmy’s entire body was on fire. He could imagine the tingle of your soft hand on his skin through all the layers of clothing. He wanted to hold you close again like in his office, but this time you wouldn’t be crying. A deep pit opened in his stomach. How long before he made you cry? How long before he fucked it all up? Until you hated him and quit the restaurant and everything fell apart because he-
“Hey,” your voice. Always your voice that brought him back. When he looked over at you it was like everything but your face faded into a blurry background. You were all Carmy could see. “Do you want to come to mine? I haven’t eaten and I KNOW you haven’t either.”
Carmy’s heart fluttered. “O-okay.” He started, his confidence rising when he noticed your hand was still in his arm. “Only if you let me cook you something.”
“Ooh,” you smiled. “I’d never turn that down!”
Carmy chuckled, feeling lighter for the first time in years as he walked so close beside you that your shoulders brushed. “It won’t be as good as your chicken soup.”
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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I’m fine 🙃
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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Achilles: breathes
Agamemnon:
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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interviewer: can you explain this gap in your resume?
me: mhm so that’s called a lacuna. it refers to when manuscripts have missing parts, lost to time. for example, the epic of gilgamesh has
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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Thetis: jump in here
Achilles: ew no
Thetis: … Patroclus is down there
Achilles:
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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Achilles after Patroclus catches the fig:
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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It’s not a phase mom
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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d3add0vedonoteat · 2 years
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Why do I love the tale of Achilles so much? Simple.
It’s because I want to love someone so wholly, so intensely, so immeasurably that I would chase after death so I do not have to bear another moment without them.
I crave a love so deep that my devotion would defy fate itself. A love so righteous that it arms me with fangs to rip and tear through countless battalions that my lover will tenderly wash away.
Give me a love that orbits so high above duty, destiny, and the will of the gods themselves that wherever my love goes, I will follow.
Let me love so earth-shatteringly that Zeus himself has to restrain my grief. Let me shake the sea floor with my sobs. Let me order our ashes mixed together.
Give me a chance and I would sculpt a story of our famous love for millennium to come.
I’m a sap, that’s all.
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