#and Tina is just me ordering anything | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writers-hes · 10 months

Note

Request: carmy/reader, jealousy

“you’re so mean to me.” (c. berzatto x reader)

You friend sees you at the Beef while you were helping out at the counter. Carmy feels insecure. (mean!carmy, angst to fluff, just :(, sydney is such a sweetheart, protect carmen at all cost, not sure if there are spoilers, unedited.) - ACCEPTING REQUESTS!

He comes to the Beef with authority and an air of confidence. Richie noticed that he had a designer shirt on, the monogram of some brand littered on it. The shoes on his feet could cover some expenses at the Beef. You were helping out at the counter that day. Carmy has been telling you how stressful the Beef had been since day one and you decided that on your days off, you’d go down to the shop and help. Carmy wished you didn’t come that day…not if he was there.

The first time you came, Carmy was bewildered. He was a blushing, babbling mess when his girlfriend came to help. “Ayo, Jeff, stop staring and give the girl a job!” Tina teased, making Carmy’s ears turn red.

“Alright, Chef,” he said, looking at you, finally breaking out of his trance. “Come to the office and I’ll…orient you,” he takes your hand and brings you to the back office before you could say hi to his coworkers. “Syd, cover for me!”

“Yes, chef!”

He locked the door behind him and kissed your head.

“Hey, baby. What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was soft, dripping with vanilla and honey.

“It’s my day-off and you’ve been telling me how much you needed another person at the counter and I decided to come down and help out. I’m sure Richie could help me,” you said. “But if you think that I might disrupt the system, I can leave and stay in the area! We can go on a date after your shift,”

Carmy could just melt. How were you so considerate and beautiful and kind to him? He was so sure that he didn’t deserve you. He was almost certain that you were too good for him. Too good for everyone.

“I promise, I won’t mind whatever you choose, Carm.” you said, smiling softly at him. You could see the gears in his head turning.

“No, no. I want you here,” said. “I want you here.”

“Okay. I’ll stay,” he hears, and you kiss him softly. “I’ll go to Richie and ask him to teach me the basics, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, pecking your lips “Just come to the office if you’re not feeling it, okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, leaving the space and leaving a lovesick Carmy in the office.

“Hey, guys! Sorry if I’m here on short notice. I’ll just keep out of your way and help Richie out, okay?” you asked. The kitchen hums and releases a series of “sure”, “okay”, and “thank you’s.”

“Chefs! I’ll take care of family today,” Carmy said a few moments later. He was watching you joke around with Richie. He was teaching you the basics and teaching you how to take orders.

The first time you helped out, Carmy was tense. He didn’t want anything to happen to you. Nothing to touch you but soon, once you were well-integrated in their system, the kitchen found themselves looking forward to every Wednesday when Carmy was calmer, less annoying, and less rude. It’s like you take out every bad thing in him.

Not today though. Not when Richie saw your eyes widen in recognition, an instantaneous sweet smile plastered on your face.

“Ayo, cousin!” he calls, while you almost literally jumped over the counter to talk to this guy.

“Lawrence!” you greeted, taking him in a hug. “How are you? Richie, this is my childhood friend, Lawrence. Lawrence, this is Richie,”

Richie could only give a grimace and a half-assed wave. Where the fuck was Carmy?

“Wait for a bit,” you asked. “Sit down, okay? Your sandwich is on the house.” You looked at Richie to ask if he could cover for a few minutes and he nodded. He shouts at the order in the kitchen.

“Who’s that asshole?” he asked, getting a glass of pop.

“My childhood friend,” you said. “We grew up in the same street together,”

“What does he do?”

“Finance…I think? It’s been a while since we last talked. I think last year?” you wondered. “I didn’t even know that he was still in Chicago because we saw each other in New York,”

“Carmy knows him?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t talk about him alot. I think Carmy only knows him as a childhood friend,” you said. “They’ve never met each other.”

Richie gives you the drink and the sandwich that Tina prepared. You uttered a thanks before walking to whereLawrence sat.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he said, taking the sandwich from the tray.

“I didn’t know you still lived here,” you said. “The last time that I saw you was in New York. I thought you were a big finance guy?”

“Ah, I quit,” he shrugged. “Decided to start my own start-up here in Chicago. I had enough savings and well, you know,”

“Of course,” you nod. “I don’t work here. I just help out once a week because everything’s been so busy,”

“Hm,” he hums. “My employees have been raving about the sandwiches here since the new management took over. Decided to try it out and sure enough, you were there.”

“Fuck! Where the fuck were you?” Richie asked Carmy when he finally came through the back door. Some rich asshole has been wooing your girl in the seating area. Says he’s her childhood friend or some shit,”

“Who?” Carmen asked, removing his jacket.

“Your girlfriend took a break to talk to a customer, Jeff.” Tina said. Carmy frowned, walking briskly to you. The staff huddled, intrigued at how this could unfold. Carmy has never felt jealousy before. He’s never had to deal with girlfriends and their guy friends that definitely look at you too long. He’d never have to deal with Lawrence who was so obviously flirting with you. He’d never have to deal with you accepting it. The jealousy consumes him.

“Carmy! Come here,” you said when you finally noticed him. He’s been standing there for minutes while you listened to this guy drone on about how bored he was with his money. How you were probably meant to see each other again.

“Hey,” Carmy greets the guy in front of you. A chair scrapes loudly on the floor, reverberating in the whole restaurant. He sits down.

“Carmy’s the owner of this place,” you told Lawrence. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“He is?” Lawrence asked and Carmy could feel him sizing him up in his dirty white t-shirt. “I’m Lawrence. We grew up together,”

“Oh,” Carmy said. “Uh, babe, can I talk to you for a minute in the office?”

“Sure,” you said. “I have to go,” you told Lawrence, who stood up as well. His sandwich was half-eaten and it annoyed Carmy. Had he no respect to at least finish the food in front of the chef who made it? Asshole.

“No, it’s fine. I’m leaving too,” Lawrence said. “I have a meeting around here. I’ll see you?” he asked.

“Of course,” You removed your hand from Carmen to hug Lawrence and it fucking hurt. Lawrence kisses the side of your head before sparing a glance to Carmy. What an asshole.

“What was it, Carm?” you asked, smiling. You were almost forgiven because of how sweet you looked but Carmy have always felt things too intensely. He couldn’t stop what came from his mouth and it was too late. Too fucking late and the damage has been done.

“Go home,” he said, coldly. Your face fell and Carmen wanted to take it back. He felt you recoil yourself away from him, as if he’s hurt you. As if he burned you.

“Bear?” you asked softly.

“Go home,” he repeated. You frowned, grief-stricken but you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll…I’ll just get my stuff from the locker,”

Carmy looks away from you and you clear your throat. Walking away from him, you saw the staff pretend like they weren’t listening.

“Hey, guys. I’m going…going home,” you said, trying to stabilize your wavering voice. Tears were threatening to spill but you blink them away. “I don’t feel well, and I realized I have this…thing to attend to.” you lied.

“Of course, sweets,” Tina says. “Get home safely, okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know once I’m home.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sydney says, glaring at Carmen.

“No, it’s— “

“It’s just a few blocks away. I’ll take you.” she says, and you nodded, walking to the locker room with her.

“Sorry for being such a bother,” you said while you waited for her to change into her outside shoes.

“You’re not,” she reassured. “Let’s go?”

“I didn’t know what I did wrong,” you said, walking away from The Beef. “I was just so excited to see my friend. We grew up together, you know? In the same street. Went to the same school and we haven’t seen each other in a year. I didn’t know what I did for Carmy to be so mean.”

“It’s okay,” Syd says, not wanting to get in the middle. “Just explain things to him, okay? You’re the only person he listens to.”

“I guess,” you nodded, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I just…he’s never been that way to me before. It feels new and I don’t like it,”

Syd, who’s been on the receiving end of Carmy Berzatto’s anger, wanted to protect you from him but it wasn’t her place. She wanted so badly to tell you to let him cool off.

The remaining walk back to your apartment was quiet. You both didn’t know what to say, where to start.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked Sydney. “Refresh a bit?”

“No, I’m fine. I might be needed at the restaurant,” Syd says. You nod, going in for a goodbye hug with your friend. “I’ll see you?”

“Yeah. Thanks for walking me home. Stay safe, okay?”

The kitchen hated Carmy that day. He was ruder, more annoying, more…insufferable. Tina said that he handled the situation wrong, Eibrahim and the others, except for Richie agreed. So, when Sydney comes back, the first thing she say was, “What the fuck, Carmen?”

“Stay out of it, Sydney,” Richie warns but Sydney did not give a fuck. Seeing her friend so defeated, so sad stirred something in her. Maybe she was biased because she actually liked you

“She was crying all the way from here,” she said. Carmy felt like he was going to throw up. “Grow up, Carmy. Just because you can’t handle that she has other friends, doesn’t mean you have to take it out on her.”

“Fuck off, Sydney.”

Sydney stands, taken aback. She was just trying to help.

“Fine,” she says, blinking. “But if you come to an empty home, don’t take it out on us.”

Sydney’s warning rang in his ears as he drove home. He was anxious but his anger superseded every emotion that he was feeling. That was why, when he opened the door, he immediately looked for you.

“Who was that?” he demanded. Anxiety and anger had such a bad mix and he knew it. He couldn’t stop. That friend of yours made him feel so insecure.

“Carmen,” you sighed. “He’s my friend. Lawrence. I told you about him before,”

“Carmen?” he chuckled. He’s just Carmen now? “I don’t like him.”

“Why?” you asked, exasperated. “He’s nice. I was actually so excited for the two of you to meet until you ruined it. He’s my friend that I haven’t seen in over a year, Carmy. Wasn’t it a natural reaction to be excited?”

“What? You’re telling me that I ruined your little date in my restaurant?” he asked, voice raising. “That’s nice. Sorry for bothering you,”

“We weren’t even doing anything wrong!” you said, walking away. You didn’t want this—you just wanted to talk about things without screaming.

“Hey! Get back here, I’m talking to you!”

“Talk about what, Carmen?” you asked. “You’re not listening to me. Okay? What is there to talk about?”

“You let him all over you like that! Took a break just to spend time with him,” he sneered. “And-and he looked at you like you were his. You let him kiss you. You let him do things to you and you just fucking accepted it.”

“What?” you asked. “Lawrence and I grew up like that There’s nothing wrong with it,” you tried. You were probably being too defensive, not letting Carmy explain his side but you were hurt when he dismissed you just like that. When he let you go without a kiss. He just looked away when you were pleading with him.

“So, you’d rather defend your old fucking friend instead of trying to fix this bullshit,” Carmen spits. “Heard,”

“What?” your heart dropped. “Bullshit?” The first tear falls like it was rehearsed. It broke your heart to hear Carmy call you relationship bullshit when you’ve spent the best days of your life with him. When you helped him through the nightmares…when he took care of you. “Bullshit, huh, Carmen?”

You couldn’t form a string of coherent sentences. Your mouth was agape, trying to process what he just said. Fix this bullshit. Fix this bullshit. You nod, pursing your lips to stop yourself from crying.

Bullshit. It was when you stayed up late to make sure that he slept peacefully, threading your fingers in his golden hair so he could feel your presence. Bullshit. It was when you picked him up from some bar downtown because he decided to drink with Richie. Bullshit. It was when you sacrificed your days-off just so you could spend more time together. Bullshit. It was when he showed up on your first date with flowers that you pressed in between the pages of your favorite book. Bullshit. It was when Carmen told you that he loved you because you made him a burnt grilled cheese sandwich. Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit. It was ringing in your ear, breaking your heart in a million pieces.

“Fuck, baby,” Carmen takes it back when you moved to walk towards the door. “I’m sorry— “

“Is that all it was to you?” you asked. “Bullshit? Is that why you dismissed me so coldly earlier? Because it’s bullshit?” Tears are on your face now and you wipe them away. “It’s bullshit, huh?”

“Baby…”

“Don’t,” you said. “Fuck, you’re so…so mean,” you said, crouching on the floor to shield yourself away from him. “I…I don’t know what I did wrong,” you whispered. “And I’m sorry if my actions hurt you but that’s how I grew up with Lawrence. I didn’t know that I was hurting you but, fuck,” you sobbed. “You’re so mean to me, Bear.” You didn’t mean it as an endearment, and he knew that.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, crouching down to your level. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers, taking you in his arms. You didn’t want to fight back. “I’m sorry for-for doing that. For projecting my insecurities on you. I just…he has life figured out and I could never give you what he could give. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry,”

“I don’t want him,” you sniffled. “I’m with you, you know? Please…please, don’t call it bullshit. Because it’s not…for me, at least.”

“It’s not bullshit. I’m sorry, so fucking sorry for saying that. I’m so sorry,” he rambles sincerely. “You’re the best person that I’ve met. I love you. I love you so much that the thought of anyone else loving you drives me mad. I’m sorry,”

“You were mean to me,”

“I was, baby. I was,” he said. “I promise to stop myself from being mean. I’m so sorry. I don’t-don’t want to lose you. Please-please don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave.”

“I’m not going to leave you, Carmen.” you cooed, and you felt his arms tighten around you.

“Not that name, please. I’m just so fucking sorry for saying that and making you feel bad. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you said. “I’m sorry too. I should have been more considerate. I love you so much, Bear.”

“It’s my fault. All my fault,”

“It’s not.”

“Can we-can we go to bed?” he asked, pulling away from you. You nodded. That night, when you were half-asleep, you felt his calloused hand caress your cheek. You’d never tell him, but you heard him. Loud and clear.

“I love you,” he whispers. “You don’t know how much I love you and I’m sorry. I love you.”

A/N: No Carmen Berzatto taglist yet! Also, if you’re waiting for the Tommy Shelby fic, you might have a to wait a week more before I release it. I want to release a chapter every week and I haven’t written the second chapter for this week yet. Thank you for reading! Don’t forget to leave comments and reblogs :)

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto #fanfiction #angst #fluff #the bear #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto angst #carment berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto angst #the bear fx #ask

5K notes · View notes

molluskmirage · 3 months

Text

the boogeyman effect following Bbh from purgatory 1 has been a very fascinating phenomenon.

there is alot of residual and lingering opinions of Bad from both characters and fans and its been interesting because having watched Bads pov he really didnt do anything more then what others did in purgatory. Q!Phil is mad because Bad terrorized his team but bad had far less kills then Tubbo, and plenty other teams were around terrorizing others Fit slaughtered Tina and soulfires farmers (most of which then never returned)

Q!Tubbo is mad for ‘day 12’ for a poor decision Bad made, but Bad was carrying the team mostly alone for many many hours the whole 2 weeks (the most out of anyone on the team) I think he could be forgiven for not having the clearest decision making skills running ragged and getting killed.

Q!Bagi feels betrayed by bad and has been more comfortable around tubbo since p1 but tubbo murdered her before she could say a word in p1 and Bad asked for her consent first before doing so.

Q!Etoiles is salty about the 2v1 but he and Fit started it by attacking tubbo alone who then had to run to bad and it was a 2v2 before then becoming a 2v1 as Fit backed away injured

Q!Phil has also mentioned that bad has not taken responsibility for his actions and this is echoed a lot in fan spaces but Bad is constantly taking on blame for things he may have only been adjacent too. He’s said he’s killed a lot of people, he jokes that he’d do it again. He doesnt often show remorse for his actions which I think is more what some are after but he does acknowledge things he doesn’t pretend it never happened. He told Pepito he was a monster. And anytime some express anger towards bad he respects their feelings (that doesn’t mean he’d chose to act differently or feel remorse in such actions but he doesn’t tell anyone theyre not allowed to feel that way)

its a fascinating subject to me because this effect has carried over so strongly within the space despite the fact Bad didn’t even have the highest kills in p1 for soulfire (it was Tubbo by quite a margin) yet Tubbo is often unnamed as the wrongdoer. Bagi set up Bad for death, while it didn’t come to fruition she still did that to Bad. Bad could not do anything but run when red team took on the bounty system which was excruciating to watch. Red also showed no mercy when the boats arrived and killed Bad the sole player for blue leaving his body in a zone that would kill a naked player.

Bad did do wrong he spawn killed Jaiden. However his stalking home bases and killing others in general was no different then all of the other skilled players repertoire. Bad had to play offensively for his team the majority of the time as he was one of the few that could, yet the boogeyman effect holds onto him and warps even his own members perceptions after the fact. Q!Tina as an example very enthusiastic about letting Bad loose in p1 too then scolding him for actions he took under her instruction.

The fan narrative has been the most acutely difficult to manage as the effect is almost to mystic proportions and finding disdain for even mundane actions Bad takes and reading into those as disingenuously as possible always set on more then retribution but truly an end to his character. Which again having watched Bads POV I havent been able to discern anything remarkable that any other character hasnt also partook in.

The difference I have noted is that Bad will always consider himself in the wrong regardless if his actions had justifiable reason behind it. Dapper told Bad to win in purgatory. After purgatory Bad put himself and Dapper down as ‘oh thats just something Dapper would say hes just bloodthirsty, but narratively Dapper has committed self harm in order to protect his siblings and other islanders ((an issue Dapper unfortunately sees in his father and perpetuates himself)) believing he is nothing more then a tool to help those he loves, he would not risk his siblings lives for bloodthirsty humor. Bad knows this but when faced with the hate others saw in him he waves off both his and his sons merit buckling down. Bad and Dapper have dark humor but are always making gifts and finding ways to help others. There is nothing on the island Bad is more set to protect then the eggs and this thought with Dappers message, Q!Bad really thought he needed to go all out to protect them, even still he held back a lot and would 2nd guess because he wanted to be absolutely certain of the egg’s safety.

He wasnt without reason yet with the boogeyman effect looming over his reasons never seem to be able to hold a candle to the more popular characters, and he often concedes a lot to it. He says it with a laugh, tease, and is sassy with it but still he concedes to others perceptions of him as he doesnt want to override others feelings. It can be a bit exhausting as things are blown out of proportion to what they were in originality but on a social breakdown of how things and information travels its very very interesting and I have been enjoying the dive even if it stings sometimes with reflective thoughts.

#Qsmp bbh Purgatory after thoughts discourse

416 notes · View notes

aestheticaltcow · 28 days

Text

Two Months

Part 4 of the Six Months series MDNI 18+

Part 1: Six Months Part 2: The Night When It Went Wrong Part 3: The Aftermath

Carmy really fucked up, but maybe he can prove his worthiness and get his girls back.

Carmy sighed when his call went to voicemail after a few rings. He pushed a hand through his hair and listened to your voicemail message, “Hey baby- I just wanted to know if I could see Mia. I know you don’t want to see me, but I need to see her… if you could just bring her by the restaurant, that would be fine. I just want to hold my daughter. Uh- yeah. I’m sorry, I’m a fuckin’ dumbass. Please just give me five minutes to explain everything. Let me know. I love you.” he hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He stared up at the ceiling as he thought about you and Mia. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d seen either of you, and he just needed his girls again.

“Asshole. Sign here.” Natalie barked at Carmy as she entered the office with an ordering forum. She shoved the papers at him before crossing her arms over her chest. “Natalie, I get it okay. I fucked up. My wife kicked me out of our house, I’m living in a shitty hotel, and I haven’t seen my daughter in weeks. I’m not in the fucking mood to deal with your bitching.” Carmy replied, glaring at his sister. She rolled her eyes, “You turned out so much like Dad.” she laughed, yanking the documents back. Carmy huffed, “Fuck you.”

“Right back at you, Carmen,” Natalie said, slamming the door behind her as she exited the office. “You okay, Sugar?” Richie questioned softly, noticing the anger in her eyes. She rolled her eyes and pushed past him without saying anything; being in the same vicinity as Carmy was irritating. Whenever she saw his face, she thought of Mia and how Carmy had repeated their father's actions. Natalie sighed when she got into her car, “I’m sorry you had to hear that, baby… let’s go get your brother.”

“Hey, Carm- everything okay with Y/N?” Richie awkwardly asked as Carmy was doing prep for that night's dinner service. “What do you think fuckhead?” Carmy snarkily responded; Richie rolled his eyes and decided to match his energy. “Well, she texted Tiff asking for her DIVORCE LAWYER’S info.” he leaned against the counter with a shit-eating grin. Carmy slammed his knife down and pushed past Richie to go into the alley. “That was fucked up, kid.” Tina scolded as she exited the walk-in. Richie shrugged, “I was going to be subtle, but he’s being a little bitch.”

Carmy closed his eyes, fighting back tears when Syd showed up for prep. “Hey Carmen, are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer. He shook his head and let out a puff of air, “Y/N’s gonna leave me- I fuckin’ deserve it, but I want my wife Sydney. She won’t even fuckin’ talk to me, but she’ll fuckin’ divorce me? It’s bullshit.” Carmy cried to her. Syd stood there for a moment to collect her thoughts. She swallowed before sitting down next to him and pat Carmy’s shoulder as she began to explain her point of view on the situation, “You fucked up, Carmen. But you love Y/N and Mia- just go. Go home. I’ll cover tonight. Go talk to your wife.”

Carmy took Syd’s suggestion. He wasn’t sure if you’d let him in or even talk to him, but he knew he should at least try.

“I don’t know Natalie. I just… I mean- I’m gonna sound like a dumb bitch, but maybe I could?” you groaned into your phone as Natalie was about to answer the doorbell rung. “Hey Nat, can I call you back in a bit? Someone’s here.” you waited for her passive agreement and hung up. You put your phone in your back pocket and went to the front door. You felt your stomach flip when you opened the door to reveal Carmy standing in your doorway. He was an unshaven mess, with messy curls and dark circles under his eyes. “Carmen? What are you doing here?” you questioned, bracing the door, hoping it would prevent him from entering your once-shared house. “You’re divorcing me?” he asked on the brink of tears. You sighed, “I asked Tiffany for her lawyer's information- that’s all.”

“Y/N, you can’t leave me without giving me a chance to make things right.” Carmy pleaded. You sucked your teeth, “Carmen, I really don’t want to talk about this right now… Mia’s asleep, but you can come in and say goodnight if you want.” you offered as you pulled your sleeves over your hands. Carmy nodded furiously, “I-I, ye-yes, please.”

Carmy stared down at Mia’s sleeping body. She was splayed across her crib in a green onesie with a pacifier to match. Carmy swallowed as he watched her legs twitch. “She doesn’t like sleep sacks anymore?” he asked softly. You nodded before answering, “She decided it was her own personal hell a couple weeks ago, so now she’s a big girl.”

Carmy laughed softly and put his hand on Mia’s cheek. She squirmed and leaned into his hand, “I love you, princess.”

You walked Carmy out of the nursery and into the hallway by the front door, “Can we talk?” Carmy asked, trying not to burst into tears and lock himself in the nursery. You nodded, “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

Carmy swallowed. “I know you hate me, but I need to see Mia.” He took a quick breath before continuing, “Y/N, please don’t keep my daughter from me. I’ll give you whatever you want. I just need to see my daughter.” Carmy sniffled as he wiped his eyes.

Guilt. When you saw the hurt on his face, you knew what you had to do. “Next time I need someone to watch her, I’ll call you.” you offered, Carmy grinned and thanked you before starring at you with the same love and admiration he always had. He turned to walk back to his car but stopped in the middle of the yard, “I love you. I’m gonna win you back.” he pushed a hand through his hair before shoving them in his jacket pockets. You rolled your eyes, “Bye Carmen. Drive safe.”

The flu hit your office like a semi-truck. Everyone got sick, including you, and taking care of a sick baby proved more complicated than you’d thought. No one could help you, so reluctantly, you called Carmy to come be with Mia that night. He was over the moon but tried to play it cool, you saw it through immediately. It was sweet in a cheesy, trying too hard kind of way.

“Hey baby, I brought you pastina soup and Tylenol.” he grinned, handing you a paper bag, “Thank you, Carmen.” you were short with him. Carmy noticed but chopped it up to you being sick, “I can make you some tea.” he offered as you walked back to your bedroom. “I’m fine, Carmen. Please just watch Mia,” you said over your shoulder before closing the bedroom door behind you. You wanted to be mad at him, but it was hard when he was so thoughtful… and handsome. He cleaned himself up since the last time you saw him.

Carmy sat back on the couch, making funny faces at Mia. She squealed and grabbed the air in Carmy’s direction. “I missed you so much, princess.” he laughed as he brought her up to his chest; he rubbed her back as she tried to hug him. “Okay, let's check on Mommy and then make some dinner. Daddy missed his favorite sous.” Carmy explained as he got up. The two walked down the hallway, Mia babbling away as Carmy adjusted her in his arms. He bumped the bedroom door open with his hip and saw you peacefully sleeping. He stepped into the bedroom and grabbed the trash from your side table. Mia grumbled as the two of you exited the room; Carmy chuckled and kissed her temple. “I know, princess. I wanna snuggle with Mommy too, but she doesn’t feel well… and hates me, but we’ll figure it out.”

You abruptly woke up around midnight when you heard talking through the baby monitor. You stumbled out of your bedroom and across the hall to the nursery; the door was askew, and as you approached it, you more clearly heard Carmy’s voice. He was laying on the floor next to Mia’s crib, “My little Mia… I wish you could stay this little forever.” he whispered as he put his hand up to the crib gate. The sight alone made your heart yearn for your family to be back together. You knew what you had to do.

“And that princess is how you make scrambled eggs, the right way.” you laughed when you overheard Carmy’s cooking lesson. You walked into the kitchen and saw Carmy plating up scrambled eggs, “Hey.” you greeted as you got a mug from the cabinet. Carmy grinned in your direction, “Mornin’ baby. Feelin’ better?”

“Feelin’ waaaaaaay better,” you started, “Thanks for coming over to take care of her. I really appreciate it.”. Carmy leaned against the counter, “I’m her Dad- it’s my job.”

“You’re a good one… I don’t know where you’ve been staying, but if you want, I uh- I made up the guest room if you want to come home…” you explained, “I feel like I’ve been keeping Mia from you, and that’s fucked up.” you rocked on your heels hoping Carmy wouldn’t assume this offer meant you wanted to get back together. He nodded immediately, “I would love that.” Carmy was giddy at the idea of getting to be with Mia every day again- it also gave him an opportunity to win you back.

It had only been a few days since Carmy had been back home, and he jumped right back into the daily hustle and went above and beyond what he usually did. Carmy changed his schedule and managed to do a lot of his restaurant owner duties at home so that he could be with Mia more. The house was clean, the pantry was stocked with all your favorite snacks, home-cooked meals, and a very happy baby, and it drove you crazy.

“I just- this man is driving me insane.” you ranted as you sipped your margarita. It was girls’ night out with Syd and Natalie. You were two margaritas in and deep in your feelings. “I should just forgive-” you were cut off by Natalie exclaiming, “NO! You can’t just forgive him, Y/N. He’s a fuckin’ idiot for even thinking about being with another woman. It makes all his ‘you make me a better man’ vows bullshit. Our Dad used to do the same shit to Donna all the time- and she just accepted it! Then he left her. I don’t want Carmy to do the same to you- he already fuckin’ started doing it.”

You were taken aback by Natalie’s ranting and raving; you’d known that Carmy had a difficult relationship with his Dad, but you hadn’t known the full extent. You looked at Syd, wanting her to weigh in on the situation, “Carmy’s an asshole, but he’s your asshole. He loves you. He loves Mia. I don’t know if he’ll do it again - if my partner pulled something like this on me, I think I’d hear them out.”

It was almost 10 when Carmy had finally managed to get Mia to fall asleep. He was exhausted after a long day, but when he’d gone into your bedroom to get the baby monitor, he couldn’t help but notice a satin black thong sitting on the top of the laundry hamper. He stared at the underwear for a moment before shaking his head. He wasn’t going to take his wife’s dirty underwear. Carmy walked toward the door before pausing and going back to the hamper. “I guess I am that guy,” he scoffed, grabbing the panties and putting them in the pocket of his sweatpants.

Carmy lay in bed leaning against a pile of pillows, scrolling through the private folder on his photo app. “There it is…” he mumbled as he tapped the video before putting his headphones in. “You promise no one else will see this, right?” your voice flooded Carmy’s ears as he pushed his sweats off. “Of course not, baby.” he reassured you as your hands reached for his zipper. He watched as you bit your lip and unzipped his pants. Carmy groaned as he watched you give him a blow job. Carmy took the underwear he’d stolen from your bedroom and started stroking himself. The sensation reminded him of when he’d tease you before relentlessly fucking you into a crying mess.

“Oh fuck-” Carmy exhaled as he felt his orgasm approaching. He swiped to the next video of riding him. Carmy salivated at the sight of your bouncing tits. You were moaning his name as your movements got more frantic, “Cream all over my fuckin’ cock, baby.”

“That was a fun night,” you said startling Carmy, he dropped his phone before quickly covering himself with a blanket as you stood in the doorway. You giggled at his reaction, you were just going to ask how Mia was before going to bed but catching Carmy masturbating with your underwear… blame it on the alcohol but you wanted a taste.

“I uh- I didn’t hear you- hear you come inside.” Carmy stumbled over his words as you fully entered the guest room. “No need for you to be embarrassed, Carmy…” he watched with wide eyes as you moved around the bed to sit next to him on the bed. You sighed and pushed the blanket off his lap to expose him.

You pushed your hand up Carmy’s thigh, making him swallow hard. “What made you so hard, baby? Were you being a little perv… jacking off with my dirty panties… watching a video of me sucking your cock?” you mewled as you ran your fingers along his thigh. Carmy nodded as he stared into your eyes. You giggled and grasped the base of his length. He croaked as you started to stroke him, “You like that baby?” you asked cocking your head to the side, staring up at him. He nodded as he let his head fall back against the headboard.

Carmy whimpered as you ran your tongue along the bottom of his cock. You swirled your tongue around his leaking tip, making him swear under his breath. As you took more of him in your mouth, his whimpers turned to whiny moans. You pulled away with a pop. Carmy stared down at you, watching a string of saliva connect your lips to the head of his cock. “Does that feel nice, baby?” you asked as you returned to pumping your hand around him. “So-so nice,” he replied, touching your cheek. You smiled as you pushed it away.

“But, why should I suck your cock if you’re gonna let just any woman off the street suck it?” you asked. Carmy shook his head, “Only-only you, baby-y.” he shuddered.

“Only me? Tell me, Carmen, who does this cock belong to?” he was putty in your hands as you slowed your pace. “You, baby, only you.” he groaned, “Prove it.” you challenged.

Carmy buried his face in the crook of your neck as he slowly pressed into your entrance as you lamented at the familiar sensation. You held onto Carmy’s shoulders as he started thrusting his hips in a steady rhythm, “Hmm, Carmy…” you hummed as he hungrily kissed your neck.

“I don’t deserve you baby…”

Tag List @namjoons-crabssss @sl-ut @thottae @cuddlehye @prurose @1184p @chaoticfanficfanx @ok-boke @literatureluster @bxtchopolis @americanprometheuss @buckystwilight @earth-elemental18 @thebearlily @siren-melodies @thel0v3hashira143 @innercreationflower @unpoqu1todetodo @thehouseofevangelista @pizzaspirits @aleemendoza2425-blog @visualbutterflysworld

366 notes · View notes

snzleclerc · 15 days

Text

pizza date ! 🍕

*translated italian!!

The last few days haven't been easy, dealing with the end of a 3-year relationship is something no one wants to go through. And what's the best way to cope with that? Pizza.

I make my way to "La ricetta di Giovanni," a calm and tranquil pizzeria in the beautiful city of Positano, and from a distance, I can smell the delightful aroma of tomato sauce.

Upon entering the establishment, which is composed of bricks painted in a brown hue, dim yellow lights, small plants scattered around, tables with classic red and white tablecloths, ambient music, I feel a huge sense of peace and joy. Some people, mostly couples, are scattered around the tables engaged in long conversations, and the sound of cutlery on plates fills the air.

"Buona notte, bellissima! Qual è il piano per la serata?" ("Good evening, beautiful! What's the plan for tonight?") the voice of Martina, the best bartender in town, reaches my ears.

"Come sta Tina? Come al solito! E un bicchiere di vino, per favore!" ("How's Tina? The usual! And a glass of wine, please!") I reply, heading towards a table in the somewhat empty corner of the restaurant, with a beautiful view of the quiet streets.

The view is lovely and all, but what I can't help but notice the most is the beauty of the man sitting in front of me, a few tables away. My myopia doesn't help, but I notice his tousled brown hair and handsome face.

He seems to be in the same situation as me, alone and waiting for his order, and I wished he really was alone. Without a girlfriend.

Noticing more and more, his light gray shirt with a few buttons emphasizes his muscles which are crossed on his chest, he looks like a god.

I could analyze him all night long, until he slowly turns his head towards me, realizing my fixed gaze on him. I try to look away, but he smiles and shows his dimples, making me blush deeply.

God bless Filippo, the waiter who arrives with my wine and glass just in time before the man would see me redder than the wine itself.

I thank him and see that the man calls him to his table, I try to look curiously, but unfortunately, the waiter ends up blocking my view.

I pick up the wine and pour it into the beautiful glass I drink from, exchanging a few more glances with the man, now that Filippo has left.

A few moments later, the one who had just left returns with a new glass of wine and places it on my table, without saying anything. I try to understand what was happening, until I see a figure approaching me, wearing the same clothes I noticed before.

And when I least expect it, the handsome man is in front of me.

"Posso unirmi a voi?" ("Can I join you?") He asks me politely. "Sì, certo che sì" ("Yes, of course") I reply nervously, but with a smile on my face, adjusting my green dress.

He pulls the chair in front of me gently and sits down, resting his elbows on the table and analyzing me with a smile, making me smile back.

"Posso sapere il nome di questa bella signora seduta di fronte a me?" ("Can I know the name of this beautiful lady sitting in front of me?") His voice is like music to my ears. I notice his round glasses that perfectly match his face. "Giorgia. And yours, my dear?" I reply.

"Charles." He says and I let out a slight laugh through my nose. "What's wrong?" He asks with a little smile on his face. Oh, those dimples. "Charles..." I stop and think for a moment. "Sounds like a spoiled name." I add and we laugh in sync.

"But do I look spoiled?" He analyzes me more and I only see perfection. Green eyes, a beard grown but not long, the smell of expensive perfume...

"A little bit, but I'm not sure about your character." I stare into his deep eyes, the ones that could drive me crazy in a few seconds.

"Well, you can find out now." He says leaning in more over the table. "What brings you here?"

"I live here." I say looking around. "I recently ended a relationship, I needed to clear my head."

"Then I think it's important for us to get to know each other more tonight, huh?" Charles tells me with a smile, well... provocative. And I do nothing but the same.

Let's see what happens.

168 notes · View notes

powderblueblood · 5 months

Text

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER FIVE — CHEERLEADERS MAKE BAD NEIGHBORS

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: after you get kicked off the cheerleading squad by an enraged tina, you're stranded in a rainstorm of biblical proprtions- and the only safe haven is eddie munson's trailer. fuck. content warnings: MINORS DNI I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU HERE- male masturbation, sexualized language, some mild objectification, cursing, smoking, drinking, drug mention, reader backstory (i do it for the plot the plot the plot), steve harrington cameo, reader is a pretentious bitch word count: 10.1k

Dear reader, Joan Didion said something because Joan Didion is always saying something. Particularly to me. She comes at me hard, smacking me in the back of the head with perfect clarity and I have not gotten around to not resenting her for it yet.

‘I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.’

Joan Didion probably did not have to stay on nodding terms with a girl she used to be in order to score a cheerleading scholarship because her family blitzed her college fund on ill-chosen legal advice.

But she’s got a point.

You remember that day with perfect clarity.

Middle school had been a lesson in elocution, thanks to your then-best friend Phoebe’s older sister Casey. Phoebe was a relic of your former life– a bookish indoor kid with Coke bottle glasses, a slight stammer and a distinct lack of style. Despite this, you loved Phoebe and she loved you. But more than that, more than anything, you loved that Phoebe had an older sister.

A cool older sister.

Casey was popular in the best way, which is to say that she wasn’t showy about it but she wasn’t humble either. By recognizing the power of being hot and likeable, she knew nothing could ever touch her.

You wanted to be just like that.

You remember the first time Casey told you you’ve got potential. Her hand-me-downs were a little too big for Phoebe, because Casey had boobs and Phoebe’s hadn’t come in yet. Even as a pre-teen, you knew an opportunity when you saw it. Can I try that top? And you did, flipping your hair and adjusting yourself in the mirror just like you’d watched Casey do a hundred times, sitting on her bedroom floor and soaking up her knowledge while Phoebe moaned and sulked about being bored.

Check you out, hot stuff, Casey had smirked, but not in a way where you felt stupid. You’ve got potential.

The shirt didn’t feel entirely right on you, but the way Casey regarded you did.

Fast forward– your first day of freshman year. You were in the parking lot, stepping out of the passenger side of Casey’s car. Phoebe slid out of the back seat, shoulders slumped forward. You were dressed in an outfit that you and Casey spent hours agonizing over the night before–first impressions are everything, girl–while, again, Phoebe looked on glaring.

Come meet some of the crew, Casey said, pointedly to you and not to Phoebe.

Hey– I thought were were going to find our homerooms together, Phoebe protested, grabbing you by the elbow. She knew she wasn’t invited. And she didn’t care– she’d never cared for Casey and her ‘airhead ways’, as she so derisively called them.

Yeah, girl! you affirmed, a note-perfect impression of her older sister. Phoebe’s big eyes flared with disbelief. You’d spent junior high carefully studying Casey’s every movement, absorbing and adopting her behaviors as your own. Stella Adler would have loved your ass. Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch up with you later, ‘kay?

Make a move, freshman! Casey yelled, and you came trotting after her. There would be no catching up later, and you knew that. You bit back the sinking in your stomach with a Bonne Bell-glossed smile.

Look, I love my sister, Casey murmured, but I’m glad that you’re my little freshman experiment, ‘kay? You are way more fun that Phoebs and her goddamn library card.

You nodded, wordlessly grateful. Way more fun. The older girl confiding in you like this made you feel warm, included, grown-up. But not quite so grown-up that you remembered to watch where you were going– the laces of your left Chuck Taylor All-Stars came undone, sending you tripping– tripping–

Oof! Right into the muscular arms of Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington and his autumn colored eyes, his swathe of hair that seemed to grow more voluminous the more girls he flirted with, his shock of grown-up cologne and his perfect, perfect, perfect smile.

But it wasn’t just Steve Harrington. It was also all the surrounding popular kids that had already made a name for themselves coming up alongside you in middle school–Tina, Carol and her boyfriend Tommy Hagan–mingling with the older kids.

You okay? Steve asked, his voice all breathy and cute the way boys voices are when they’re halfway making fun of you.

Uh-huh, you nodded, lashes fluttering like crazy as you wracked your brain for something smart to say.

Let me help you out here.

Then Steve did something you never thought possible, something right out of your daydreams. He got down on one knee and started to re-tie your shoe.

Better watch yourself, Lacy, he said, tightening the bunny ears, gazing right up at you, Wiping out on the first day is not a good look.

Lacy. Lacy. Your heartbeat quickened at the nickname, hammering like hummingbird wings. It was the greatest thing you’d ever heard– it makes you feel fresh. New. Seen for the first time. Seen by Steve Harrington for the first time.

Can you blame me? you said before you knew you were saying it; a common occurrence with you, You’re just too easy to fall for, Harrington.

You drawled out too easy like you’re making fun of him, which of course you weren’t, because he’s Steve Harrington and you would never– but it earned some warm guffaws from the surrounding kids and a little ugh, please, from Tommy Hagan.

Hagan’s something else. Hagan’s hated you since day dot, and you him. You remember his merciless teasing of some kid during Nancy Wheeler’s thirteenth birthday party, the last boy-girl party of your middle school careers, goading that they were too chicken to go into the closet with you for Seven Minutes in Heaven.

Steve grinned at you, eyebrows quirking upward. A fizzing feeling ran through your sternum and you felt like you might faint. Casey threw an arm around your shoulder, a magnet for attention. Well, it looks like some of you already know my little Lacy! You guys better be fuckin’ cool to her, okay, or else you’ve got me to answer to.

You smiled up at her, the older sister you’d always prayed for, and she looked impressed with you. That’s all you wanted. That’s all you craved. That, and for Steve Harrington and everybody else to never quit calling you Lacy.

And they didn’t.

Everything you’d gleaned from Casey equipped you to cruise through freshman year with no speedbumps, no checkpoints– you knew exactly how to wear your hair, how to flirt, how not to flirt, what not to eat, who not to be seen with… and even better than that, these people really took a shine to you. The girls especially.

Hawkins isn’t kind to teenage girls. It’s heavy with passive-aggressive Midwestern sensibility, with all the backwards, misogynistic attitude that comes along with that. It’s not overt, it’s insidious. It makes sense that these girls were scared. Few women make it out of here, and look at the ones that don’t. Their mothers. Your mother.

But what was even scarier was to want something more. To strive for better and be met with the begrudgery of your attempt. To think about life outside the snowglobe of this wicked little town.

That's the thing with wanting. It doesn’t leave you alone. It gnaws at you while you zone out in the cafeteria, churning around with the half fat yogurt in your stomach. It finds you in the middle of the night, awake on the floor of your friend Carol’s room after an evening of pounding secret wine coolers and picking apart the rest of the Hawkins student body for their flaws and faults, looking around at your friends and thinking,

God, I fucking hate these people. God, I’ve got to get out.

And you were working on it. Like a motherfucker, you were working on it– perfect grades, perfect attendance, the perfect extracurriculars in an excruciating balancing act with your demanding social life. Keep your record spotless and you could fly the coop to any college you wanted.

One such extracurricular was–is cheerleading. And god, you were great. You’re a flyer, one of the shining, pretty faces responsible for revving up the Hawkins Tigers and their adoring fans. Given your propensity for perfectionism, it’s an obvious position for you. Tina, the reigning captain of the cheer squad, had even taken you under her wing and spit shined up your back handsprings when you tried out as a freshman. Tina had a prior career as a child gymnast, making her a shoo-in for the title come senior year. And here she is now, hollering you all into formation.

It’s Thursday, and it’s still the week from hell. You had almost forgot about cheer practice, but here you are, in your green and white and gold, ponytail too tight and bruise fading out. The tension between you and Tina casts a thick haze over the gym, the other, less-clued-in members of the squad not exactly knowing where to look.

It probably wasn’t fair, outing Tina and her indiscretion with Hagan like that. But you felt like a cornered animal. It was all you could do, after all of them subtly chipping away at you for weeks when you’d done nothing but be there for them. Wiped their tears.

Bought their crabs lotion, in Tina’s case.

“Sloppy, Lacy! Again!” She’s drilling you like you’ve never been drilled before. Each twist and flip you perform, she finds something wrong with it– and you can’t even tell her she’s wrong. You have gotten sloppy, because your head’s not in the game. While cheerleading was a social and athletic high at one time, it wasn’t high on your list of priorities right now. Dismounting your bases and tugging your ponytail ever tighter over your skull, you stalk towards her.

“Alright, Tina!” you yell, bubbling over with frustration. “How about you just drop the Russian gym coach bit and tell me what I’m doing wrong? Or is yelling at me all you got?”

She does her best attempt at a withering glare. You can’t help but think it looks like something she learned from you. “How about I show you instead?”

Tina shoulder checks you, hard, and calls to one of the underclassmen. A mousy sophomore with sandy bangs and blazing Bambi eyes. This kid looks terrified, and knowing Tina’s reputation, she should be. “Cunningham! You’re up!”

Chrissy Cunningham. Right. Heir to the throne of Hawkins High. You don’t think you’ve heard her speak more than a couple of words and most of those have been in response to her Aryan meathead boyfriend, Jason Carver.

But for what Cunningham lacks in vocal force, she makes up for in aerodynamics. This girl makes a basket toss look like ballet, ponytail pirouetting as she lands in the bases’ arms. Every move, faultless. She’s locked in.

“That is what I want. What I don’t want, Lacy, is a flyer that looks like she’s losing control of her rectum mid-toss,” Tina hollers. “We all know how crucial this weekend is. Not just for us, but for the Tigers, too. Right? So that means the last thing we need is dead weight dragging us down.” She locks her laserlike stare on you. “Right?”

The squad mumbles in the affirmative. Chrissy Cunningham visibly gulps.

And you? A knife slices right through you, cold and exacting. You almost gag, trying to swallow through your thickening throat. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“You tell me, Lace. You’re the one that knows everything.”

You don’t waste a second of time trying to counter-argue, because you can’t be sure it won’t end in your limbs flailing, trying to smash Tina’s head against the waxed floorboards of the gym. Instead, you grab your bag. You give the squad a grimacing nod and head to heave the double doors open.

The sound of your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor makes you want to tear your shoes off and throw them through a window, just to watch the glass shatter.

You really never thought of yourself as a violent person, not until– everything happened.

But now, god, now you just want to punch and tear and rip everything apart. This slow burn of your social status, your friends, your tether to reality as you know it slipping away is torturous. You’d rather burn it all up than let it swallow you whole.

Standing on the front steps of the school, your eyes automatically dart to the parking lot.

It’s not there. He’s not there.

And why would he be? you think, starting in the direction of the trailer park. You hadn’t spoken to him since that day in the record store, leaving him hanging with his hands behind his back and his mouth in that grin.

There was a reason for that. Call it post-high clarity or something else, but you knew right then you needed to focus the fuck up. Quit acting out because of your daddy’s mistakes and prove all of these shitheels wrong once and for all.

Blend in. Stop causing trouble. Fall in line and study hard and cheer harder and get the hell out of dodge once you get your hands on that high school diploma. By whatever means necessary. Those means really did not include hanging out with Eddie Munson for even a second longer than you already had.

–which is a nice thought and all, but Tina really shit all over that one with this shedding the dead weight move.

The clouds above you carry the most pathetic of pathetic fallacies, gray and pregnant with rain that starts to hit you square on the crown of your head in fat, heavy drops. You’re still fifteen minutes from the trailer park, at least, and you don’t have a raincoat. You don’t have an umbrella. And you don’t fucking care.

You stomp up the dirt drive leading into Forest Hills, the pleats of your green skirt heavy with water, your cheerleader’s cardigan weighing down your shoulders. Your white knee-high socks are flecked with mud and getting dirtier with every sloppy step. And the rain, the relentless relentless rain, is streaming into your eyes, streaming mascara with it.

You gasp against the cold of the downpour as you approach your trailer– and a glowing yellow light catches in your peripheral vision. His bedroom, the one you can see into from your bedroom. Though you try not to look. And sometimes you fail.

You don’t see much, when you do look. It’s mostly his hunching figure, bent over his guitar or some binder or book or map or figurine. But he always seems calmer, the frenetic energy he wears around like chainmail finally falling to the floor. Watching him like that makes you want to breathe a sigh of relief right along with him, just to see if you’d feel similarly. Calmer.

Calm is not how you feel right now, wiping the rain from your face as you dig in your bag for your keys. Once, twice, thrice they slip out of your hands, and on the fourth try, you finally get them in the door. And then– the key strains in the lock. Come on. This door has always been unnecessarily sticky, but this wasn’t really the time– you push and you push the silver key to the left with no give.

Was your mom in there? Had she left her key in the door by accident before she went on another overnighter with Prince Valium? “Mom! Mom!” you yell, hammering on the door. No dice. You pull at the key again, and pull and pull and–

Snap.

You shudder, a full body shake that’s only partially down to the rainwater that’s soaked you right to the bone marrow. The key has snapped off in the lock, leaving you standing there with a useless silver nub.

“Fuck!” you holler, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck fuck! Fucking–shit!”

Your fists go straight to the side of the trailer, banging one after the other against the metallic veneer. You don’t care that it hurts your knuckles, you want it to dent or crack or something, you want to not feel so impotent and fucking useless, but here you are!

“Hey! Asshole!”

Your head whips around, heavy, sodden ponytail smacking you in the face.

Eddie Munson is leaning out his bedroom window, barely visible through the downpour.

“Keep it down! You’re in a residential goddamn area!” He’s not smiling that shiteating smile. He’s not even grinning. He’s just glowering at you, which is the look you’re most accustomed to seeing him wear. Even so, it feels– it feels– it makes you feel worse.

“Fuck you!” you scream across to him, “Who died and made you the fucking neighborhood watch?!”

“Go inside, you lunatic!”

“My fucking– my key broke off, dickhead!”

That makes his brow loosen a little bit. You just stand there, gasping in the rain. And then he disappears from the window–

–only to fling open the front door of his trailer.

“Come on,” he grumbles, massaging the space between his eyebrows like he can’t believe what he’s fucking doing.

“No.”

“What? Cut the shit, Lacy, come inside.”

“No! I don’t want to!”

Munson’s face opens up in an expression of sheer incredulity– and you partially can’t believe yourself either. What is it about him that just makes you shove and shove and shove, unable to let him win– or in this case, unable to let him help?

“Fine! Fucking drown out there for all I care!” The trailer door slams.

Your teeth have started to chatter, and your options from here on out are… walk or hitch your way back to town and drag your sodden ass somewhere there’s a phone where you then call your mom and pray she’ll pick up (she won’t) and tell her about the lock and try to tell her about the cheerleading squad and pray she’ll understand how upset you are (she won’t) and how much of an awful spiral this whole year has become and it’s not even Christmas yet and–

The trailer door swings back open.

Eddie Munson comes stalking out into the rain, white Reeboks splattering mud everywhere. He’s wearing that shirt from his Dungeons and Dragons club, the one with the big fucking smug Satan splayed across it and you wonder, did he model that after himself?

“What’s your fucking problem?” he asks, point blank. It feels like he’s aiming something at you.

“I’m having a shitty fucking day!” you scream in response, making that dog belonging to that red headed kid sister of Billy Hargrove’s yap somewhere in the distance. “And I keep telling you, I don’t need your fucking–”

“Help? Right!” he scoffs, loud and indignant, crossing his arms across his chest. The fabric of the ringer tee is changing color before your eyes, clinging to him. “You don’t need my help yet you always take it, you don’t wanna be seen with me yet you end up at my lunch table, in my van, smoking my weed– you know, it may shock you but I’m not exactly thrilled to be seen with you either, Lacy! I mean, playing chauffeur to a grade A certified bitch that wouldn’t give me the time of day unless she was desperate? Who stood by and let her shitty friends, who aren’t even her friends anymore, make mine and my friends’ life a living hell for how many years? What kind of an asshole does that make me? How pathetic is that?”

The way he spits the word bitch– it was different from the way he said it in the record store. There, it felt like a come-on. A compliment. Here, it feels like a curse. But oh, he doesn’t stop there! You are rooted to the spot, an unmoving target for his justified rage.

“You can’t even play ignorant, y’know, because I’ve seen you. You’re smarter than them. You know how godawful those people are–Harrington, Carver, Carol, fucking Hagan worst of all–and you just let ‘em run. Because you needed that status, you needed to be the most evil fucking twat at the twat table, and for what? They left you, Lacy! They all left you!”

You’re not sure at what point in his speech you started sobbing but at its crescendo, you yelp. It’s a high, pathetic sound you wish you could stuff back inside your throat and hopefully choke yourself with. See, you know all these things. You’ve told them to yourself in your most honest moments, of which there are not many, but having Eddie Munson lay them out for you in the pouring rain– it’s horrible. You’re horrible.

Eddie’s arms move from where they were bound on his chest. Okay, that was an outburst, sure, but he didn’t mean to make you cry. And you’re like, really crying. He can’t stand it when girls cry, and you, in particular–you, having never displayed much emotion beyond bemusement and annoyance and mild disgust toward him–is especially frightening.

And then you let out this scream. It comes right from the center of your chest, rumbling and primal and visceral and real. It’s a real noise, not one you put careful, curative thought into, tuning it just right before you let it out. Because in this instance, he’s right! You’ve worked so hard, and for what! For fucking nothing! For it to blow up in your face! So you let out another howl– and it feels so, so good. A feeling of satisfaction, more than a feeling of relief–

–so Eddie screams too. God, that feels fantastic.

His is heavier than yours, obviously, because he’s a guy and he probably screams as a hobby in whatever metal band he supposedly plays in. But you like that sound. You like the way it seems to ring off the exteriors of the trailer, ricocheting around like a pinball in its machine.

A couple more painful sobs escape you, and Eddie’s taking tentative steps toward you, like you’re a snarling animal he’s trying to coax.

In ways, you are, but that’s because you feel hunted. You have to blink, through tears and through rain, but you see that his shirt is so soaked that it’s see-through. You can see a vague suggestion of a tattoo on his chest. You see that he’s fighting a smile.

This is so stupid. This is so ridiculous, that you could make a noise like that and completely short circuit the white hot anger he was spewing at you.

“Come inside,” he breathes, a little less than a foot of space between you, “You lunatic.”

Your head, so heavy on your neck, so heavy from crying, so heavy from carrying your spiteful brain around, falls against his chest.

“Uhh…” Eddie mumbles, hands hovering behind your back, not sure if he’s supposed to embrace you or if you’re about to rip his heart out of his chest. Either could be true.

You know what you’d prefer.

You’re positive he doesn’t here you exhale into his chest, into the mouth of the cartoon Satan, into the thrum of his jumping heartbeat. Sorry. I’m really… I’m so sorry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “hey. Shit.” His hand finally rests in between your shoulder blades. You let him guide you inside, and he even picks up the book bag you had thrown in the mud. You reach, try to grab it from him, but he yanks it out of your grasp. Half teasing, half assuring you that it’s okay.

A squeaky, squelching silence settles between you two as you stand in his doorway. You’re creating a puddle near some old work boots. You wonder if they’re his– you’ve never seen him not wear those Reeboks.

“So… welcome,” he cringes, emitting a pitchy, awkward laugh. You follow him through to the kitchenette, which is identical to your kitchenette, except every surface is not covered in legal correspondence or empty wine bottles or too-expensive tchotchkes. The light in here seems dimmer, warmer. There’s a distinct aroma of stale cigarette smoke and old coffee, which you breathe in deep. “Sorry for the mess–”

“It’s fine. It’s good mess,” you say, a little distant. You peer around the place like you’re in a gallery.

“Good mess?” he queries, crossing to the kitchen sink where he attempts to wring his shirt out by hand– still wearing it.

“Lived-in mess,” you say. What you mean is, it doesn’t look like a mausoleum of a life someone left behind. A storage locker. A haphazard sarcophagus. Before you moved to the trailer, your house was so clean– that was a whole other problem. The same tchotchkes that are scattered on your counter were kept behind glass, only touched when your mother polished them, the only housework she ever did. You stare at a collection of trucker hats nailed along the living room wall, the shelf of novelty mugs that accompanies them.

“Living in mess? What is that, like living in filth? You better start showing this fine abode some respect before–”

“Lived. In. Munson, I said, lived in if you would just listen– it’s good, it’s fine. It’s n-nice.”

It’s warm in the trailer, you can tell, but you’re shivering. You bear down in your body, jaw all set so your teeth don’t start chattering again, but he hears it in your voice.

“Uh-oh,” he says, somehow not at all betraying any signs of being out in the freezing rain except for being entirely soaked. You bet his skin is still running hot, like you felt through his shirt, like you felt grabbing his wrist. “Star cheerleader’s coming down with a case of hypothermia. Right before the big game!”

He slaps his hands to his cheeks in mock horror.

“I’m–” you’re about to tell him a couple things; one, that you’re fine which would be stupid, because you are so clearly not fine; two, you’re not the star cheerleader anymore; and a third, forgotten thing. “--cold,” is what you settle on. It sounds small, vulnerable.

Eddie holds his breath for a second. You sound so delicate. Hard, terrible you.

“No, sure, of course you are,” he fumbles. The way his wet hair has flattened to his skull makes him look younger– exposing a nervous boy behind the metalhead posturing. “You can– take a shower. If you want. To warm up.”

Take a shower. In Eddie Munson’s trailer. Your eyelids flutter closed, taking on their own vibrations from the wracking of your body. This is a hell of my own making. “Yes. Sure. Thank you.”

“I can also,” he starts, crossing the kitchen again and knocking something over on his way– it just clatters to the floor, whatever it was, and he lets it, like he’s used to leaving crashing sounds in his wake. “I can take your clothes if you want. Put ‘em in the washer.”

You hesitate a beat, then follow him down a hallway.

“I probably have something you can wear,” he says. There’s a note in his tone that’s high and nervous. “You’re for sure gonna hate it, but hey– beats freezing to death.”

“Just barely,” you murmur.

“Huh?”

“This, uh– this is dry-clean only,” you correct yourself, gesturing to the uniform.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course. Only the best for the pom-pom shakers.”

He ducks into a room that must be his bedroom, but you don’t follow him. Instead, you linger in the hallway, near the dingy bathroom, staring at the corn themed wall calendar. Going into his bedroom feels too personal– too intimate, as if preparing to take a shower in Eddie Munson’s trailer only to change into his clothes isn’t intimate.

“I figured,” he says, emerging from the bedroom with clothes and a towel in hand, “since you like all that rinky-dinky-tinkly garbage, you wouldn’t hate wearing a Stooges shirt.”

“I–” the shirt is soft under your wrinkled fingers, as are the boxers he passes off to you. Boxers. You hold them up between your forefinger and thumb, stepping into the bathroom. “These are clean, right?”

Eddie stares at you for a second– then leans his head into the bathroom and shakes his sopping locks at you, just like a dog. You let out a shriek that he thinks almost sounds like an involuntary giggle. I’ll take it.

“No comment!” And he slams the door on you.

Then you’re standing. In Eddie Munson’s trailer. In Eddie Munson’s bathroom. Holding his old Stooges shirt and his boxers, with mascara running down your face.

You pinch yourself, hard, just in case.

The shower heats up quick–quicker than yours, you notice–and you rest your head against the tile as the steam swirls up around you. This is so weird. This is so fucking weird, and you can’t scrub away the weirdness fast enough. There’s not enough Irish Spring in the world. You reach into the shower caddy to replace the bottle and notice something familiar– wait, that’s–

Wait.

Do you and Eddie Munson use the same brand of shampoo?

You had to switch from your favorite to the best that the Big Buy had to offer, given the change in your personal means, and this was the top score in terms of quality. Eddie Munson apparently agrees– but better yet, you realize as a grin spreads across your face, Munson uses women’s shampoo.

It’s nice to have a fresh piece of arsenal to aim at him once you get out of the shower.

Toweling off and changing, you do give the boxers a wary sniff before you put them on– but luckily, they smell like generic detergent and aren’t stiff in any way. So you slide them on.

They fit snugly– naturally, given he’s all sinewy and you have hips. He is really sinewy, now that you think about it.

His wrist wasn’t bony, but it was active. Tendons flexing under the thin, soaked layer of his shirt. You wonder, absently, was that a tattoo you saw. What is it. What does it look like. Is it shitty. It’s his, so it’s probably shitty, but I want to see it. Does he have any more.

You shiver, slipping the Stooges t-shirt on, and blame your hardening nipples on the cold.

The cheer outfit is another problem. You emerge from the bathroom, clutching the still-sodden uniform with Eddie’s– Munson’s towel thrown over your shoulder.

“Do you have, like, a garbage bag or something?” you ask, eyes rising to look at him where he stands in the doorframe of his room. He’s still in his soaked clothes.

He takes a second to answer you, and when he does, his voice is all thick. Avoiding eye contact.

“Suuure,” and he disappears and reappears with a plastic bag, quick as a blink.

“Thanks.” You dump the uniform, sneakers and all, into the bag and make for the door.

“Hey, it’s still raining–” his voice follows you, as if you hadn’t heard the raindrop gunshots hitting the trailer roof.

“Yup,” you say, popping the ‘p’. You yank Munson’s door open and fling the garbage bag outside. It lands squarely between your trailer and his.

Munson appears over your shoulder, looking out at the garbage bag. His face is twisted in confusion, concern, curiosity.

“I got kicked off,” you explain, plain as biscuits.

“Off the pom pom squad?” he whispers, eyes flaring in surprise that you think might actually be real. You’re looking at his lashes again, fanning around the almost-perfect circles of his eye sockets.

“The very same.”

“Escándalo. What happened?”

“How about you go and shower first,” you suggest, poking a finger into his chest. He makes a little breathy noise, a little ‘unh’, that you don’t… hate. “Can’t have the star dork of the make believe board game club catch his death, can we?”

“Anything happens to me and you’re the prime suspect, babe,” he grins and snaps the towel off your shoulder.

“Hey!”

“This is the last clean one. What am I, a fuckin’ Rockefeller?”

Christ, he wants to jerk off into this towel but he knows that’s weird. That’s perverted. That’s fucked up. That’s everything everyone says about him and that’s everything you make him feel.

So he strips, turns the hot water to scalding and furiously rubs one out down the drain. One, because he feels bizarre about leaving you alone among all of his things for too long and two, because hot water is in short supply.

And three, because he’s achingly rock hard at the sight of you in his boxers, tossing your cheerleading outfit into the mud and the wet.

The metaphors. The implications. The feeling of your forehead against his chest. The stab of your finger in his sternum.

He cums jaggedly, almost silently, with his mouth rammed against his forearm.

If you heard him– God, you’d be so nasty about it. God, he’d never live it down. God, he’d love to know what you’d say.

He makes damn quick work of sudsing up and rinsing down, wrapping a towel around his waist– only to run into you as he’s coming out of the bathroom.

You stare. You stare at him, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and all the blood drains away from his brain. Again.

“Stare much?” he sneers, but only just about. Because his first instinct is to drop the towel and give you an eyeful. See what you’d do– hopefully something with your mouth. God, he hopes it’d be something with your mouth.

“Where are your smokes?” you snap back. “I know you have some.”

“Kitchen. There’s probably–,” he needs you to stop looking at him like that; like you’re going to snap his neck, “--kitchen.”

Eddie slams his bedroom door and smacks his face with three quick strikes. “Come on, man! Get it together!”

Because it’s go time.

He has to formulate some kind of plan.

He hadn’t exactly thought ahead when he invited you inside–or, demanded you come inside–and since you now had no place to go and Wayne had specifically told him not to go near you and your boobs were stretching out his dad’s old Stooges t-shirt…

Christ.

He’s entirely, massively, completely at a loss. Eddie paces around the room like an animal in panic, grabbing a Scorpion shirt and some worn flannel pants as he goes.

“Like, I’m supposed to go out there and do what? Ask her to hang out? Fucking paint her nails, read Cosmo? Study?! Jesus!” he angrily mumbles to his reflection, tearing the towel away and tugging his t-shirt over his sopping hair. “Hey, Lacy, you wanna beer? Who am I, Steve fucking Harrington? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ, dude!”

“Munson. Are you talking to me in there?” He hears your voice from a minute distance away– see, that’s the thing about trailers. Small space, thin walls, and Eddie Munson’s voice travels at super speed.

He stops, seizing, cringing, shoulders hitching up to his ears.

That was not enough time to formulate a plan.

Eddie, jankily tugging his pants on, sweeps out to the kitchenette area like something is chasing him and stops dead when he sees you. You haven’t trashed the place. You haven’t even tried to stick your head in the oven, two things he was kind of concerned about given the way you were wailing outside.

You’re standing in the middle of the room with your hip cocked out, smoking a stolen cigarette and studying his uncle’s trucker hat collection.

All the air in the room seems to orbit around you like a tornado in slow motion.

How is it that you make an old shirt and boxers look like a skirt set? How is it that you can be sobbing your lungs out one minute, then the picture of poise and sophistication the next?

All that air and none left for Eddie to take a breath.

“Hey, Lacy,” he strains, “you wanna beer?”

“What,” you purr– like, he’s so sure that you actually purr, “You mean you’re all out of Sancerre?”

He does not know what the hell that is, but he can only assume it’s some rich people bullshit– and he’s relieved. You’re mocking him. At least that’s some tether to normalcy. She’s baa-aack.

Eddie rolls his eyes, not entirely meaning it, but if he beams right at you he’s going to give the game away.

“Think fast!” He tosses a can of the cheapest beer available at the Big Buy your way and you just about catch it, hands above your head and the cigarette dangling out of your mouth like Keith Richards.

“God, Munson,” you mumble around the filter, “What kept you off the basketball team?”

“Half a brain and a big dick,” he smirks, cracking the pull top and snatching the soft pack of cigarettes you’d left on the countertop. You cross from the living room, propping yourself up on the counter stool in a fluid movement that can only be described as feline.

“Well, we sure can account for one of those things,” you say, ashing with your right hand and tapping at your temple with your left.

“And the other?” Eddie asks, voice dropping a mocking octave.

“I’d sooner drink arsenic than find out.”

He raises his beer can to you. “In that case, cheers!”

Your mouth twists around a smile and Eddie can see you’re fighting hard to keep it at bay. And that you’re losing. You tip your beer to your lips and he braces his elbows on the counter, looking around for a lighter. He spots a Bic, but the trigger won’t light it– just sparks, no flame.

“That thing’s dead,” you say, “I lit this off the toaster.”

“Oh! Right,” Eddie goes to turn, but something chilly snaps to his forearm. Your fingers. Damn. What is it with you? Circulation thing or what?

“Don’t do that,” you shake your head. “I don’t trust you not to burn the whole trailer down.”

“This is my trailer, y’know.”

“Yeah, and I’m in it. So burn it down on your own time.”

You motion for him to light his cigarette off the half-burned length of yours and Eddie tentatively places the filter between his lips. You prop yourself up on the stool, ass raised from the seat, leaning toward him. He leans in too and you cup that little hand with the perfectly painted fingers around the cigarettes. Like you’re whispering a secret. You look down, focusing on making fire, but Eddie’s eyes follow the tiny crease of your brow, the slope of your nose. The little wipe of mascara still underneath your eye.

Tips touch and Eddie inhales just as you do. The cherried ends of the smokes glow orange and you pull back and Eddie just stays there a moment, frozen with the now-lit ember hanging out of his mouth.

You pull back and inhale that smoke like one of those chicks from those black and white movies Wayne is always watching. You exhale all daintily, in one perfect clouding stream. You’re all– you’re so–...

“Fucked,” you groan, shoving the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I am so fucked.”

Eddie finally tugs the cigarette from his mouth, filter gone a little soft with the low-level salivating he’d been doing. “Oh. The cheerleader shit?”

“Yes, Munson. The cheerleader shit.”

“What happened, anyway?” He resumes the position of being elbow-up on the countertop, which incidentally brings him a little bit closer to you. Incidentally. “You crack some skulls this time?”

“Huh,” you chuckle emptily, “Almost. Um, Tina more or less took me out at the knees. Which, I understand of course. If I were her, I would have obliterated me, but–”

“You’re not her, and it doesn’t feel awesome to be on the other end of obliterated,” Eddie nods, giving you a squint-eyed pout of mock-sympathy. “Poor Lacy. Getting shitkicked by the consequences of her own actions.”

Thunk! You punch him in the shoulder, which hurts and he gasps, but it’s so funny and categorically unladylike coming from you. These little peals of violence that keep coming off you are a seemingly bottomless source of amusement for him.

She’s so funny-looking when she’s mad.

“Fuck off!” you bark, as if reading him like a goddamn horoscope, but there’s a glimmer to your narrowed stare. “I got replaced by a sophomore, as if I needed an insult topping on that injury shitshake.”

“Oh, she Old Yeller’d your ass!” Eddie gasps again, chuckling heartily, “Took you out back and–” He mimes blowing your brains right out, nailing you right through the forehead. You stare at him square, unimpressed. “Who usurped ya?”

“Chrissy Cunningham.”

Oh. Well, isn’t that interesting. Eddie’s lips flatten into a straight line and he makes a little mmh sound. And you pick up on that immediately, being that you’re annoyingly perceptive.

“Munson! Come on!”

“What? Whaaat? I didn’t say anything!”

“That’s a child.”

“That is a sophomore and you said so yourself. Besides…” he trails off, pointedly crushing the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray until it’s oversquished. “...we have history.”

If his cigarette extinguishing was pointed, yours is needle sharp with the way you crush it into the ashtray right next to the remnants of his.

“Go on,” you hum, just like you did in the van that last night. I really wanna know. It’s conspiratorial and intoxicating and makes it feel like you’re on his side, which you know he’s not but it’s so, so tasty to think that for a second you might be.

Is this how you make everyone feel? Lull ‘em into a false sense of security? Hoard your ammo and go apeshit later?

Eddie draws back, nearly congratulating himself for doing so. “That’s for me to know, and you to die ignorant.”

The way your lips pop open is almost too good, your little doll face turning to a mask of betrayal too quick for you to hide it. Too quick for you to be all like fine! Keep it to yourself! You’re both totally irrelevant anyway! or whatever other bitchy retort you’re bound to come up with.

“Wow. Well, if that holds any water, Carver’ll shit,” you start, sipping on your beer, “His little virgin Mary deflowered by the devil’s first alternate.”

“Hey, I never said–!” Fuck. Fuck! How do you do that! Eddie pinches his lips together as you smirk over the rim of the beer can, all stuck under your gaze. Fly in the spider’s web.

“A-ha,” you say, irritatingly smoothly. “So nothing happened. She’s just spank bank material.”

“Didn’t– say that either,” Eddie mumbles, mind going annoyingly blank under your rapid fire tearing and the inebriating way you’re delivering it. He hates this and he has no intention of telling you to stop. The duality of man.

“Didn’t not say that, though.”

“You oughta be a lawyer,” he tells you, swigging deep, “the way you find a loophole in everything.”

“The way you want me to get you off, you mean.”

You come out with that, something so incendiary, oh-so-casually and slip off your seat. She can’t just do that. You’re padding around the living room again, bare footed and small-looking, but Eddie’s staring at you like you’re a hand grenade with the pin missing that also has the secret to everlasting life inside. Terrified. Fascinated.

A little stiff.

“What?” he breathes, but doesn’t really want you to answer the question.

And you don’t, you just keep looking around the living room with your arms crossed over your chest. “You need money to be a lawyer, Munson. To go to law school. To go to any school. And I don’t have that. And I foolishly figured getting a cheerleading scholarship would be a cinch of a backup plan, and now I can’t do that either.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks, finally willing his dick down and his legs to work, rounding into the living room with you.

“Your, like… stereo, or record player, or something,” you murmur, smoothing down his boxers over your hips. “It’s too quiet in here.”

Eddie blinks. What should really happen is he should say, no, stay out here in the silence, you insolent wench. Think on your crimes. Reflect. Repent. Stop being such a bossy little ballbreaker and give my balls a break.

“Room. Uh– it’s in my room,” is what he says instead.

“‘kay,” is all you say with a little shrug of your shoulder, grabbing your can from the counter and padding down the hallway toward that same bedroom. His bedroom. Eddie Munson’s bedroom with his bed and his shit in it. “Let’s go.”

How irregular does your heartbeat have to get before you classify it as a cardiac event?

There’s only so many times you can flagellate yourself with the ol’ what the fuck are you doing thing before it becomes redundant.

Songs get overplayed, nail polish color gets overused, trends die. Things become redundant all the time, and you discard them.

The notion of what the fuck are you doing in Eddie Munson’s trailer in Eddie Munson’s boxers walking towards Eddie Munson’s bedroom has become redundant because you simply are doing all those things. Not much point in questioning them. The chips have fallen.

An eerie calm had come over you when he was in the shower and you were staring at all of these trucker hats on the wall– if the insanity is temporary, you might as well lean into it. You can’t go anywhere else. You’re trapped. Might as well get comfortable.

“God, this place is filthy, Munson.” You, with your arms still bound across your chest, toe a discarded t-shirt out of your path as you move into the bedroom with that same reserved interest of a gallery-goer. The place is cluttered, posters and flyers and doodles torn out of notebooks tacked up on the wall in total disarray. Every surface area is covered in what could be organized chaos, but knowing Munson the little that you do, you doubt it.

To test the theory, you ask, “Where are your records? Tapes, anything?”

But he’s just lingering in the doorway, chewing on the end of a lock of hair. Watching you stand in the middle of the room with astronaut eyes, unblinking. It’s kind of– sweet, in a deeply unnerving way. He looks like a kid.

Your brow furrows, grimace turning your lips into a point.

“Fine. Ogle me like a goddamn lobotomy patient, then.”

You resume your perusing of his things, when you spot the most precious piece of hardware hanging by the mirror. A marbled black and red body fashioned into nasty spikes. You reach out to give the strings an aimless thrum but your wrist is rapidly snatched away.

“Nuh-uh. That’s where I draw the line,” Munson says, shuffling you away from the guitar like a security guard. A flash of something as your calves hit his mattress– him shepherding you toward your own bed, you drunk out of your gourd. “Siddown.”

And you sit, bouncing against the sinking mattress on impact. Rubbing at the spot on your wrist that his fingers had been squeezing. Staring up at him glowering down at you. “Ow.”

And Munson, it turns out, knows where everything is in his nuclear fallout of a room. He shoves a shoebox of tapes into your hands and nudges a bigger milk crate full of records nearer to you with his foot.

“Knock yourself out,” he huffs, flinging himself face-down on the mattress next to you. You jerk; always the court jester, this guy. “Not that you’re gonna find anything you want to listen to.”

A scoff flies out of your mouth before you’ve got a chance to suppress it– he’s gotta know, right? He’s gotta know he can’t just say shit like that to you without you fully activating that I can do anything you can do better–backwards–bleeding–in heels chip in your brain. You’ll show him. There’s nothing that matters to you more in the world right now than showing him.

Though, rattling through his box of tapes, each one bearing a different variation of hot chick and the Devil artwork, you’ve got your work cut out for you. W.A.S.P. Mercyful Fate. Dirty Rotten Imbeciles. Witchfinder General. Some band that’s literally just called Loudness, for Chrissake. As you flick and flick, hope wavering, one catches your eye. There’s a jump in your throat. Scrawled letterhead against a draped satin background. A photo of something you always figured was a headless marble statue, though you could never be sure.

“Why do you have this?”

No response from the corpse of Munson, presumably smothered by his own comforter.

“Hey!” you tap the back of his skull with the plastic casing. One eye appears, glaring up at you from the mattress. Rattle rattle goes the Cocteau Twins tape as you shake it in its case. “Thought this was haunted doll music.”

“Ow.” Munson slowly raises himself onto his elbows, looking like he’s about to start kicking his legs in the air behind him. Twirling his hair around his finger. A grin is edging onto his lips, lips he’s pulling strands of hair away from.

“Sometimes the five finger discount chooses you.”

A feeling akin to heat spreads rights across your breastbone. You want to pry, secretly. You want an explanation. Why would you take that? Do you like me, or something? But asking speaks it into existence, and the insanity is temporary, and you’re so waiting for dawn to break on it so you can resume some hobbled together semblance of a normal existence.

One that doesn’t include Eddie Munson stealing tapes that make you feel ticklish in order to, I don’t know, listen to them on his own so he can feel ticklish too.

He hadn’t listened to it, for the record. Not all the way through, at least.

He’d gotten as far as track two and had to switch it off, ejecting it out of the tape deck of his van with such speed that he was sure it’d shoot clean through the doors in the back. Too close, too real. That had veered a little out of the lane of objectifying you as someone whose crotch he maybe wanted to bury his face in and a little into the lane of you being like, a person. With feelings.

The events of tonight aren’t helping that case. He hoped that lying face down for as long as he possibly could might let them just unfold around him, like he’d roll over and you’d just be gone, no evidence left behind except for your hair in the drain.

But you demand attention. Eddie might be obvious, but you demand attention. His attention, at least.

He grabs the tape from you. “We’re not listenin’ to that bullshit. Try again.”

“Fine!” you snap, but there’s this irritating bemusement dancing around your face.

You lean forward from your spot on the mattress and tug the milk crate between your calves. Now, this is more your lane– in here, Munson’s got the classics. Or as close to the classics as he will deign to recognise. Zeppelin, Sabbath, Alice Cooper, Blue Öyster Cult– the combination of which you have something borderline mean to say about, but you’ll leave that ‘til later. You dig around, and then.

And then. Hello there, handsome.

In your hands are twelve inches of beauty, belonging to a grisly-voiced Tom Waits. Blue Valentine. Straight to the record player with this old bastard.

“People give this record too much shit,” you remark, and Eddie watches you as you tentatively lift a sock off the turntable. Yeah, he’ll cop to it, he doesn’t take such good care of some of his gear, but sometimes his brain behaves like a police scanner. Lotta channels operating at once. Anyway. Doesn’t matter. He’s watching you lift the needle onto the vinyl right now. “People say that this is a mediocre addition to the oeuvre, but what is mediocre about this–!”

Rousing strings seep from the stereo speakers– it’s Waits’ cover of Somewhere from West Side Story. Eddie knows it within the first half a second because, and now he’ll never admit it since he knows you like it so much, he has played this album to death.

Somewhere around the halfway mark of Christmas Card For a Hooker in Minneapolis, the record will skip because it's scratched. Or well-loved, if you ask Eddie.

“Fucking Robert Christgau thinks he’s being funny, doing this, y’know,” you sneer, examining the record sleeve as if you hadn’t seen it thirty thousand times before. Your copy had been lost in the move, among a number of your little sonic secrets. The records you’d keep to listen to by yourself, lying on your bedroom floor. “As if the whole core of Tom Waits’ whole thing isn’t heartache, the sentimentality of what-if. What if we could, what if life wasn’t garbage. That’s sentimentality, right there. It’s West Side Story, I mean, c'mon. Tom Waits is singing to us with his heart on his sleeve, but Christgau wants to suddenly be pedantic, turn around and be like, it’s a vaudeville act! because Waits sometimes also wears his dick on his sleeve.”

It’s a tirade you’ve often repeated to yourself, in your diary or alone in your room, pretending like you’re on a panel, pretending like you’re Susan Sontag and people actually give a shit what you actually have to say. You can’t exactly figure why you’ve said it again now. Maybe because you always found the strings on this song too much to bear without emoting, and you’re already vulnerable and tired.

Munson, for his part, has flipped over onto his back on the mattress. “Who?” he drones.

“Robert Christgau,” you say, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt has rucked up around his belly. No six pack. Some meat there. Tendons, like you’d noticed before. “Just one of the most seminal rock writers of our time.”

You have a well-thumbed copy of his Record Guide: Rock Albums of the Seventies somewhere in a still-unpacked box.

Munson has a happy trail that curls like brushstrokes.

“You fucking trifler,” you grumble.

His face takes on that terrible look that he’d given you in the record store, all enraptured and cloudy at the corners of his eyes. Looking at you from where he leans on his elbows, one knee propped up, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. You want to shove it back down.

And see what he’ll do about that.

“How do you know all this shit?” he asks. Eddie can’t help this. He can’t help that he keeps changing his channel about you (again, police scanner) because one second you’ll be such a massive pain in the ass, then the next, you’ll say something so clever that it’ll make him want to vomit.

“I like music,” you say, flatly. You give it to him straight, because you suddenly feel searched. You clutch Waitsy’s printed face to your chest in an effort of self-defense. “And I like… words. Kind of makes sense that I would enjoy music journalism, if you’re not totally stupid.”

“I’m only a little stupid.”

“Debatable.”

“Wait, but I mean–” and he’s gearing up, because Eddie is about to ask you a real question. Something that’s been on his mind, the more ice shavings he can tear off of you. Considering you, all three dimensions of you– four, if you add in how much you like to punch him and stuff. “You’re like, incredibly smart, right.”

“Yes.”

“Like, perfect grades.”

“Almost. Save Kaminsky, because he can’t teach for shit and he can’t grade for piss.”

“And you’re a cheerleader… like, an important one?”

“Artist formerly known as, but yes.”

“And you’re on the newspaper.”

“Very perceptive, aren't we.”

“You’re also popular– or, yeah, were. You party and stuff. You’re always hanging out with those assholes who don’t do half the shit that you do.”

“Are you closing in on a point here, Munson?”

“How?” he nearly whispers, tone close to dreamy. “You’ve gotta have like, body doubles running around or something because no human person could possibly have that much time in the day. How the fuck did you do all that and also be running around ready to cite, like, an issue of the New Yorker from 1975, and not go completely insane?”

How do you know I’m not completely insane. Because, if he had ever witnessed how Jekyll and Hyde you could get, smacking the shit out of yourself with your hairbrush before you could turn on and be Lacy the cheerleader, Lacy the hot chick, Lacy the playground bitch, he would think you are totally insane.

You answer him half-straight this time.

“Diet pills.”

This makes him sit up, and makes you take a couple of steps back towards the bed. You flop down, tossing the Blue Valentine sleeve to the side.

“Diet pills,” he repeats.

“Oohhh, yes,” you nod, drawing the shape of the cylindrical pills on his comforter with your finger. You don’t really want to look up at him. “Rainbow diet pills. Soon as I hit my menses, I started lifting them from my mom.”

“Isn’t that stuff illegal?” Eddie murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, mimicking your criss-cross applesauce seating position. “It’s basically speed, right?”

“Said the drug dealer,” a snort bursts from you. You’ve moved your fidgeting, starting to braid your half-damp hair. “And it is. It’s fully speed. I was doing baby Valley of the Dolls at age thirteen.”

“That is fucked up, Lacy.”

“Yeah. Well. I'm a little fucked up, or haven't you heard?”

“There’s been rumblings.” Eddie watches your fingers work, weaving locks of hair, one over the other. He’s never braided his hair. He wonders what it might look like. You come to the end and twist it around your finger, at a loss for a hair tie. He sticks a finger under his leather and silver bracelet, digging out an elastic he keeps handy, just in case. There are a lot of times that Eddie needs to yank his hair out of his face just to focus. “Here.”

You mouth a silent thanks and wind the elastic around the tuft of hair. Tom Waits whines away about rain washing memories from the sidewalks and you feel weirdly… at ease. You’ve shared a couple of rainbow diet pills with Nicole and Carol (Tina doesn’t mess with amphetamines, a consummate athlete), but you’ve never had anyone ask you how you’ve managed to be the person you’re pretending to be.

To put the clues together about your impossible do-it-all identity.

And not react in disgust when he finds out you’re fallible.

“Hey,” Eddie says. Something about hearing you rattle off, not sniping for once, saying something real… it eased the heartburn. It has loosened his tension around you, a little. He figures it’s his turn to say something real. “I’m sorry I called you evil.”

Most evil twat at the twat table, you nearly correct. “You had grounds.”

“No, no, I didn’t. You–” this is actually harder for him to get out than he thought, “You’re trying. You’re trying really hard to make the best of a messed up situation, and maybe I should’ve seen that– but I didn’t, because it’s high school, and it’s dumb, and I’m trying too, and we’re all trying, just to survive this messed up microcosm of the world– and– and–" He huffs. It's you gazing at him this time. Eyes sparkling in the half-light cast by his bedside lamp. You're... really pretty. "Jesus, can you just forgive me so I can stop talking?”

“That’s a first,” you say. “Microcosm is a five dollar vocab word, Eddie.”

The way you say his name. “I’m a changed man.”

“Can you use adulation in a sentence next?” Your big grin is devastating.

He leans right into you, dastardly looking suddenly. “Is this provocation getting you hot, you psycho?”

Fingertips braced over your knees, your torso keening just the right amount of degrees to favor him, your stare making an unsubtle job of darting from Eddie’s lashes to his lips to his lashes to his lips…

“Maybe.” A beat. A heavy beat. “What are you gonna do about it?”

In any other world, with any other person, the wanting would completely make sense. Wanting him to say nothing more and just do, to plant a big, ringed hand either side of your hips and pull you into his lap. To crush his lips against yours. To dig his hands into your thighs, to wind your fingers into his hair. To feel the chill of silver traveling up, under the back of your borrowed shirt, to press down onto him and–

Hey Charlie, I almost went crazy-ayzy-ayzy-ayzy-ay–

Eddie doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t mean to, but his head snaps away from you just as the record starts to skip.

Then the door slams.

Fuck.

“Ed?”

Wayne.

He totally forgot to formulate that plan.

author's notes: ZOOWEE MAMA HOW WE FEELING ARE YOU STILL WITH ME longest chapter in the fic so far. thanks for keepin up. i love you, let's not waste any time, i don't think i've got a lot of notes for you this go around but i love you - there is nothing more secretly pretentious teenage girl than loving joan didion and susan sontag (i know this because i was her, i am her to this day in fragments) but particularly joan didion on keeping a notebook really sticks to one's ribs. this is not the last joan didion ref in this fic, sorry for being unbearable - stella adler, the mother of method acting - steve harrington being the originator of the nickname lacy is a tribute to him showing signs of being a goofy motherfucker from day dot. please see this post. it was always there, we just couldn't see it in freshman year because of all the hairspray - what's going on with tommy hagan? does anyone really care but me, probably not. but for those that are keeping tick on the timeline (don't)- he got held back senior year, hence why he did not graduate with steve and is in the same grade as eddie, lacy, carol, et al. - WICKED LITTLE TOWN!!!! - the stooges t-shirt is yet another flight of icarus pick; al wears a stooges shirt and i creamed because i love the stooges. let's listen to one of my favorites - loudness are a metal band from osaka, japan! they got signed to an american label in 1985, but how did eddie munson get that tape in hawkins, indiana in 1984? well, my theory is that eddie loves music and jerry from main street vinyl loves benzos. a trade's a trade's a trade. - reader, you are an 18y/o girl who thinks you're better than everyone. of course you're stealing lester bangs' opinions on blue oyster cult and making them your own - and shitting on robert christgau bc you've got a wetty for tom waits - also, here is tom waits' cover of somewhere! my theory on eddie being a tom waits fan-- of course he is, that man looks and sounds like billy goat gruff and is a storytella just like eddie is. he would especially be into his later stuff, like the megalithic orphans album. y'all remember this song from shrek 2 - rainbow diet pills were a real insane thing! this seems more accessible than adderall for the time period, which modern!lacy would certainly have been abusing - for the time that's in it, let me present tom waits' anti-christmas song, christmas card from a hooker in minneapolis my loves, if you've still stuck with me this far, i thank you greatly. i know i'm nutso but i'm having fun writing this fic. i would've been writing it if nobody was reading, but it's a billion times better now that you are. reblogs are always appreciated, and the inbox is always open to chat shit ♡

#published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #e. munson by powder

251 notes · View notes

genericpuff · 3 months

Text

Can you call Tina Belcher driving through a parking lot at an anxious snail's pace a driving "style"? So why do we try to use "style" as a defense for LO's pacing problems?

There's something about how Lore Olympus engrosses people within its weekly doses of H x P content and cliffhangers that makes people not realize just how long Lore Olympus takes to get to the point of, well, anything. Many plotlines are setup, and then go untouched for weeks, sometimes months at a time, before seeing any sort of progress, much less a resolution. In this, I'm going to actually give you time ranges on some of the more egregious payoffs and continuations of plotlines that were setup - some that are now resolved, others that have yet to see the light of day.

CONTENT WARNING: I will be discussing the SA plotline, and there will be spoilers for Episode 265. I will also be showing pictures of some rancid ass tattoos, I know that sounds random for what we're discussing, but trust me on this one, I have a point to make. Also there's a Junji Ito panel from The Enigma of Amigara Fault... yeah, that one.

LEUCE

Let's start with an easy one that's not exactly tied to the main plot. The Leuce plotline. She was first introduced in Episode 201 as a 'bargaining chip' from Zeus to Hades, in a misfired attempt to get Hades to call a truce over the embargo between the Underworld and Olympus.

At the time of this episode's release, by all accounts this seemed to be a cut and dry reference to Hades' first wife, Leuce, unfortunately reduced to a mail-order bride who Hades, of course, turns down, because he doesn't want the "I can't believe it's not butter" Persephone, he wants overpriced, tastes-the-same-but-costs-more-because-of-the-brand-name Persephone.

But then she came back, 36 episodes later - in real time, this was roughly 38 weeks for free-to-read users as the series went on a 2 week hiatus near the start of S3 - only to be used as a cliffhanger leading into a recycled Minthe plotline, in which she attempted to seduce Hades in Episode 238, only to be shot down for the second time.

If you're having a tough time wrapping your head around how long 36 weeks really is, that's nine months. If you got pregnant when Leuce was first revealed, you'd be entering the final window of pregnancy by the time she returned, assuming the baby didn't come pre-term.

Another 7 weeks later, enough time to actually get pregnant again following that first baby, we got the sudden continuation of that plot, with Persephone invading her home and filling it with barn animals, with a not-so-subtle threat to Leuce to stay away from her husband.

"But what about the text messages? Were they really from Hades?" Well, if you were someone reading this comic in real time, you wouldn't have this question answered for another SIX EPISODES - that's a month and a half in real time - and the answer would ultimately be "she made it up, she was 'manifesting', none of it's real, they should call her Deleuceional!" Six weeks for a nothingburger answer to wrap up a nothingburger sideplot, all in the pursuit to 'prove' for the 1275903729 time that Hades and Persephone are truly meant to be together.

EROS AND PSYCHE

This is a big one. The Eros x Psyche plotline was one of the most popular romance subplots, second only to Hades and Persephone, throughout the comic. And yet, despite people holding their breath to see what would become of the star-crossed lovers, a mortal and a god-

-readers in September 2021 would not find out how their recent skirmish with Apollo in Episode 171 would resolve itself until Episode 218, A YEAR AND TWO MONTHS - ROUGHLY 60 WEEKS AND A MIDSEASON HIATUS - LATER, and even then it would only show us Eros, who quickly summarizes what happened to him during the entire trial and Kronos arc that his anticipated romance storyline got sidelined for - he got married and now he has a child.

And it wouldn't be for ANOTHER six weeks that his wife and the mother of his child would actually show up, not alongside Eros, but Aphrodite and Hephaestus, in Episode 224.

What happened to her after finally having her 'true form' revealed to Eros? Well, that's not shown for another three weeks in Episode 227. During this a bunch of info about how Psyche got out of that sticky Apollo situation is dumped on us and we just have to go along with it as she becomes a goddess, not because she earned a place among the Olympians, but because Zeus needs her to spy on Apollo, which was actually shown one episode prior in 226.

So let's say you got knocked up again after that Leuce baby, when Eros and Psyche were shot out of the sky. Welp, in the time it took for Rachel to get around explaining what happened to the both of them, now you just had your second baby and for all we know, you could have gone for a third and already be well into or near the end of your first trimester, if you really wanted to get busy. You'd have a Dionysus, a Melinoe, and maybe even a Demophoon. Congratulations.

And speaking of Melinoe-

MELINOE

Turns out the interloper and the child in Tartarus were one and the same, or at least that's what I'm assuming, because otherwise that would mean there's some whole ass other baby to worry about that we haven't even been introduced to yet.

Melinoe, or "the child deity", was first established in Episode 218.

But as per LO tradition, the child would only mentioned in passing every now and then until finally being revealed as Melinoe in Episode 252, a whopping... THIRTY EIGHT FUCKING WEEKS LATER.

And that waiting is still ongoing as Melinoe is, of course, still trapped in Tartarus, with no end in sight. Since then, Hades and Persephone have gotten married, kidnapped a child, Persephone has terrorized a nymph and caused yet ANOTHER genocide, and they've resurrected a child that was suddenly revealed to be Demeter's. Thirty eight weeks and counting of dragging on a plotline that we're supposed to believe is dire while the characters do sweet fuck all.

What was the name of that other dream baby that Rachel referenced from some obscure non-legitimate source?

Riiiight, Brimos. Congrats, there's pregnancy number 4. But can we find a way to make a fifth happen?

KASSANDRA

We're first introduced to Kassandra, another implied victim of Apollo's, in Episode 226 when a photo of her is found on Apollo's pen drive which was conveniently left on the ground for Psyche to swipe.

In Episode 227, they theorize on how they could track down this mystery woman, using either Eros or Aphrodite's abilities to find her through the power of

✨love✨

How will that actually work though? Has anyone ever been in love with Kassandra, or has she ever been in love with anyone else?

Any bets on how long it would be until we'd get our answer?

Episode 251. The same episode where we're finally told about Leuce's delusions, we suddenly skip to the reveal of Kassandra being Apollo's personal oracle.

And it still doesn't end up answering our question as to how Kassandra was tracked down, by the way. Eros and Psyche sorta just conveniently find her at the same time Apollo happens to be there when he's getting her to deliver her big prophecy to him.

That's twenty four weeks, meaning you're now near the end of your second trimester with child #4. Whoever the child is remains to be seen but I'm sure Rachel will find a way to shoehorn another helpless baby into the plot for Hades and Persephone to rescue who we can use for this metaphor.

But none of these come close to the greatest unresolved plotline of them all, the one plotline that has outlasted even the main H x P plotline of Lore Olympus' story-

APOLLO

Or more specifically, the SA. Rachel has tried so hard to twist Apollo into a villain of Disney proportions, through his sudden involvement with Ouranos, while also using him as a mouthpiece for her own critics by having him literally dish out word-for-word the criticisms that have been made towards Rachel's writing of Persephone-

But the core foundation of his plotline goes all the way back to 2018, when he assaulted Persephone, a plotline that has yet to resolve itself or show any progression beyond Rachel's half-baked attempts at speedrunning Persephone's healing process, while Apollo is still at large and hasn't been brought to justice.

We've seen her in very poorly-written therapy where her assault was addressed once. We've seen her grapple with the potential consequences of the SA through a gynecologist scene that, as I've discussed before, does more harm than good in helping the discussion around women's sexual health. And of course, Rachel will pepper in vague references to the SA every now and then when she's bothered to remember that it's a plotline she wrote and still hasn't resolved:

And judging by how the story has been progressing, Rachel seems far more intent on simply using Apollo as a mouthpiece for criticism and a puppet for Ouranos rather than focusing on the bigger issues, all while Persephone has helped more people cope with the assault that happened to her rather than receiving help herself.

What's really telling is that despite half of the Olympians at this point knowing what Apollo did, not one of them even tries to convince Persephone to come forward, or say something themselves. Daphne has more than enough reason to come forward. Artemis, Hera, Eros, Hermes, and Hephaestus all know what he did, and yet none of them say a thing, even when those of them who haven't been conveniently shoehorned out of the plot are still in the same room as him-

The assault scene happened in August 2018. It's been five and a half years since it was established, and while there have been small efforts made to resolve it - from Hera and Hephaestus having the photos deleted to Persephone seeking therapy - there's less reason now than ever for it to not be addressed, especially with so much at stake. I could side with Persephone not wanting to say anything in the beginning, when he was blackmailing her with the photos and her TGOEM scholarship was on the line, but now that she's a Queen, rich, and married to Hades, living in the Underworld where he can't get to her, without any schooling or scholarship or job to worry about or the photos hanging over her head, it comes across as flat out irresponsible that not a single person thinks it's worth mentioning. Even the narrative itself seems to be trying to undo the SA entirely.

At this point, I'm not confident it will be mentioned at all, and that Apollo will be conveniently dealt with as a pawn of Ouranos rather than as a perpetrator of violence towards women.

A FINAL ANALYSIS OF LO'S PACING

There are certainly far more examples of this weekly edging happening throughout LO, but I hope the ones I provided get across the point I'm trying to make about its pacing.

Of course, none of these gaps in time are happening back-to-back-to-back. This is Lore Olympus' writing "style", if you can call it that - constantly bombard the reader with separate plot points so that they'll either not remember the ones that were left behind, or so that Rachel can buy herself time to get herself out of the corner she wrote herself into. It's the equivalent of clickbait, constantly grabbing your attention with shiny new things that will replace whatever you just saw in your brain, on a constantly repeating cycle. It's the writing process of inexperienced amateurs, like what you'd see in short stories written by fifth graders - "and then this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened", with no theme or overarching meaning tying them together; and if you were to ask them why a certain thing happens, especially if it logically doesn't make sense, the answer is just, "well, because it does." There's no rhyme or reason, they just thought it was cool.

And I say "style" because while fans of LO have definitely defended the story's pacing as just a writing style, the actual execution of what they're implying is painful to watch and not what any experienced writer would call a legitimate style. It's not uncommon at all in long-running series like this to jump from plotline to plotline, often times longform stories like these have to balance multiple side plots at once to keep things engaging and to bulk up the plot with more actual content.

But in most cases, the reader will expect the speed of a plot's resolution to be relative to its urgency. If a casual B plot with low stakes is introduced, it's not necessarily doing any harm if it just sits there for a bit before finally being resolved. After all, it's low stakes and no one is being hurt by it existing on the sidelines. It might feel a bit like pointless fluff, but there's nothing necessarily wrong with fluff and it can offer fun and relaxed reprieves from the overarching narrative, assuming you integrate them well so they're not drawing attention away from those more urgent plotlines at the worst possible times (looking at you, Stranger Things S2 Episode 7-)

But when even the high stakes plots are being hung out to dry and treated like distractions and fluff, it comes across less like a decisive writing "style" and more just directionless pantsing from an inexperienced writer who's gotten themselves in way too deep.

And that's what really separates Rachel's writing problems from "style". Style is decisive. Style is the act of referencing over a set period of time, crafting what you like and what you've learned into something new, with rounds and rounds of fine-tuning. Style is experience put into action.

And, while I don't typically like using my own work as a comparison, LORE | REKINDLED is meant to try and recapture the original magic of Lore Olympus' art style and writing foundations - and even then, you can still see the clear difference between Episodes 14 and 44, which use the same panel from the same scene, but look vastly different due to the improvement and refinement that's happened over time.

Same style, but different levels of experience and skill, which is to be expected after weeks and weeks of fine-tuning and deliberate practice.

If you're lacking in your fundamentals, whether in art or writing, you can't equate that lack of skill to "style" because you're not choosing to be inexperienced, you just are. And that's okay! But to try and pass it off as 'style' implies that you're choosing to be inexperienced - when in reality, if you tried to put out anything beyond your skill level, you simply wouldn't be able to, because you haven't gained those skills yet. Like fifth graders writing short stories with the "and then this happened" model, "it's just my style" is often used as an excuse by young artists and writers who don't understand that style is not exclusively an end result of inexperience.

I'm gonna go on a tangent here, but there's this controversial but trendy style in tattooing called 'ignorant', and it's best defined as "tattooing badly on purpose".

These tattoos are regularly praised for their simplistic ingenuity and visual aesthetic but equally criticized for being the opposite of what many artists have worked to overcome - being "bad at art". After all, who would willingly pay for a bad-looking tattoo? It's because it's the style that's in demand. I would argue that it takes a lot of confidence and mastery of the craft to be purposefully bad at it and make it look good, as contradictory as that sounds.

As much as the lines may be wobbly and the anatomy poor, ignorant style tattoos are done purposefully by experienced artists who still know how to properly tattoo. As much as they may look like they were drawn by a middle schooler, they will still heal properly, the lines will hold up, and the client will not (or at least, should not) experience any excessive scarring or unhygienic practices as one would experience from an actual inexperienced artist-

In a genuinely poorly-done tattoo, the evidence of the inexperience is literally written all over the body. The skin swells, the ink bleeds out, the lines are inconsistent in their depth, and there's clear signs of trauma to the skin that will undoubtedly result in a poorly-healed tattoo (and that's not even getting into the larger health risks such as contracting blood diseases due to a poorly kept space). It's not hard to see the difference between a bad tattoo and a tattoo that's intentionally bad.

It's the age old saying in a different medium - only once you learn the rules can you properly break them.

Rachel never learned these rules in her writing and it's evident to anyone who knows these rules and is viewing LO through a critical lens - or in my case, experiencing it on a week to week basis. It's a regularly occurring problem in the medium of webcomics as a whole - thinking that knowing how to draw is enough, and that writing comes dead last, if at all. When in reality, comics are a marriage of art and writing, you can't simply do one really well and allow the other to drag behind. That's not to say there aren't comics that succeed at having bad art and good writing, if anything a well-written comic can save bad art-

But if you have a comic with good art and bad writing, that's when a comic opens itself up to harsher criticism. As much as art may be the visual forefront of comics, if you want to keep your audience along for the long road that stretches ahead, you need to have a strong foundation in writing, or at least, enough of a plan to ensure you're not driving in the dark. The art can be as gorgeous as you want it to be, but if the plot is weak, then no one will have any reason to check back in week to week.

And such is Lore Olympus' biggest weakness. Much of what we praise LO for back in its first season was simply its foundation. It's very easy to praise a story's writing when it hasn't had to payoff what it's setup. Having ideas is easy, and early LO is rife with good ideas - but many of those ideas have since fallen flat, even the ones you wouldn't expect.

Ideas are a dime a dozen, but actually executing them in a way that can be engaging from start to finish and resolve itself in a way that's satisfying is a whole other challenge that many creators, including Rachel, find themselves unable to tackle; and nothing is a greater example of that than LO's third season, which is now fumbling its plotlines that have failed to resolve themselves properly after 5 years, while introducing new ones that serve as mere distractions, as if they were a laser pointer aimed at a cat.

I hear the argument, "LO is a better story if you binge read it" a lot, which - while I can certainly understand in today's culture of content that's churned out to be binged - I still fail to see how it actually makes LO a better story. Binge-reading LO doesn't remove the pointless plotlines. It doesn't fix its blatant timeline problems, its retcons, or its inability to stay focused on one topic for more than 5 panels. All it really fixes is the waiting, the ritualistic toiling over each and every cliffhanger that caps off the weekly episodes just for them to either be resolved in the next week or left behind with no in-between. And while having all that waiting removed certainly makes the reading experience a lot smoother, it doesn't make the story or its writing better.

The relationship between a story's writing and how the audience experiences it shouldn't be overlooked. Many stories depend on how the audience experiences it within the mind to succeed and leave an impression.

Junji Ito utilizes the dreaded page turn to scare his audience, an effect that can only be truly gained and appreciated if you read his books in traditional print.

Marvel spent years meticulously building up its Avengers franchise, culminating in a once-in-a-lifetime cinematic event through Avengers: Endgame, which is truly the epitome of "you had to be there", because if you watch Avengers: Endgame in 2024 in your living room, you're likely not going to experience the same level of hype as audiences experiencing it in the theater in 2019.

youtube

The same can be said for James' Cameron's Avatar, which entranced audiences with its innovative motion capture CGI and immersive 3D effects, an experience that could only be lived to the fullest if you saw it in 3D in IMAX theaters back in 2009. Without that experience, most people in 2024 find the movie to be pretty generic and uninteresting, a reverse Pocahontas with blue people in space, but when it first released in IMAX theaters in 2009, it was a cultural and technological phenomenon due to how advanced it was in its VFX. I can't even share with you clips of it, because obviously it would just be proving my point to try and show you how groundbreaking Avatar was in theaters through a bad shaky cam Youtube upload of its IMAX release on Youtube, but let's just say that it wasn't uncommon for people to brag about how many times they'd gone back to watch the same movie just to feel what they felt from the first showing all over again.

All that's to say that while Lore Olympus may offer a 'better' reading experience when binge-read - regardless of whether or not it actually helps the story's pacing problems - the reality is that LO is still being written exclusively with the weekly format in mind, and its been very much to its detriment, both in the short-term and in the long-term. Readers are often left in the dark on plotlines for weeks at a time, Rachel loses track of what she has and hasn't addressed, and the extended waiting times trick readers into believing that weeks have passed in the comic's story, when in reality it's only been a day or two, sometimes as little as hours depending on the sequence; meanwhile, if you binge episodes that had those problems in hindsight, you'll likely be a lot more quick to notice how many plot beats are either retconned or abandoned entirely, because you don't have the weekly waiting times artificially inflating the pacing of the story and causing you to forget what was established weeks before, because when binged, those weeks are reduced to hours and minutes.

And worst of all, with the assumption that you're reading on a weekly basis - as it wants you to do - Rachel tries to pull clever stunts by matching up LO's episodes with real life dates and holidays, which often just makes the story beats feel rushed or random in their execution - because to the vast majority of readers who haven't caught on to this or are reading the episodes through the physical books, they are rushed and random, and they can't exactly explain why.

Binging these episodes doesn't solve the problem, if anything it exemplifies them because, as a shining example, Hades and Persephone suddenly get married right in the middle of an ongoing issue, which isn't exactly the best time to wrap up the story's main plotline. Since then readers have become less and less interested in their story, and can you blame them? By all accounts their story is over. Everything now just feels tacked on to give them something to do in a story they no longer fit into.

There's an episode behind the FastPass lock right now, Episode 265. It unlocks for free on February 17th, three days after Valentine's Day. Guess what episode it is?

Ah yes, the episode where Hades' initiates sex without consent with his wife who's suffering from panic attacks, who also happens to be a rape victim. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

I actually made this particular discovery while writing this essay, so that was a very unwelcome surprise, but it explains the sudden random shift from Persephone being so stressed over the ongoing situation that she's passed out to Hades just deciding for the both of them that now's the time to have sex. As much as the fans will defend this as a husband and wife's last chance at intimacy before diving into a dangerous situation, they'll also still conveniently forget - just like the narrative and Rachel herself - that Persephone is a rape victim, and Hades initiating sex with her after nearly having a panic attack isn't exactly a good look.

This is why our theories as to when LO ends are so firmly cemented in one specific time range, because the story's pacing and distractions seem only intent in one thing - getting the story to last until spring, when the series will most likely conclude. It's basically been all but confirmed by Rachel, from her stating the series would be ending in early 2024, to Inklore - an imprint that seems designed specifically for Rachel and LO - launching officially in spring of this year, undoubtedly just in time for Rachel to wrap up LO for good.

(and boy, do I have some words about Inklore and its plans for "Rachel Smythe Presents", but that's another essay entirely.)

At the end of the day, LO's pacing is equivalent to paint drying on the wall, but it relentlessly convinces us to keep watching because the paint is blue and pink and maybe, maybe it'll turn into a piece of art. But as is evident in the comment sections of the newest episodes, even the fans are starting to realize that paint will not magically turn into the final piece of art they've been waiting to see if the hand that wields it doesn't know what it's doing.

Though style may be gained as an accidental side effect of one's influences and experiences, what Lore Olympus' intent is remains to be seen, and the longer the story goes on, the blurrier whatever intent it could have becomes. Unless it somehow manages to pull off a twist of Attack on Titan proportions that thoroughly explains and ties together the plotlines that have been left in the rearview mirror, the vehicle that is LO will continue to trudge along at a snail's pace, until it inevitably either crosses the finish line or crashes - but by that point, anyone waiting for it could very well be gone, their good faith left behind at the starting line when there was still plenty of time to change its trajectory or stop.

Such a time is long, long gone.

#lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical

173 notes · View notes

becsabillion4 · 3 months

Text

take it out on me (carmen berzatto x reader)

so this is my first time posting a fic of mine on tumblr since i was 14 and i'm slightly terrified by the formatting but i posted this on ao3 yesterday and someone told me to post here too (<3) so i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoy the thought of getting pounded by carmy in the walk-in

pairing : carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary : Carmy is having a terrible service, and you're sure some time in the walk-in will help him cool off (although it gets hotter in there than you might think).

word count : 4,410

tags: SMUT, rough sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, choking, semi-public sex, ending with soft carmy which makes it all okay, 18+ only

note: this is explicit 18+ only and also this is NOT an advert for safe sex, it is merely a fantasy i have been playing with since my own days as a waitress and carmy has helped me to realise it. also i'm obsessed and i know y'all degenerates won't send help so instead i ask that you send me asks so i can write more about this wonderful man

Disorienting. Overwhelming. Stressful, painful, unrelenting. Burning your hand hard enough for it to stick to the pan, hard enough that you know on the way to the sink it’s too late, that you’ll bear the scar of that mistake for the rest of your life. Knives slicing always so close to your skin, living on the point of pain, focus trained so hard on the blade you can’t even blink. Shouting, screaming, the place could be on fire, and you wouldn’t look up from the art you’re creating. Flames licking at your apron. Beautiful.

Kitchens are the prison and the heart of a chef, and the one at The Bear is currently the pride and the bane of your life. Plating up your one billionth focaccia of the evening as Marcus rushes by holding a tray of cannolis aloft, you try to tune out Sydney shouting instructions to the new servers, trying to drill something, anything, into their panicked, under-developed skulls.

But none of this worries you. What worries you is the ominous, creeping silence from the station to your right, where you know Carmy is cooking up not only the best food you’ve ever tasted, but an internal storm that is going to be unleashed any, second, now-

“Chefs! Where the fuck is my garnish? Tina, are you dead? ‘Cos you need to wake the fuck back up.”

Tina is already by Carmy’s side with the garnish, but the damage is done. She doesn’t bristle at his words, but shoots you a worried look as she slides by, murmuring, “Sorry, Chefs. Behind.”

Since you started working at The Bear six months back, you’ve witnessed a rare few Carmy outbursts, and you know everyone feels the same way when they happen. It’s like the moment you miss a step on familiar stairs, stomach lurching and fear sweeping through your body. Carmy is this kitchen, and his boiling point is the moment things tend to spin out of control.

And yet, Tina’s reaction is everyone’s; disappointment in herself, instant forgiveness because she knows Carmy is doing everything he can for this team. Last week, after you and Sydney spent the evening getting wasted on her couch, she’d confessed to you how hard Carmy took his notorious opening night failure, and how he’s been struggling to make up for it since then. And it’s been working; his kindness, patience, and passion for elevating those around him have always outshone the occasional harsh word during service.

But this service is just bad. It’s been bad since 5AM, when you got here to take in the delivery and found out that the grapes needed for the welcome broth had somehow been left off of the order. It’s been bad since Marcus ruined three batches of cannolis in a row, and when Sydney tried to touch his shoulder and ask him what was going on, he stormed out. Since Sydney snapped at Richie for singing Taylor Swift badly during family. The hundred little underlying frissons of tension that normally dissipate as soon as service rolls around have congealed today, like oil in balsamic vinegar, rubbing together but refusing to meld into the team you know everyone can be.

And you know Carmy can feel it. His anger is a physical thing beside you, like standing next to a hot pan with too much oil in it and just waiting for it to start spitting at you. Knowing you have to keep stirring it anyway.

“Four top, two steak, one bucatini, one fish,” Sydney rattles off, and everyone responds “Yes, Chef!” a little too loud.

“Can I get some hands for this focaccia,” you shout through the din, pushing the two boards forward, but nobody responds. “Hands, please, get these off my station before I eat ‘em!” you call, trying to bring some levity to the atmosphere before-

“Hands, fuckin’ hands, Chefs, FUCK!” Carmy explodes, appearing by your side so suddenly you almost jump. His hands hover over the foccacia boards like he wants to adjust something on them, fix something, but you know as well as he does that they’re perfect already.

And of course, this just makes things worse.

Carmy properly looks up for the first time, straightening out of the “chef about to have an aneurysm over plating this fish” posture and into his “everyone here is about to get fucked” pose. “These are good to go, why are we not? Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Go fuck yourselves-” one of the new waitresses approaches with trembling hands and Carmy pushes the boards at her, disgusted, almost taking them over the edge of the pass, “-all of you, what is the point of any of us being here if nothing is leaving the fucking kitchen!”

“Carm, it’s okay, they’re going out,” you can’t help cutting in, but you should know better than to try to soothe a wild animal. Carmy doesn’t say anything, turns back to plating up his fish, but his beautiful artist’s hands, which you often find yourself trying to draw in the margins of inventory checks, are shaking now. You’ve never seen him this bad. The whole kitchen waits on a knife edge. You glance up, watching the waitress leave with your focaccia, and have a brief but fervent desire to be her as the doors swing her out of this hellhole.

The fish is beautiful as Carmy puts the finishing touches to it. A server steps up to take it as other dishes for the same table coalesce at the front of stations, all elegant, all perfect, all more than worthy of the restaurant’s Michelin star.

Carmy is completely still. Staring. And you know it’s too late.

Plunging his fist down, he crushes the fish into sea-scented pulp. The shells of oysters, hand-selected, crack into broken-mirror shards; the sauce is peppered with shoddy scraps of lobster tail.

It’s still not enough for Carmy, as he picks up the plate and sends it spinning into the back wall, narrowly missing Sweeps’ head. “ Shit, ” Carmy mutters, turning back to his station and searching for more things to destroy. You watch him contemplate the knives, and you can’t stay out of it any longer.

“Carmy. Chef. Carmy,” you say as you reach out to grab his muscled arm, pulling him round to face you. You can feel the tension corded deep under his skin, see the sheen of sweat coating his tattoos. Normally, any skin contact with him sends your brain into overdrive, but you can’t afford to be anything but calm right now.

His eyes are wild, but you watch him steadily, and he watches you straight back. You’re not sure why, but the moment reminds you of how you felt on those rare occasions he invited you and Syd over to brainstorm new recipes in his cramped kitchen. Especially that time Sydney couldn’t make it, and you were midway through describing your idea for a yuzu-infused scallops course to him - “with maybe, like, a garnish of broccoli just absolutely smothered in hollandaise” - when he reached forward, tucked a scrap of hair behind your ear, and the very idea of food whisked straight out of your head - but you still felt hungry. And whilst he’d tried out your broccoli idea over and over again that night, you found yourself blushing every time he passed you a spoon to taste it.

You never could get that dish right. Every time you thought about it, you couldn’t separate the flavours from the curious look in his eyes, the way he drank in your ideas, absorbed them before he responded, how his eyes tracked every thought that crossed your face.

Now here you are again, staring at that measured, thoughtful man turned savage, and you wonder if you have the guts to do what you’ve been thinking about doing for a while.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you murmur beneath the clatter of plates behind you, just for him. You don’t look away even when you hear something shatter. You move your hand from his arm, up over his shoulder, push your palm into the curve of his neck and hold it there.

Then you wait, feel his shoulders jumping up and down with his rapid breathing. Wait until he leans into it a little, chasing your solidity, and it’s all the response you need.

“Come with me.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Sydney, you got this?” You ask, never taking your eyes from Carmy’s face, worried that if you do, you’ll lose whatever grip you have on him right now.

“Yes, Chef,” she replies, and you feel her edge round the side of Carmy to put another fish on rapid fire. He catches her eye as she passes, and brings his hand up to his chest, rubbing it once in what has become the team’s official way to apologise during service. She responds in kind, and he lets you drag him off the station, past the others shooting him worried looks, straight into the walk-in.

You shut the door carefully, recalling the stories of Carmy’s previous imprisonment. It’s still securely closed, giving you both some calm and privacy to cool off.

Except cooling off is not really what you have in mind.

You turn to see Carmy slumped in the corner, curled in on himself and running his hands through his already-chaotic hair. He stands again suddenly, bracing his hands on the wall behind him as if to remind himself they exist.

“Carmy.”

“Yeah, shit. Sorry, I just need a second. It’s just, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was thinking about doing something with ceviche, but I couldn’t figure out what fish would work best, and then that sorta spiralled into a panic attack which kept me up whisking eggs for something until three, and then-” You watch his eyes darting over the shelves around him as he talks, and you realise he’s taking stock of what’s there. Even during a full-blown meltdown, he cannot stop working, stop thinking. He starts pacing.

“Carmy,” you say again as you try to catch his eye. He’s staring at some spare T-bones like they’ll explain to him whatever dish he was whisking eggs for last night. Fuck it. You grab his chin, tilt it until he has to look at you.

“D’you know the best way to calm down?”

“Lock yourself in the walk-in for three hours?” He’s trying to relieve some tension, but you have other ideas on how to handle that.

“Sex, Carmy.”

There. You’re terrified that you finally acknowledged it, finally confessed to what you’ve been thinking about for months, but thank God it’s out in the open. You’ve been blushing at his compliments on your food for far too long, ignoring how good he looks in a white tee for even longer. And today has been such a shitshow it can’t possibly get any worse by admitting to this too.

You wait for Carmy to shut it down, laugh it off, maybe even fire you, but he just looks shellshocked. Then again, that is his default look.

“I, um…” He rubs a hand over his forehead, glances up at you almost shyly. “I mean, um. What?”

“Listen, you’re fucking up service. You’re distracted, tired, stressed beyond belief. I want to help you, and I won’t pretend it’s just out of the goodness of my own heart. I’ve been interested in you for a while, Carmy. You can take that or leave it or kick me out of this walk-in if you want, but I’m here. I want to help you work through things, through all this anger. And…I want you to know you can take it out on me. And maybe even feel better at the same time.”

Carmy is flushed, and you’re all out of words. You kind of wish he was still looking at the T-bones.

“We, uh, we can’t.” Carmy leans back on a freezer for support, crossing his arms in a pose you normally associate with him working something out in his head, deciding what a dish is missing or what it needs to take it up a notch. “I mean, not now. Not here, at least. And I don’t know, we work together. I’m your boss. It’s not a good idea.” He reaches a hand round to his back, starts massaging the strain away there. It’s an especially effective position as he doesn’t have to look at you as he does it, as he says, “Sorry.”

You shrug a little, smile. Try to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Keep it professional, or as professional as you can get in a kitchen. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Get some sleep, Chef.”

You turn to go, hoping that stirring and slicing and plating up will shake off the embarrassment currently burning through to your bones.

But you don’t live to regret the offer as Carmy grabs your arm, spins you and shoves you hard enough into the walk-in door that it rattles on its hinges.

“Hey, everything okay in there Chefs?” you hear Marcus call, and it’s a reality check you absolutely don’t want right now. Carmy doesn’t even seem to have heard him, trailing kisses down your neck, collarbone, shoulder as your body arches into the feeling. You’ve had one too many fantasies about this walk-in since you started, but the actual feeling doesn’t begin to touch the dream.

“Yeah, all good Chef!” You manage to reply, but you barely get the ‘Chef’ out before Carmy’s lips slide over yours, pushing, demanding entry as his body keeps you pressed up against the door. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, is all you have time to think between kisses.

There is no room or time for playing around. Carmy needs this, and you intend to provide, but you’re damn sure getting everything you can out of it just in case it never happens again. One of your hands curls deep into his hair, pulling his head back as your teeth click together in the ferocity of the kiss. You swear you can taste blood, but neither one of you pulls back, the saltiness only urging you on. Your other hand is busy loosening his belt, and you tug it hard to pull the silver prong free of the leather, hard enough that his hips jerk forward into yours and you moan, long and low.

Gravity suddenly spins on its axis as Carmy lifts you, turns and drops you down onto the freezer Fak installed last week. And for once in your life, thank you, Fak. The movement seems to shake Carmy out of it for a second, and he pulls back, hesitates. A hand curves around your cheek, and you can feel an apology coming, see the reticence forming in his eyes. And honestly, fuck that.

You hook fingers through his belt loops, dragging him closer and then using them to tug his trousers down. You’re not gentle as you reach into his underwear, wrap a hand around his cock, and you can tell that’s what he needs as he hisses, his head drifting back.

Removing his hand from your cheek, you guide it slowly down to your neck. His head snaps up, and there’s a darkness, a need, that wasn’t there before as you move your hand slowly, torturously, down his length.

“Hey,” you whisper, reluctant to interrupt the low grunts spilling from him with each of your movements. “I’m not going to break.”

You squeeze his fingers around your throat a little tighter, and it’s this that has him surging forward, messy mouths pressing together again and everything condensing into a rippling, burning, rightness as the fingers of his other hand shove themselves between your legs.

He lingers there for a moment, breaths short and sharp in your ear as he breaks free from your kiss and whispers, “If we had more time, I would clean up the mess you’re making all over my freezer, Chef.”

“My apologies, Chef,” you pant, the sweetness of the apology marred slightly by your fingers tugging hard through his curls. Then you’re pushing up his white shirt at the back, reveling in the heat of him, the muscles straining under your touch. “What’s my punishment?”

Carmy hesitates, then withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and it feels like the calm before the storm. One hand is still pressed loosely around your neck as he brings the other up to your face, runs the edge of his still-wet fingers over your lips. Asking or demanding, you don’t know, but you’re happy to comply. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue behind them, and when you slide your mouth over his fingers, taste yourself on him, he closes them in momentary bliss. And it’s so beautiful to see that you can’t resist pulling him in to share.

A Michelin-star chef with one of the most sophisticated palates on the planet. A renowned food critic once wrote of him, “In my next life, I’d like to be just one of the taste buds in Carmen Berzatto’s mouth.” And here he is, savouring you, tongue searching out every corner of your mouth as if he wants to figure out each and every component of your taste. Add the recipe of you to his menu, and make it every night.

You’re both done waiting, and the clock is ticking. You can faintly hear Sydney calling orders through the wall, although she sounds steadier now. You don’t know whether anyone out there knows what you’re doing, but a rampaging elephant couldn’t stop Sydney when she’s on a roll.

Carmy pulls you closer to the freezer’s edge, jeans and underwear falling to his ankles and suddenly he is right there, and-

“Oh, fuck,” is all you can say as he pushes forward in one swift, animal movement. And oh, pain flickers down your spine as he slides almost free of you and thrusts back, relentless, and this is exactly what you signed up for.

“ Fuck ,” he echoes, hand sliding down your neck to settle over your racing heart. “Fuck, you…I don’t know how you do this to me,” he pants, and you try to keep your moaning down so you can hear as words spill from him, “When you come in with your hair down before a shift, when you - ah - when you borrow my knife and I see you using it all service, when you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. Shit. You drive me crazy on purpose, and you wanna know what the worst part is?”

You can’t breathe, let alone answer him.

“The worst part is I eat that shit up every time, ” he snarls, punctuating every word with a short, sharp thrust.

This is the animal you saw tonight, spitting curses, destroying his own food, all sharp edges and uncompromising will. Grunting as he bottoms out inside you, fingers clenched around your upper thigh hard enough to bruise, littering bites over your neck as if your colleagues aren’t an unlocked door away.

But the animal isn’t the end of Carmen Berzatto. There is more to him than the bear, and you intend to remind him of that before you’re through.

“Look around you,” you pant as he thrusts again, harder, sweeter, and you have to get this out before you tip over the edge. So you risk bringing the hand you were using to support yourself forward to turn his chin towards the walk-in’s walls, to beyond them, to the restaurant hard at work and the satisfied diners metres away who have no idea what’s going on in here, and fuck if that doesn’t make it all the more delicious. “Look what you made. Look who you are.” You watch his flushed face, hope he understands the praise, but you can’t hold on anymore to see your words land.

“You’re fuckin’ unbelievable, Carmy,” is all you manage to choke out as every muscle in your body lights up, tenses and releases in a flood so strong you wonder if you’ll ever surface, and if you even want to.

Carmy fucks forward into you twice more, and his head drops onto your shoulder as he groans, shudders, relaxes fully for what may be the first time in his life.

You stroke a hand over his head, pull him closer. You’re not quite sure when this stopped being a no-holds-barred quickie and became a quiet, intense embrace, but it feels right. All the desperation, the keyed-up energy, is gone from him. And if he never wants anything more than that, even though the idea is more than a little disappointing, you can take consolation from the fact that you at least managed to stop a raging Carmy in his tracks.

Although it is a little quiet.

“Carmy?” You ask, hesitant to break the silence. Thankfully, it still sounds like it’s all bustle outside. You wonder how long you’ve been in here, and try not to think about how you’re going to emerge with any shred of dignity intact.

Carmy pulls back, and you can’t define the look on his face, but it worries you. His eyes shine slightly, and his gaze skips across your face, down your body, not holding your stare.

“Are you okay?” You ask, praying this isn’t about to get really awkward really quick. The man’s still inside you, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah. I, um, I should be asking you that.” Carmy’s hands skim down your sides, fingers pressing in randomly as if to check for bruises. He tilts his head to look under your chin, as if to check he hasn’t caused any permanent damage to your neck. “Jesus. Are you alright? I’m sorry, that was rough.”

“I’m totally fine.” You don’t know what to do to reassure him, so opt for two big thumbs up. “See? Voice working and everything.”

Carmy chuckles unevenly, takes a careful step back, and you try not to consider how empty you feel and how cold and slippery the freezer now is underneath you. You hop off, catching yourself on the side when you realise just how shaky your legs are. When you glance up at Carmy, he’s just staring at you, which is, frankly, unnerving.

“Do I look that bad?” you ask, pulling your hair out of what’s left of a ponytail to start again.

“No. No, I’m just…I’m just taking you in.” The raw honesty in his eyes pins you in place for a moment. But of course, Richie shouts “ Cousin!” before you can read into it too much.

There is a moment of panicked dressing and clean-up, a nod to each other to confirm you both look relatively sane and not totally fucked (even though you doubt it), and then a collective deep breath as you push open the door of the walk-in.

You don’t catch anyone’s eye for a second as you head to your station, Carmy’s presence like an open flame behind you.

“Corner. Corner. Behind, sorry Chefs,” you call as you slide back into place. Two quick glances calm you; one at the clock - seventeen minutes - and one at Sydney, who doesn’t look like she’s about to throw up and only has three tickets in front of her. You spare a final one for Fak in his position by the door, who you are positive would be grinning gleefully if he, or anyone else in the kitchen, knew what just went down in the walk-in.

“What do you need, Syd?” you ask, picking up the familiar back-and-forth of the kitchen again with some relief.

Carmy is quiet, focused, for the last half hour of service, but you can’t keep your mind clear. As soon as last orders are sent out, you slink to the back for a cigarette, hoping the smoke will at least wipe out your brain fog. It does the exact opposite. When you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. You exhale, waving the smoke away as the words churn through your brain. I eat that shit up every time.

“Hey,” you hear, and you’re almost thankful to speak to the real him just to distract yourself from thinking about earlier.

“Hey.” You offer him a smoke, and he takes it, sinking onto the step next to you. The brush of his leg against yours is a lot more comforting than you expect it to be, relaxing a secretly worried part of you.

He takes a long drag, the kind of drag you only take when it’s been a shitshow of a day. “I just want to say I’m-”

“Sorry? It’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen again,” you finish for him. It hurts less that way.

“What? No.” He looks at you until you reluctantly meet his gaze. “Not for that. I’m not sorry about that.” He lets that hang there for a second, holds your eye. “But I’m sorry for losing my shit earlier. Nobody deserves to be around that, and…I want you to know I’m working on it. I wanna be…I wanna be good at this.” It’s a stilted apology as he thinks through every line, and it feels all the more sincere for it.

“That’s okay. I know. We all know.” You reach a hand out to touch his arm, and after a second, he lowers his head to rest on his knee, although his face is still turned towards you. You see his eyes flicker from your hand on his arm to your face.

“Although that wasn’t exactly how I expected that to go by the way,” he says after a moment.

You don’t try to pretend you don’t know what he’s referring to. “What, in the walk-in?”

“Oh, no, I’ve thought about it in the walk-in.” You ignore a pulse of feeling at his casual confession, at the idea that he’s thought about you. “I just didn’t imagine it so…heated, I guess.” Carmy raises his head again, traces a finger along your hand where it rests on his arm until you shiver. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

You hesitate for a second before replying. Before extending the branch. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be other times, Chef.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s your turn to watch his thoughts flickering there, watch as the fog clears, the idea forms, and he says, “Yeah. Next time.”

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

wow guys thank you for reading i pray through the act of writing this that my jeremy allen white obsession will calm the fuck down, but i fear i've made it worse

if you'd like to keep up with me on ao3, you can find me here and please do send me any comments or feedback or prompt ideas, i would love to hear them <33 thank you!!

#becsabillion #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x ofc #carmy the bear #the bear #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #carmen berzatto smut #jeremy allen white #the bear fanfiction

132 notes · View notes

fictionalmenmakemecry · 7 months

Text

Carmy Losin' Cool

Characters: Carmy Berzatto x reader

Summary: Things getting heated in the kitchen making Carmy emotions runs high. This leads to him acting out of character and making you beg for mercy.

Warnings: Fluff, Cursing

Author's note: Thinking of doing more The Bear fan fiction. Please let me know if you would like me to continue on this!

"Carmy, I need you to calm down" I grabbed his arm wanting him to draw his attention to me instead of the chaos around him.

"Fuck! This can't be happening..." His eyes were darting everywhere.

He pulled his hands up to his hair, tugging it, completely overwhelmed.

Hearing the printer continuously burning through paper as more tickets appeared.

"I-I'm so sorry" Sydney muttered coming to the realization of what was happening.

"I told you. I told you over and over. OVER AND OVER!" He raised his voice pointing aggressively at the takeout tablet.

" I checked it! It said that- " Sydney quivered.

I looked over and caught her line of sight. She had the look of fear in her eyes. She never saw Carmy like this. This heated. This angry.

"Get the FUCK out of the kitchen!" Carmy yelled picking up the fallen tickets that were now overflowing the shelf.

She didn't budget. Frozen.

"Syd, come on" I tried to usher her, getting in between her and Carmy.

"NOW!" He shouted feeling his breath on the back of my neck his arm extended to the door.

I pulled her by the arm leading her out of the kitchen. She followed like a zombie, completely hazed. I grabbed her bag from her locker and brought her to the front door.

I could hear Carmy giving aggressive orders in the back, still hearing the rage in his voice.

"I fucked up" She had finally caught up to what had happened.

I just nodded, wanting her to go home and let the everyone calm down.

"What's going to happen?" She looked at me, half way out the door.

I paused for a moment holding the door open but not looking away.

"Just stay away for the next two days. I'll talk to him" I said wanting this day to be over.

She nodded gently before giving me a fake soft smile but still seeing the sadness in her eyes.

I watched as she left and locked the door. I took a deep breath for a moment knowing I was going to have to stay calm in the whirlwind of emotions in the back.

I made my way back and continued to hear the dominant voice of Carmy still dictating away.

I walked in slowly and watched everyone work frantically, The only noises were Carmy, the banging of pans and the occasional 'Yes Chef'.

I turned around and went into the office. I was going to busy myself with overdue bills until this nightmare burnt out.

_________

"Hey" A soft voice spoke out.

I popped my head up from the mess of paper piles that were on my lap.

I saw Carmy leaning against the doorframe. His usual white t-shirt covered in fresh stains.

I didn't say anything. I was trying to read his mood before opening my mouth.

"I'm sorry about that in there." He gestured behind him.

I pressed my lips together but didn't say a word.

"Uhhh.. I know I'm a shit head for shouting at Syd the way I did." His head dropped.

He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed his eye, I could feel the exhaustion just by looking at him.

"You're going to have to apologize. We really need her." I murmured playing with the corner of the fold pages on my lap.

"Yea, I know. I fucked up" He whispered.

The kitchen doorway opened behind him and I saw a black curly hair behind Carmy.

"Goodnight Tina" I smiled

"Goodnight Boss" I heard back.

Carmy faced her and I could see half of her through the the doorway.

"All done?" He asked

She nodded giving a half smile.

"Everyone else gone home?"

"Yeah, you should both too. It's getting late" She pointed at the clock on the desk beside me.

1:30am. I swore it was 8:00pm a couple of hours ago.

She gave one more smile and gave Carmy a reassuring arm rub before leaving us.

I could feel the heaviness in my eyelids now that my body was aware of the time.

"I'm gonna head out" He looked back over at me.

I nodded pulling myself off the ground and bundling all the papers off the floor.

"Okay, well I'm going to check that everything is off and I'll be out in a min" I smiled.

We looked at each other for a moment. The heaviness I felt in my stomach when I realized how we got to this moment. The death of his brother, the immediate burden of this place on his shoulders and letting go of his old life.

I walked over closer to him and leaned into him. I wanted to give him a hug. I felt his arms wrap around me. The smell on onions off of him was stronger than usual. His skin burning hot. I could even feel it under his t-shirt. I was about to let go and felt him still holding the hug so I continue to hold him until I felt him lean back.

"Thank you" He whispered looking at me with his constant melancholy eyes.

He left the doorway and made his way to his locker.

I went back into the kitchen. The usual darkness except for the emergency exit lights. Giving the room a green hue. I ran my eyes over to check nothing was left out and everything was off.

I turned around and bumped into a body.

I let out a little yelp completely startled.

I looked up and saw Carmy looking down at me. Very close.

"Is everything okay?" I asked worryingly.

He nodded softly but never leaving my eyes.

My mind froze. I looked down at his lips. I felt him leaning into me. I couldn't stop myself if I tried. I brought my hands up to his chest. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to feel his lips against mine. His tongue against mine.

Our lips met. His were soft and warm. Our lips moved making the kiss deeper and deeper until I could taste him. Feel his mouth. His tongue gently caress mine. I relaxed into him, releasing a small moan in the back of my throat.

I felt him pull me in closer after that. He was hungry for me. That delicateness was fading away. I brought my hand down to his crotch to feel his hard bulge underneath. I heard his immediate appraisal from deep in his throat.

He pulled away, us both taking deep breaths.

He grabbed my hips and placed me on the steel surface urgently.

He looked at me his hands on my thighs but making their way further up. He paused for a moment.

I mouthed "Please". The heat coming from between my thighs was unbearable. Him looking at me that way made it worse.

A small smile appeared on his face, which made me more wet.

He hovered his hands over my clothed pussy before reaching up to unbutton my jeans. His nimble fingers popped them in a second. I glanced down at him to see him still looking at me.

He started slowly pulling down my pants, I raised my hips wanting to move this faster. He seemed to enjoy me begging at his mercy,

"Fuck" He leaned in his lips barely touching mine.

"I need this" He continued with his blue eyes taken over by lust.

The crack of a door was distant, pulling us out of our trance of neediness. We stayed still for a moment waiting for other sounds.

"Carmy, Y/n? You still here? I always forget my fucking phone." Tina voice travelled as she walked further into the restaurant.

We both snapped into gear. He pulled me fast off the counter and grabbed my hand. We raced to the walk in fridge. He closed the door gently behind us. We both stayed still try to listen for anything. But it was so insulated there, it was no use.

I looked down to see my jeans still unbuttoned. I looked up and redid them to see Carmy smiling with his hand in his hair.

"Close one" He whispered smiling back at me.

Masterlist for other fics

Let me know what you think!

#The bear #the bear fx #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader #carmy the bear #fluff #smut #fanfic #fanfiction #love #the bear hulu #jeremy allen white #chicago #hulu

177 notes · View notes

eddiemunsons80sbaby · 4 months

Text

Kiss Me at Midnight

Pairing: JosephQuinnXReader

Summary: You get stuck spending New Years at your dad's company party. What you thought would be a boring evening turns out to be anything but when you catch sight of your waiter.

18+ Only

Happy New Year everyone! Thank you so much to all of you who take the time to read my silly little fics. I appreciate it more than I can ever express. Love you all. It's your year! I can feel it! '24 Baby!

“I mean, it’s not all bad,” Missy shrugged, her hand sweeping around the room. “There are plenty of options here tonight for a midnight kiss…or a midnight fuck. I mean, whatever you fancy.”

Her eyebrows waggled suggestively before her eyes scoped out the place, already on the prowl for the perfect guy to lock lips with. Knowing her, she'd have him locked down within five minutes.

"Or we could just have fun...you know, us girls," Tina countered, shaking her head. "Who needs boys? We can have some drinks and dance and hell, I'll kiss one of you at midnight."

"I'll take that," you sighed, slumping down in your chair, annoyed that you’d been forced to spend your New Year’s Eve at one of your dad’s company parties instead of getting to go out. At least you’d convinced your friends to allow you to drag them along. Instead of dancing the night away at the bar, finding some beautiful guy to dance and kiss until the stroke of midnight, you were stuck in a room full of stuffy shirts.

"Ugh, no thank you. Love you two but if these lips are getting any action tonight, it won’t be from either of you," Missy scoffed. "I am going to find me a hot guy."

“Good luck with that,” you snorted. “Most of the guys here are at least forty and married.”

“Never stopped me before,” your friend grinned.

“You are awful,” you laughed.

“Ladies,” came a voice just to the left of your ear, a voice with a British accent, something that had always been your undoing. You absolutely melted for an accent and British was at the damn top of the list. “Have we decided what we’d like to enjoy this evening?”

You glanced over and your breath caught in your throat. Jesus, where did this man come from? Eyes the color of dark brown sugar, and just as sweet, met you, resting above a rounded nose and two of the plushest lips you’d ever seen in your life. On top of his head was a crown of brown waves so thick your fingers wiggled, longing to touch them.

He cleared his throat, eyes still glued on yours, “Have you ladies decided what you’d like to enjoy?”

“How about you?” asked Missy with a wicked grin. “Are you on the menu?”

The beautiful Brit glanced over at your friend and laughed awkwardly, “I’m afraid not.” Those brown eyes locked onto yours again. “But I could definitely be persuaded.”

“Fish!” you exclaimed loudly, several heads turning in your direction. The smile he gave you made you want to ooze under the table, both from embarrassment and attraction.

Jesus, could you be more awkward? Why were you yelling at him? Your brain was failing you. You had lost all knowledge of how to form words, all the phonics you'd been taught in Kindergarten were escaping you. Oh my god...you needed to open your mouth and say something or this beautiful man was going to think you were a lunatic who just screamed random words at people.

"I'm sorry. I just meant to say that I have decided. I will have the fish," you said quickly.

“The fish. Got it,” he smirked, “but that offer is still on the table. I’m Joseph, by the way.” The air rushed from your body as he turned to your friends to take their order. Joseph, of course his name was Joseph. Right now that sounded like the best name in the world.

Missy sat, eyes wide, looking ready to burst while Tina’s jaw was practically resting on the tabletop.

“You know, we were just discussing who would be our midnight kiss,” Missy told him. Your foot lashed out at her under the table. She winced but was undeterred.

“Oh really?” Joseph queried, intrigued. “And is it too late to submit my name for consideration?”

“Of course not. Our friend here really needs a midnight kiss. If I’m being honest, she needs a good fucking.” Your face flushed red hot as Missy went on. “She hasn’t had one in months. Bad break-up, you know.”

“What a bloody git.”

“Excuse me?” you asked, confused.

“Well, you’d have to be a bloody idiot to have a girl as lovely as you and break up with her,” he clarified, bending at the waist, his lips so close to your ear, breath brushing over your hair. “If I was lucky enough to get you, I’d never let you go. You’d be mine, darling, all mine and I would make sure everybody knew it.”

"I...uh...oh Jesus…," you breathed softly.

"Unfortunately, I have to serve the rest of this group dinner but once that ball drops, I am all yours. See you at midnight," Joseph said with a wink. Taking your chin between his fingers, he turned your face to his, pressing those luscious lips against yours. But it was over too fast, only leaving you wanting more. “Consider that my interview for the job.”

You were grateful you were sitting because your legs turned to jelly. You sat frozen, your chest heaving, eyes wide, struggling to process what had just happened. Did that ungodly beautiful man really just kiss you and tell you he was coming back for more? Your body was tingling pleasantly from your head to your toes. You had never had such a strong reaction to anyone before...and especially not within ten minutes of meeting.

“Missy, you absolute jerk!” you shrieked, coming back to yourself, throwing your napkin at her head.

“What?” she asked innocently with a tinkling laugh and a shrug. “You do need to get laid and, come on. Hot British waiter guy? Joseph? Please. You should be thanking me for being so selfless and allowing you to have him. So, don’t make me regret it. You better ride that boy like a damn cowgirl, honey.”

You glanced at Tina for help but she just shrugged, lifting her glass to her lips, “I mean, he’s gorgeous. You know I don’t normally condone Missy’s behavior but…if you don’t get some with that beautiful man, even I am going to be pissed at you.”

______________________________________________________________

At 11:20, you snuck outside for a cigarette. The night hadn’t been as awful as you’d expected. The food was good. You were nice and tipsy now from all the free booze. Tina and Missy had found some good candidates for their midnight kiss. Now, you just wanted to say Happy New Year and go home to bed.

You’d caught sight of Joseph multiple times throughout the night as he weaved in and out of tables, dropping off drinks, food, and desserts. You watched him cleaning up, preparing for the dancing and the big midnight moment. But you hadn’t seen him in the last hour and you assumed he’d probably found some other girl in there. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of women in their twenties to choose from. He probably flirted like that with everybody. Whatever. It had all just been some fun anyway, right? It didn’t really matter. So, why did you feel so hollow inside over a guy you’d only had a short interaction with?

"There you are. Are you trying to sneak off on me before I get my midnight kiss, love?"

No way. You looked up to see him leaning against the door, his lips curved into a crescent moon. He made his way toward you, pulling his own cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one. Standing next to you, he propped one foot against the building, taking a deep drag before slowly blowing the smoke out.

"I assumed you would have found some other job to apply for," you said, pulling on your cigarette gently. "Lots of job opportunities in there."

"But only one job I feel like I am fully qualified for," he teased, twisting to the side so his shoulder was against the building. "Only one job that really seems perfect for my particular skill set. Have you ever seen the private sitting room here?"

"No," you said, shaking your head.

"Come on," he said, tossing his cigarette before taking yours and tossing it too. "Let me show you.” He took your hand, leading you back into the lobby, through the crowds of people dancing and swaying, and toward a dark hallway. You hesitated for just a moment, wondering if it was the smartest idea to be following a guy you didn't know to an isolated area. Joseph turned, one of his eyebrows raising. "Don't you trust me, darling?"

"I don't know you," you replied with a small laugh.

"Well, we're about to change all that, aren’t we?" he growled softly, tugging gently on your hand and any hesitation you had was gone.

He led you through a door into a spacious room. It was definitely fancy. A leather sofa sat against one wall with two squishy armchairs on the other side. A coffee table sat in the middle, piled with magazines for people to enjoy. A long mirror sat on the wall for women to check their make-up in before making their grand entrance into the party.

"Pretty posh, huh?" he asked, his tongue running along his upper lip as he closed the door, leaning back against it. "Employees don’t usually get to enjoy this space but I figured we could make an exception seeing as everyone is otherwise occupied with the festivities."

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, wondering what in the hell you were doing. This was exciting. He was exciting, but now you felt like an idiot. What were you supposed to do? You had no idea how to initiate...whatever this was. A one night stand? You'd never even done that before. Looking at him, you knew you'd be willing to give it a try though.

"You look nervous, darling," he mused, walking over to the couch and sitting down. He patted the space next to him. "Come on, love. Let's see if we can relax you just a bit." You hesitated and he laughed. "Don’t worry. I don't bite...well, unless you want me to, of course."

Holy shit. You were not going to make it. You swallowed down your nerves and forced your legs to move, one step and then another, over to him, sitting down slowly. You fidgeted with your hands, unsure what to do next. How did Missy do this all the time? This was so anxiety-inducing.

"There...now let's start slow. How about we practice a bit for midnight? We want to make sure we have it right," he said softly, his hand coming up to grip your chin once again. He leaned closer, so close you could feel his breath brushing across your face, the hint of the cigarette he just enjoyed invading your senses. His lips pressed against yours, his fingers moving into your hair, thumb tracing the back of your neck, and all your anxiety began to melt away. Hesitantly, you brought your hands up to tangle them in that beautiful hair you’d been thinking about all night and were delighted when he moaned softly into the kiss.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you toward him until you were pressed against his chest. His lips traveled, moving along your jaw toward your ear and he whispered, "Climb on my lap, sweetheart." You obeyed, wondering who had taken over your body, as you straddled him. He held your face in his hands, pulling your lips back to his as he began to rock his hips. You gasped at the feel of him pressing against your aching center and began to roll your hips against him in return, moaning at the delicious friction it created. He pulled back, his lips nibbling along the sensitive flesh on your neck as he murmured, "That's a good girl."

"Jesus Christ," you gasped as his lips latched onto your neck, sucking the flesh there until it hurt so good.

Joseph grabbed the hem of your shirt, pausing, "We can stop at any time. Do you want to stop?"

"No," you whispered, knowing there was no way you were going back now. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"Happy to comply, love," he replied with a smile, pulling your shirt up and over your head. "Damn, you're beautiful." Then his lips were everywhere, pressing kisses all along your collarbone and your chest. He reached behind, unhooking your bra, dragging the straps slowly down your arms, that tongue darting out as his eyes took in the sight of your bare breasts.

You shuddered as his head dropped, his mouth wrapping around one nipple as he rolled the other between his fingers. You rocked your hips more frantically, overwhelmed with the sensations rolling over your body. You were overcome with a need to feel his skin, to see him bare. Grabbing his shirt, you tugged until he sat up, raising his arms so you could pull it over his head.

You paused, reaching out and tracing your fingers along his chest, the smattering of coarse hairs tickled your skin. Joseph shuddered gently under your touch and you smiled, leaning down to press your lips against his skin. He moaned softly and you were overcome with a confidence you'd never felt before. Reaching down, you unbuckled his belt and then undid his button before slipping your hand past his boxers to take him in your hand.

"Bloody hell..." he hissed softly. He grabbed your waist and lifted you to the side of him before lifting his hips to tug his pants down further. His hand landed on your chest, pushing you back onto the couch and then he was over you, taking your hand and leading it back to his cock.

His lips found yours again, his tongue slipped past your lips, wrestling with your own as your hand wrapped around him once again. His hands slid over your thighs, slipping under your skirt. His fingers played along the edge of your panties before moving them aside. When his thumb found your clit, you groaned his name, your grip tightening on him, your pace increasing.

"Fuck, love, you're so goddamn wet already," he moaned, slipping two fingers inside you, his thumb never leaving your clit, "and so fucking tight."

"Joseph...oh shit...oh my god..." you stammered, rocking your hips to meet his fingers as they explored you, testing every inch until he found the exact spot he'd been looking for. You shrieked, your back arching and he laughed softly, his fingers continuing to torment you by hitting that spot over and over.

You were struggling to focus, working really hard to keep working him but your hand kept stopping or slowing. You were lost completely in the haze of lust that was Joseph sending you to heights of pleasure you’d never known. He chuckled, his fingers locking with yours, pressing your hand away from him and down into the couch.

"Just lay back and enjoy, darling," he commanded. "Let me make you feel good."

"Jesus," you groaned, your hands gripping his arms, still capable of noticing the lean muscles there and it only ignited your desire even more. You drove your hips against his fingers again and again. Your stomach was knotting, your legs locked out as every muscle tensed. You were close. You could feel it.

Joseph’s head dropped, his lips coming next to your ear as he whispered, "That's it. Let go for me, sweetheart. Come all over my fingers. I know you want to."

"Fuck!" you screamed, your back arching off the couch as your climax erupted from you with visceral force. Jesus Christ. You'd never experienced anything like this before. Maybe you just hadn't had someone so talented before. You held onto his arms as if he was the only thing tethering you to this world as you rode out the waves of passion.

"I really need to know how good that tight little pussy feels around my cock," he said softly, fingers brushing matted hair from your cheek. "Are you okay with that?"

"Uhh...yeah," you managed, nodding. His words had shocked you to your core. But yeah, you wanted it. You wanted it more than you'd ever wanted just about anything in your life.

Joseph grabbed your skirt, yanking it off roughly, your panties quickly following. He pushed his own pants and boxers down, kicking them off before settling back between your legs. He gripped your hip with one hand, holding his cock with the other.

"You're certain?" he asked, his eyes finding yours.

"So fucking certain," you assured him.

Joseph guided himself into you and you both moaned at the sensation. Joseph’s hand remained on your hip, using it as a lever as he slowly filled you completely, allowing you time to adjust to his girth, before pulling back until he was almost completely out. He repeated the move and you whimpered with need.

"Faster...please..." you begged, lifting your hips to try to force him further in.

He smiled, plunging into you so hard your body jerked upward. Yes, this was exactly what you wanted. Joseph’s hips thrust fast and hard, your bodies slapping together audibly. He groaned, his eyes watching where your bodies connected, that tongue that you were already so turned on by, darting back out. It was poking out of the corner of his mouth as if in concentration and you fought the urge to grab it.

"Goddamn, you feel even better than I thought you would," he growled, one hand remaining on your hip as the other gripped the armrest just above your head. This new angle allowed him to thrust deeper, causing him to hit in a whole different, delicious way, his cock dragging along your walls with every move of his hips.

"Joseph...fuck, that's so good...don’t stop…fuck…" you groaned, your eyes rolling back. You wound your legs around him, pulling him deeper into you each time he thrust. Christ, you were already reaching your peak again. What magic did this man possess?

"Oh shit...I'm so close, sweetheart," he hissed, his thrusts becoming even more rapid, more urgent. His fingers dug into your hip harder and you could feel the pads of his fingertips bruising your skin but you didn't care. You wanted a reminder of this night. This night when you did something completely not you, something you would remember forever, something that was so beyond worth it.

A scream ripped from your throat as your own orgasm crested over you once again, your legs clamping around him, your muscles spasming. He thrust into you hard, his entire body going rigid as he cried out your name, hitting his own peak. You both shuddered as you came slowly down from the ecstasy that had been the two of you combined.

"Happy New Year!" you heard people screaming from afar.

Joseph smiled and bent forward, planting a long, slow kiss on your lips, tongue dragging along the bottom one. "I guess I got the job."

"I guess you did."

"Now, how do I apply to take you on a date?" he asked, his hands resting on either side of your head as he gazed down at you. “What are the qualifications?”

"What?" you asked, confused. You'd thought for sure this had been a hit it and quit it situation for him. "You want to take me on a date?"

"Yeah, I mean...we did this a little backward but that's alright," he chuckled. "We already know we're compatible in bed so we got that out of the way. Now we don't have do the whole awkward will we or won't we nonsense. How about I pick you up at seven tomorrow? Dinner?" He pressed wet kisses along your neck, sending a new wave of heat racing across your skin, his fingertips gliding over your hip. "And then dessert? I'm dying to know how sweet you taste."

"You've definitely got the qualifications and the job," you breathed, warmth spreading over you at the thought of spending more time with him.

#joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn stranger things #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn #joe quinn fanfic #joe quinn fluff #joe quinn edit #joe quinn smut #joe quinn #joe quinn x fem!reader smut #joe quinn x reader #joe quinn x you #joseph quinn x fem!reader #joseph quinn x fem!reader smut #joseph quinn x you #happy new year #new year 2024

106 notes · View notes

ohlovxr · 2 years

Text

distant lands and dungeon masters | eddie munson x fem!reader

you don’t know anything about that game your boyfriend loves to play, but that doesn’t mean you can’t indulge in it with him… even if it does feel a bit ridiculous.

words: 2k

c.w. fem!reader, p in v sex, roleplaying (ig? once the goofy shit’s over, it kinda just stops yk + the costume is literally just a slutty medieval dress thing that we’re gonna pretend associates with elf bc i suck with that kind of detail. k? k.), oral (fem receiving), fingering

masterlist

tina gets full credit for the “i love you” during the orgasm thing. her mind is literally gold and i wanna give her the biggest smooch all the time for it. oh! also the bodice of the dress is one that rests under the boobs yk (and this is important briefly lol). and also i suck at descriptions and titles and intros to fics lol so i apologize

Eddie’s laugh rang through the trailer.

The sight of his girlfriend sitting atop the kitchen counter, leaning back on your hands, and wearing a familiar looking, but very little, elf costume is what invoked it.

But it wasn’t real laughter, no. It was a laugh of disbelief. One that came out from a mouth so very dry because of the soft flesh that exposed itself as the short skirt you wore rode up when you crossed your legs in a painfully awkward way you weren’t used to and the way the brown bodice of your dress pushed your cleavage up and on display just for him.

One that came from a guy who believed he had to have been the luckiest fucker in the world to have a girl willing to indulge him like this.

“I happen to be lost, good sir,” your voice came out airy - nervous - and you would’ve felt increasingly ridiculous had your eyes not trailed down to see a very large tent in your boyfriend’s pants. “I’d been hoping to find the help of a skilled… of a, um…”

Eddie’s lips were quick to upturn into a wolfish grin before he whispered into your direction, “Dungeon master.”

You nodded slightly, giving him a shy smile in thanks, and straightened your back as you spoke again, this time more confidently, “I’d been hoping to find the help of a skilled dungeon master.”

Eddie hummed, his grin ever-so-present and his eyes gleaming with unbridled joy. “To?”

It has to be the first time in your entire relationship with him that he’s actually managed to keep his mouth from running - and it just had to be to torture you.

“To… To help me find my way back home.”

“Ah,” Eddie had begun to edge closer to you and your legs uncrossed without you even realizing, thighs now resting flat on the counter and feet swinging nervously. He gestured around dramatically, speaking in a grandiose manner, “You come from a distant land?”

“Yeah! Yes, um,” you cleared your throat, “And I’d… uh, I’d be willing to do-” your legs parted slowly for him “-anything to pay you for…” your brows furrowed slightly before you lit up again, “for safe passage!”

He fits between your legs like a missing puzzle piece and his rings burned against the skin of your thighs when he gripped onto them. “Anything?” his words came out low and playful, his eyes trailing shamelessly over your cleavage and back up to your face to meet your eyes. “I’m afraid a dungeon master such as myself is a little more technical than creative. You’re gonna have to get specific, little elf.”

The statement had laughter bubbling in your throat that you barely managed to restrain in order to get your words out straight, “Not creative? Eddie, you-” The expectant look he gave you made you stop mid sentence, your lips forming a silent ‘Oh’.

“Well,” you resume with a small smile, sliding your hands up his chest and locking them behind his neck, playing with the hairs there, “I’d let you have me any way you wanted.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s voice came out low and quiet, his hands sliding up your thighs as yours had begun to scratch at the nape of his neck. His eyes drooped at the sensation.

“Mhm,” you continued, “I’d let you put me into whatever position you like ‘nd flip this skirt up,” you brushed soft curls back and brought your lips to his ear, “I’d let you fuck whichever hole you wanted ‘till you stuff me full of your cum,” you laughed softly when he groaned out a loud “Fuck” before you added on cheekily, “Oh, great one.”

The sound that came out of him next was strangled, sounding next to inhuman, as the fingers that trailed all the way up your skirt were met with your bare pussy, lips already wet and clit swollen with want.

His fingers ghosted through your folds before a rumble came from the back of his throat. You pulled back to meet his gaze and was greeted with yet another mischievous smirk. “Why, what a naughty elf!”

His voice sounded ridiculous - three pitches too high with what was his attempt at an overly dramatic British accent - and another spout of laughter bubbled in your throat. This time, your giggles echoed throughout the room - and Eddie’s laughs were quick to join yours.

You managed to laugh until you were both breathless, faces close and lips ghosting over one another. Eddie let out one last chuckle before whispering, still using that stupid accent, “And why, pray tell, do you still laugh, dear lady?” His hands hike up the soft rich green coloured fabric of your skirt for good measure. “I believe I still require payment for my services.”

“You do? Oh, you do, don’t you? Ah!” You yelped, giggles still following every sound that came from your mouth, when he pulled you to the edge of the counter by your hips, urging you to lie down when his hands pushed your legs up by the gripping at the backs of your thighs and leaving you open for him. Heat spread over your cheeks when you felt his breath hit your pussy and you told him breathlessly, yet cheekily all-the-same, “Y’should take your payment then, dungeon master.”

His voice still edged at the line of weird when responded, but your cunt still flooded with slick, “With a pretty pussy like this, how could I resist such an offer?”

It’s messy - like it always is. He eats you out like a man starved - his tongue gliding through your folds and fucking into your fluttering hole until a mixture of his spit and your slick are running down his chin and your ass, dripping onto the edge of the counter and the floor. His lips latched onto your clit and one hand left your thigh to fuck two thick finger into your cunt, forcing a cry from your lips.

His fingers curled up, rubbing incessantly over your g-spot, and your walls clenched around them. His mouth left your pussy and you pushed up onto your elbows to meet his gaze half way. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment when you’re met with the state of his face; his lips swollen shiny with slick and spit, his chin dripping with it too.

A devilish grin never looked more fitting on someone. His dark eyes gleamed dangerously as leant forward, his body casting a shadow over yours, and connected his forehead to yours. His lips met yours in a series of messy kisses, his tongue tasting of you, and you’re both moaning into each other’s mouths; you because of the fingers that continued to work your pussy and him because of the sight you were to behold. He pulled away and laughed lowly, “Beg for it.”

You were just at the brink, he felt it and his thumb hovered over your sensitive clit. You whined softly, “Eddie…”

“C’mon,” he singsonged before he leaned back into you, fingers stopping their movement and his thumb only pressing down onto your clit, tone suddenly turning desperate as he pressed his head to yours again, “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, pretty girl, just beg for it. Beg for me to make you come and I’ll do it. I swear I’ll have you dripping down my fucking wrist ‘nd then I’ll stuff you full just how you like it.”

“Please, baby.” Tears pricked at your eyes when his fingers began to pump inside of you again, the wet squelch of your pussy taking the thick digits echoing throughout the room, and his thumb began to rub light circles into your clit that had you whimpering. “Please make me come!”

His other hand left your thigh and the sound of his fly being unzipped echoed through the room. The length of his cock slapped against your inner thigh and your eyes shot down to see him, the fat tip red and gleaming with precum.

“Want you to fuck me with that big fucking dick, Eddie,” you spoke through gritted teeth, walls clamping down around his fingers as you got impossibly close, “‘till I can’t fucking see straight.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie didn’t try to hide his awe with a whisper. He stared down at you with eyes full of wonderment and lust, committing the way your eyes fluttered closed and your nose scrunched up to memory for the thousandth time as you came around his fingers with a cry of his name. His voice was loud and needy - his cock jumped against your thigh. “God, I love you.”

He was impossibly quick to rip his fingers from you and guide his cock to your entrance, pushing in with ease. Your walls, swollen and spasming, molded and gripped onto his cock like a lock to a key.

His thrusts started up immediately, desperation guiding him, and the lewd sounds that were both your pussy gushing around him and his balls slapping against your ass echoed through the trailer.

His hands were back on the backs of your thighs once more, but this time pushing your legs further towards your chest. Still, they were separated enough for him to get his fill of your pussy swallowing his cock, watching as you painted a pretty white ring onto the base of him, and your breasts.

“Hold your leg up for me, baby, please.” Without a second thought, you listened. You brought your hand up to grip the thigh that Eddie released. Now, his hand was free to pull at the fabric that covered your breasts. He groaned in satisfaction, eyes widening in appreciation, “There my girls are.”

You whined as the cool air hit your nipples, but the warm hands that palmed at them quickly made up for it. His thrusts picked up just to watch as they moved against the force of them.

Another grin found its way to his lips as his eyes trailed over your body before he had to pull his bottom lip between teeth to stop the sudden ‘Fuck!’ that was bound to escape him after your pussy clamped down around him with a finality he knew all too well.

Eddie looked up to find your eyes, noting with pride at how glassy and hooded they were because of him, and his hand moved down from your breasts to thrum at your clit - your vision blurred, the knot in your belly snapping with a pitiful cry from your lips.

“That’s it,” his voice broke with the second word - the way your pussy spasmed around him and attempted to milk every drop of cum he had yet to give impossible to ignore - and he had to clear his throat, his voice more desperate than ever, “you like coming on my cock, baby? You look so fucking pretty when you-” he moaned “do.”

“Yea-” your breath caught in your throat when he gave a deep thrust. A triumphant laugh escaped his lips but that didn’t stop you, fucked out, words slurred, and all, “Well, I think I look prettier plugged up with your cum, Eddie.”

A breathless laugh came from him, though his face conveyed nothing but him attempting restraint. “Stop, or-”

“Always feel prettier walking around with you dripping down my thighs.”

That did it.

He gave a strangled shout as he thrusted into you for the last time, a dragged out “fuck” leaving his lips in a lazy drawl.

You both moaned as his cum pumped into you; you because of the fullness and warmth that spreads through your core and him because of the walls that clamp down around him to bleed him dry for real this time around. You bit your lip to fight off a small giggle when you felt his balls twitching against your ass.

He let his body fall over yours as you both caught your breaths. With a grumble, you fought off the messy curls that crowded you, a smile rising to your face when you felt Eddie laughing into your neck.

When Eddie finally got his breath back, he lifted his head and offered you a weaker version of that devilish grin with a hum. “We should invest in some elf ears for the next time, cutie.”

#eddie munson x reader #notsfw #eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things

1K notes · View notes

daisyychainssj · 7 months

Text

Something about foolish and bad being two immortal beings who’ve had skewed morals since the beginning of their time on the island. One being able to hide it pretty well and the other always open about the fact that he sees actions and consequences differently. Everyone knows foolish is open to playing multiple sides and doesn’t really grasp the repercussions of certain things like mortals do (he didn’t really understand why people reacted the way they did to him arresting Pac e Mike) he’s always been pretty open about the fact that the only people he cares about being hurt, either directly or indirectly, by what he does is Leo and Vegetta. Then you have bad who is pretty much universally trusted on the island, it’s bbh like yeah sure he pulls silly pranks and stuff but he’d never really hurt them, right? BBH and Foolish are so similar in so many ways. At the end of the day the only people that bad has trusted without a shadow of a doubt is dapper and Pomme, he would die for his kids in a heartbeat. He also does not care if others have to die for them either and I don’t think anyone but Foolish really knows or understands that about him. Pomme and Dapper were in a certain sense, bad’s moral compass. He wouldn’t allow himself or others to do certain things because it could hurt them. Mines? Absolutely not, are you crazy that could kill an egg? The eggs are gone? Bad is blowing everyone and everything up. Leaving boxes with invisible and strong magmas that can pretty much two shot you, what if one of the eggs was to open them? No way, he could never? No eggs around? Everyone gets a killer magma cube whilst he laughs at seeing people downed by them repeatedly. Here’s the thing, bad and foolish obviously love and care for people on the island but I just don’t think they truly grasp it the way everyone else does, the only time they’ve come close is when they’ve loved something that was fragile. They’re kids. It gave them a taste of mortality and so they had to change. Now that they’ve had that love and lost it? I truly don’t think they give a fuck about the consequences of their actions anymore. Foolish literally asked bad last night “Does your family trump all other families?” And after bad told foolish that he was in his family (because they can understand eachother in a way no one else can and I think that brings a lot of comfort) he replied “to answer your question by the way, yeah I think it does” like bad is just openly admitting he will do ANYTHING to get dapper and Pomme back and it doesn’t matter to him what it costs and who gets in the way. I really think that if this does lead to BBH capturing Fred for info no matter how devastated tubbo is BBH Will. Not. Care. Fred is just another obstacle he has to get through to get his family back. And foolish understands that and is encouraging him to do so. Foolish understand because that’s the exact way he operates too. Tina said she would’ve died for Leo and Foolish immediate reaction was to be like “just to be clear I would take you up on that offer and trade your life for hers” and just the other day when Bad was being his usual self and saying he wanted to live at Foolish’s place and the moment he started messing with Leo’s room foolish lost his mind, wanted to arrest bad for even daring to touch such a sacred place and when asked about what the order would think he said if they didn’t understand how serious it was that bad tried to mess with Leo’s room that he Did. Not. Give. A. Fuck. I just think they’re both very willing to be ruthless no matter the consequence and the only person who really understands that is each other.

Q!LANDUO YOU’RE SO FASCINATING TO ME I WANT TO PUT YOU BOTH IN LITTLE TEST TUBES AND STUDY YOU

#qsmp #qsmp vodblogging #qsmp rambling

114 notes · View notes

rainbowchaox · 6 months

Text

Angst Incoming (Pissa edition)

Okokokokokok First Things First I’m sorry this is because of what happened to Missa last night because of foolish. No hate to any creators obviously. It just made me start thinking thoughts-

Do you think Missa would start to avoid Philza thinking foolish killed him under his orders? Philza is the leader of red. It’s not that big a stretch. Do you think he begged for mercy and received none? Do you think as much as he still loves Philza that he is finally SCARED of him. Missa may love everyone and not want to be violent- almost in a naive sorta sense. But what if he starts to fully believe Philza would kill him. Ever since they got paired up together. Missa never felt scared of Philza. But now he is. And he is terrified.

He would gladly accept it and still love Philza no question in that. Philza doesn’t understand why Missa avoids and hides from him. So scared but so In love leaving Missa emotions in a complicated knot. And at worst Missa understands. Anything to save his eggs.

Do you think foolish casually boasts that he killed Missa in his sleep (afk) to their leader Philza? Philza quickly being full of dread and rock in his stomach realizing his husband the love of his life he misses so much is SCARED of him. That Missa misunderstood foolish actions as blessed by him. That Missa even got it in his head Philza wanted to harm him. And the fact Missa fully accepted that fact? That’s he’s okay with it. Anything to save chayanne and Tallulah?

Missa self worth is so low. He won’t share any of this with Philza. He understands. If anything some pain is nothing to show he can be a good dad for once. He loves Philza. But his nightmares have Philza in them and Philza isn’t the one in pain in them. “It makes sense….anything for chayanne..good I was useful for Philza..he needed the points.. anything to get chayanne and Tallulah back… I understand-“

Tina watches Missa as he wakes up from nightmares numerous times during the night. Mumbling he wants Philza back. He hates it here. He just wants to be friends again. She starts to watch him one of the sweetest guys she knows slowly break. Causing her to hate Philza and red team even more. Because yes for foolish it was a Simple as slicing Missa neck as he slept. But Tina? She sees the aftermath. And it ain’t pretty. All she can do is comfort him. She doesn’t understand even after what they did to him that he is still begging everyone in the blue team not to retaliate. She openly sees the healed scar on his neck and can’t bring herself to be peaceful. Missa is a better man that everyone else in blue.

Tina tries her best. She makes Missa in the days after to have some sort of structure. She makes Missa farm apples in the morning and she mines with him in the evening. She denies BBH desire to use him in any plans where he would clearly die yet again. She will protect Missa. Tina is Missa new source of safety. Spreen his brother is dead. His eggs have been missing. And his husband is on a separate team.

Once Philza learns what foolish has done to Missa. His beautiful and wonderful husband that he knows so well isn’t violent. Philza tries to find him. But when Missa doesn’t want to talk he won’t be found. And Tina definitely is pretty protective. Eventually he does find Missa and THEY finally talk.

Both hugging each other. They missed each other so much. Philza gently touches the scar on Missa neck and feels so guilty. Missa immediately forgives him. Missa may be scared of his team and practically everything but that won’t stop him from loving his husband. They kiss each other with tear tracks their faces. And just be with each-other in the moment amidst the bloodshed and the chaos.

They both start to find places to meet up even as their teams start to grow even more aggressive just being with each other. Philza is most definitely worried that each time Missa Mets him he has more bruises and scars gained from numerous respawns. Philza even has to see Missa maskless. Missa lost the mask early on in the chaos.

JUST them communicating and loving each other the same even if the world has gone mad. Philza along with others slowly uncover a way to save all eggs and Missa is right there with philza like they both haven’t gotten through the worst two weeks of their life. They are in love and are together and that what matters. They do get worse. They somehow get even more obsessed with eachother. But they made it through and stronger for it.

#qsmp #pissa #qsmp pissa #Angst #hurt/comfort

93 notes · View notes

fritz-federleicht · 1 year

Note

Omg please write this: imagine dating corpse and y’all don’t post out there so when he actually does see his friends in person like Tina and Karl and Rae and everyone else it’s just like oh yeah this is my partner and they all get along with them so great

New Friends/Corpse Husband x reader

Words: 1030

FLUFF

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

Today is the day. Corpse was invited to a dinner by his friends. He had been excited all day and couldn't think of anything else. He couldn't even sit anywhere in peace.

"Corpse, we have to leave right away." You call from the front door towards your bedroom.

Corpse comes sneaking out with his head hanging and stands in front of you. He lifts his head and looks at you. "I don't think I want to go there. You can go by yourself."

You laugh softly and put your hands to his cheeks. "I don't even know your friends. They invited you. Not me." You say and press your finger into his chest.

His frightened look becomes insightful. "Alright... I'll get dressed then."

Corpse bends down to put on one of his shoes. "Are you sure you don't want to go alone?" He asks again, looking up at you between his arms as he bends down.

You shake your head and turn to the shelf where the keys to your apartment and your car are lying. You reach for them and turn back to him.

"Everything will be all right. I'm here."

Corpse rises and nods. "Then let's go. If we wait any longer now, I won't move a bit."

You grab Corpse hand and together you leave your apartment and head for your car.

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

When you get out of the car again you go around the car to Corpse who is standing there transfixed, staring at the restaurant. In front of him is a group of people. These seem to be his friends with whom you are meeting today.

"Give me your hand." You say and hold out your hand to him.

Before he puts his in yours, he wipes it once more on his pants.

Hand in hand you walk towards the group. You notice how Corpse slows down the closer you walk towards the group.

You briefly squeeze his hand with yours to give him security and to show him that you are there.

A few meters before you reach the group, a brown haired woman turns and looks around. When she sees Corpse she starts waving strongly. She starts to draw the group's attention to you two. Now the others also turn in your direction.

You hear Corpse gulp. "Hey Corpse, we finally meet again."

"Okay, take it easy Corpse." He speaks softly to himself. "This is Rae," he says to you.

You nod. Of course you know who she is. Corpse has often talked about his friends.

You arrived in front of the group. "Hey... good to see you all again."

"Come here." Rae doesn't wait for an answer and immediately takes Corpse in her arms. He gives her a slightly overwhelmed squeeze.

"Who did you bring with you?" Rae asks as Corpse greets the others and you stand by.

"Oh, sorry. This is my girlfriend Y/N."

,,You have a girlfriend?" Karl asks. You know him from videos, too. "Since when?"

Corpse thinks for a moment. "It's been almost two years now."

"And in all that time you haven't thought, 'I could tell my friends about this'?"

"Well..." A shy smile creeps onto your boyfriend's lips. You look up at him and have to smile, too. He is just too cute when he is shy.

"It doesn't matter. Nice to meet you. I'm Tina." A brown haired woman says and spreads her arms for a hug.

"Me too." You say as she embraces you.

"I'm glad we have a new girl in the group. I'm Rae." She smiles and embraces you as well.

You also greet all the others with a hug. Karl murmurs, "I can't believe you didn't tell us."

As you stand next to Corpse again, he reaches for your hand. You look up at him. He throws you a grateful smile.

"Shall we finally go inside now?" Karl asks. Everyone agrees and together you enter the restaurant.

You are led to a large table. You sit next to Corpse and Tina. Rae across from you.

The cards are brought and you order your food. You are immediately asked by Rae how you met.

You tell her that you and Corpse live in the same house and met by chance in the stairwell from time to time. And that's where your relationship begun.

While you are talking Corpse is looking at you all the time. His hand rests on your thigh. You put yours on his. He turns his hand so that you can intertwine them.

So you sit there. Holding hands under the table and throwing each other loving glances. Everyone notices, of course, and thinks it's sweet how in love you both are. You enjoy the evening with Corpse friends.

At the end, Rae and Tina ask for your number. You give it to them.

As you say goodbye, with tight hugs of course, Karl asks if you would like to be in a stream. "No one has to know that you are a Corpse girlfriend."

You look at Corpse who nods. "If that's what you want." You look at Karl again. "Yes, I'd love to. If you don't mind..."

You are immediately interrupted by Rae. "Of course we don't mind. You're really nice."

You smile sheepishly. "Thank you."

"Bye" Says Corpse. And with these word you part.

As you sit in the car, you turn to your boyfriend. "That was a nice meeting. I like your friends."

Corpse takes a deep breath because it was a little exhausting for him.

He turns his face to you. "They liked you, too. You could tell."

"Thank you for taking me with you." You say and lean towards him. He also leans forward until your lips touch. He puts his hand on your cheek. His thumb runs over your cheekbone.

When you part from each other again, your cell phone makes a noise. You look to see who has written to you. An unknown number.

You read the message. 'Hey, it's Rae. Hope you liked it with us today.'

You smile. You put your phone aside. "Why are you smiling like that?" Corpse asks in his deep voice.

"Rae was just texting me." You say and drive off.

#corpse husband one shot #corpse husband imagine #corpse x reader #corpse husband x you #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband #corpse husband x reader #request

587 notes · View notes

slavghoul · 1 year

Text

Phantomime is the band's third album of covers, after If You Have Ghosts and Popestar. Cover songs are usually the preserve of young, inexperienced bands. Is doing covers a way to maintain a link with your formative years and not forget where you come from?

Tobias Forge: Absolutely. I think it does that. It serves as a return to the roots, in the same way as for... I don't know, let's say someone who practices martial arts, who starts in a certain dojo and ends up changing it. If you want to become a good fighter, you have to move and train with different people. It's the same for a footballer: if you play with the same team all the time, your team might be very good, but you always have to play against others. I think the same logic applies with covers: it can help to go back. You don't necessarily have to release them. We chose to do a real album, but in parallel I worked on other songs - not only Impera music, but other covers. We selected the best ones, and said, "Let's put these out; this looks coherent and presentable".

How much did learning to play other artists' songs contribute to your formation as a musician? What were the most formative songs in your youth?

The answer to the first question is yes. Listening and playing at the same time is very formative. I've never really been... A lot of guitarists, especially, take the time to read tablature and learn how to play something very precisely, and in my opinion, theorise the music too much. I can't say that I'm not theoretical; I just don't follow the rules or the classic terminology. I try to categorise and understand the logic, but I do it in my own way, based on what I have learned over time. I never spent much time with tablature; I just played to the music. I would put the music on and play. I wasn't trying to learn how to play the song in the same way as the band. I would play as if I were invited to play with them. So my style is very free, because I played The Doors as well as Kiss, Slayer and DJ Bobo! It could be anything. Whatever I heard, whatever I listened to, whatever song I could get my hands on, I would play it. I think the chaos of it all made it... When you understand that, you understand the way I write, the way I do things, and why I sometimes seem to be a bit scattered.

That's what may surprise you when you listen to the EP: you can find Iron Maiden as well as Tina Turner...

Yes, I grew up with both, so it's not strange to me. But of course, in order to go from just wanting to do something to a homogeneous work that is supposed to have some commercial appeal, you have to make decisions. One of those decisions was, "If we're going to do this Tina Turner song, it really needs to be punchy." It's supposed to be a rock EP, it's got to be set to 10. I think that's what sets this cover apart from the moose. By the way, thematically, I didn't think of it as 'a Tina Turner cover', but as 'the Mad Max song'. It fits with the times we're living in.

Phantomime features a cover of Iron Maiden's "Phantom Of The Opera". Two years ago, you also recorded a version of Metallica's "Enter Sandman" for the Blacklist compilation. In rock, people like to pit the Rolling Stones against the Beatles, and I think the metal world tends to do the same thing with Metallica and Iron Maiden. Do you feel more affinity with Metallica or with Maiden?

[He thinks] Good question. I'm trying to formulate a coherent answer. I think... It's so fifty-fifty. Both. Not just in terms of inspiration, but in terms of their whole careers, especially when I was a kid. In many ways, like many fans of both bands, there's a cut-off date where my interest in new music started to wane. But I have such a love for everything they did before that it doesn't really matter. The limit is basically the Black Album and Fear Of The Dark. I mean, I like The X Factor, and Brave New World was an absolutely great comeback album. But as a kid and a teenager, settling down with Live After Death was such an inspiration - not just for what I was hearing, but for the tour dates and everything to do with that. Same with Metallica and the Black Album. That was the first time I saw them, and it was the first time I was confronted with commercial greatness in metal, when a band is on top. It's happening now, they're the biggest band of all time. They're playing in such and such an arena, but when they come back next year, they'll be doing such and such a stadium. Even back then, I had a hunch that not only were they great, but they were doing well in life. These guys are getting richer by the hour [laughs]. That's the kind of thing that matters when you're twelve. "And imagine all the girls they get!" That kind of nonsense.

And of course, these bands inspired me musically and professionally and brought me a lot of joy, but they also became mentors in my professional life. I have so much gratitude and respect for those two bands. If I were to be super picky and specific, I would say that since we are a more melodic band, we are probably closer to Maiden. Metallica is more of a "speed" band, I think. To be honest, what I've always liked most about Metallica, and especially on my favourite albums, which are a lot of people's favourites, is not the speed. The speed and the violence on those albums are just added value. The reason their music was so great in the 80s was because it was so melodic. It's the melodies. What changed in the 90s was that they stopped the melodies. They became a blues band, and all of a sudden all the movements were different. It wasn't neoclassical like in the 80s or on the Black Album. I'm very neoclassical myself, that's why I feel so close to the melodic side of Metallica. On the other hand, I spent my teenage years listening to death and black metal, so I love big riffs and speed and stuff like that, but that's not what we do with Ghost.

For a long time, fans have been asking who could be the Maiden or Metallica of tomorrow. Considering the impressive success of Ghost, do you think you have an answer to that question?

Obviously, I know that George Lucas and Steven Spielberg will die one day, but I don't think Wes Anderson or Quentin Tarantino can be considered as a replacement. These directors don't have that much in common, but you know what I mean, I hope. I don't see us as taking their place. You know, I try to be as transparent as possible. What I do is very much inspired by those two bands. I try to do it in a different way, and with respect. But of course, from a practical point of view, when the day comes when there's no more Iron Maiden and you want to see a rock concert with staging and solos, you can come and see us. It's a very curious concept, but it's obviously relevant, because we live in a time when the previous generation is disappearing one after the other. I think Lars [Ulrich] and James [Hetfield] have spoken about how the physicality of their music is not the same as the Rolling Stones. Charlie [Watts] playing the way he played when he was seventy-nine or eighty, it's nothing like what's expected of Lars. And what is expected of James is also very different from what is expected of Keith Richards, with his very open chord style. The meticulousness of James' riffs and Kirk's solos can be difficult to achieve at eighty - and they're approaching sixty. Kirk already has them, by the way. So, as much as I don't want to think about it or remind people, nothing lasts forever. Sooner or later, fans are going to have to decide which bands they want to go see, because a lot of the people they grew up with won't be around anymore.

Your cover of "Enter Sandman" was very "ghostified", while "Phantom Of The Opera" is more faithful to the original in comparison. How do you decide how to approach a cover? Are there songs that offer more latitude in terms of arrangement and appropriation, and others less?

There are several factors, which differ from song to song, and the result can therefore be different. If you go back in time and take "Waiting For The Night", for example, I always thought that song in its original form... Obviously it's cool, but I thought there was a bigger song underneath. In the original, it's diffuse, vague, underlying. The chords are just hinted at, and the vocals suggest that you can build something bigger around it. When I did the cover with Dave Grohl, he asked me, "Can we do a really slow version of it like Trouble?" I said, "Yeah, that sounds cool." And of course, working with Dave Grohl, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, we thought it was too slow, too heavy and too long. It was a good idea, but the result was not very convincing.

Enter Sandman' and 'Phantom Of The Opera' were conceived in two different ways. If someone had asked me to do a Metallica tribute, I would have accepted, but I would never have chosen 'Enter Sandman', in the same way that few people would choose 'Paranoid' or 'Smoke On The Water'. You automatically try not to pick the biggest hit. But in this case, it was Swedish television that asked me to play. It was for a music award, and they said: "Since Ghost and Metallica are close, you are seen as friends, so you should open the show. And we want you to play their biggest song, 'Enter Sandman'." I asked, "Do I have a choice?" And they said, "Not really! We want you to do it, otherwise we have to rethink the whole show. Could you think about it?" OK, I'll think about it and see what I can do. So I started to play the song and see what I could get out of it. The original structure of the song is very simple, and the melody, like "Waiting For The Night", suggests chords that they don't play. All I had to do was see which chord suggested the melody and fill in the gaps. I ended up with a five-minute arrangement. If I sing the melody with a guitar, this is what chords it suggests. That's the somewhat academic version of the song. I was at the stage where I had a completely different version of the song, and I recorded it and thought, "Fuck, I hope James doesn't hate it..." Because I don't want to disappoint anyone. It's supposed to be a tribute. My version was like, "You guys have all my love, but I was forced to do this! And in the end, the result was great.

"Phantom Of The Opera' was a bit different. I knew I wanted to cover a Maiden song, but not just anything, of course. I wasn't going to do 'The Number Of The Beast'. I've had fun with 'Phantom' in the past, because it's a long song and quite complicated. As a musician, it's quite common to sit on the couch and try to figure out a riff. What are they doing there? [What's the rhythm? How are they counting? Because I couldn't hear the beat. And suddenly, once I understood how the beat works in this song [he sings the riff while snapping his fingers], I thought: "Wow, you can't hear that at all on the record. You can't hear anything, it's just a controlled mess." I managed to figure out how to play other elements of the song, and I was like, "Now I have a reason to record it. Not because I want to improve it, but to come up with a different version where you can clearly hear the different parts." First of all, it was a personal experiment in the studio. I wanted to record it to see what it sounded like, and suddenly, after working on it for a few hours, doubling the guitars, adding the drums and playing everything perfectly with metronomic precision, the track was different and a bit updated, so to speak. So I said to myself, "I'm going to take the gamble of covering this song, and see what happens. It seemed like a good reason. I'm not saying my version is better, I'm just saying it's different. There's a bit more contrast and fluidity, you can hear the different elements better. It underlines how good the song is.

Phantomime's covers also include Genesis' 'Jesus He Knows Me'. Genesis is a rather peculiar band, which started out in progressive rock and ended up with huge radio hits. Do you find yourself in this ambiguity, in this duality?

Yes, I do. The other band on that level that did something similar is Pink Floyd. In the beginning, their music was really strange, really eccentric, and then they became more and more pop as the albums went on. People still mistakenly think they're a prog band, whereas 'Wish You Were Here' is really just a series of four pop songs stretched to the max. Not only am I very inspired by that, but I also feel an affinity with that kind of thing. You try to come up with variations of the traditional, if you like. You try to change the form, to present elements that people know in a different way. It's a bit like running a fusion restaurant and offering an Asian-inspired onion soup and adding coriander to the dish. It's still recognisable, but you try to make the recipe different. Another analogy is Stanley Kubrick, who told stories that weren't very complicated, but presented them in an epic way because of their façade - literally. It was the choice of set and costume and the attention to detail that made the difference. That's why, as a composer, I always try to go back to the simplicity of the writing; the simplicity of 'Another Brick In The Wall'; the simplicity of 'Comfortably Numb'. It sounds like a huge, epic song, but it's not complicated at all. They have a lot of songs like that. For a lot of songs in the Genesis catalogue, especially in the later part of their career, the only thing that makes it a bit weird is the middle part. In "Jesus He Knows Me", that's one of the things that made me want to... Not only have I always loved that song, but there are three factors that made me want to do my own thing with it. One: it's a very upbeat rhythm. The way they play it is so quiet that it literally sounds like they're playing on the table [he beats the rhythm on the table] with an acoustic guitar. There's a real metal track in there.

Do something with those guitars! [Laughs]

Yeah, but I'm glad they didn't, because that means we can! I'm really surprised that a band like Metallica never covered this song, because it sounds like a song from Garage Days. It has the same atmosphere. So I thought, "I'm gonna make it sound like a Garage Days song by Metallica. And I fucking hate the bridge of the original, when they go into white boy raggae. I like reggae, but this is the whitest reggae in the world! And it totally destroys the song. As much as I've always loved the song as a whole, I've always hated that part. So getting rid of that section and making it very heavy was also on the to-do list. I had to go into Trouble mode on this. And of course, that goes without saying, but the lyrics were also perfect. It's meant as a tribute, even though I spit on that bridge a lot. But they've done a lot of these kind of prog bridges, like "Let's do anything here", and they'll throw in a rumba or something like that. Some people might find that really interesting, but in most of their songs, I don't think it adds anything. But yes, Genesis has a lot of... I like a lot of their older prog music, with Peter Gabriel, although I think they almost became even better after they split up. Peter Gabriel did his own music, and he did it very well - very epic music. And Phil [Collins] came in on vocals and they did their own thing. To me, it was the best of both worlds, even if it sounds sacrilegious to say that. I'd love to see Peter Gabriel come back and sing with them, that would be cool, but their separation brought so much to the music, between Peter Gabriel's career, Genesis' career and Phil's career. That amount of work, man!

It's one of the few cases where the split was a real success for everyone, and the result is as good as the original band.

Absolutely, I think so. The most amazing thing they could do now, especially now that Phil is not in good shape... What I wish they had done, or could have done, or would do one day, is a triple tour. For example, Phil and [Peter] could do a solo show each to start with, maybe just five or ten songs, and then get together with Genesis. That way we could have 'Here Come The Flood', 'Another Day In Paradise' and 'In The Air Tonight', and then a bunch of Genesis. I think everyone would love to see that. It would be the perfect concert. For me, it would be one of the best experiences possible.

You see, that's the kind of idea that made Ghost into Ghost. If you can come up with a plan like that for other bands...

[Laughs] You can always call me before it's too late, guys!

Another band that has come up with sophisticated yet super catchy music is Def Leppard, especially on their multi-platinum album Hysteria. Speaking of which, this year you released a new version of "Spillways" with Joe Elliott on vocals. When you hear him on this track, the link is obvious, especially with the very elaborate backing vocals. Would you draw a parallel between your approach to songwriting and arranging and that of Def Leppard?

On this album, yes, because I tried to emulate elements of... It's something that's been done throughout their career, but especially on their two biggest albums, Pyromania and Hysteria, the length of the songs is remarkable. It's very common these days, especially in pop, to be very fussy about the three-minute limit. In the pop world, there's this need to always get to the chorus very quickly. You have to start with the chorus, go straight to the point all the time. In the 80s, there was more courage in songwriting - a more adventurous side. Songs like 'The Riddle', for example, were very strange, very proggy. There were weird chord progressions and stuff that nobody does anymore. The pop world has been so chicken for so long. Of course, I've always had an ear for pop; I'm not exactly impressed with what I hear today, but in my life I've always listened to the radio and liked a lot of what I heard, especially the 80s super hits. That's totally my thing. And I love Eurodisco from the early 90s. There are a lot of great composers in that scene. Max Martin started in Eurodisco, at least professionally, but before that he was in metal. What makes him such a great composer is his metal ear. He was writing Eurodisco songs, and then all of a sudden he started writing huge pop songs for the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. This whole school of Swedish songwriters is made up of former metalheads, former rockers, former guitarists.

So I wanted to challenge myself in my own songwriting, because sometimes I keep it too short. Even though "Square Hammer" is a good example of a well-written song, it was almost frustrating, because I thought, "OK, that's one more song like that. Now I have to stop doing that, because it was almost too simple." It was a very intuitive song; I literally wrote it in ten minutes. I had the melody, I played it, and the song wrote itself very quickly. There's almost no finesse in that song, and I thought I should avoid doing the same thing again, because it would be too easy. I wanted to see if I could write in a Def Leppard way. On Hysteria, there are six, seven, eight singles, a good half of which were huge hits. In 1987 or 1988, they were on a par with Coldplay at the height of their career, that's for sure. How could they write five-minute songs, with like five distinct parts? It wasn't conventional, verse-chorus-verse-chorus writing. It was verse, another verse, pre-chorus, bridge, and then finally, after two minutes, you'd get to the chorus. And it was so rewarding, because it was such a long way to get there. I thought, "This is what I have to work towards. I want to dare to add another part, dare not to follow the path. That was a mental exercise I did on Impera, and I'll try to do better in the future. It's an interesting way to challenge yourself.

When people talk about the length of songs on the radio, I always think of the story of "Bohemian Rhapsody": "This is going to be a disaster, it's never going to be played on the radio!" That's it, yes...

For a long time they called that song "Freddie's thing". It's such an anomaly in the middle of what we've just been talking about. Of course, I don't recommend... For a young band that's just got a contract, it's best to avoid the six-minute "Rhapsody". But if you can find a compromise between 'The Passenger' and 'Bohemian Rhapsody', I think you've got something.

On that subject, how did Joe Elliott end up on "Spillways"?

The story is very simple. I talked about Def Leppard a lot before Impera came out because of the mental exercise I mentioned, and both Phil and Joe had been talking about Ghost for a few years. It got to the point where our respective managements wanted us to do something together. In the modern world, that often means collaborating, as hip-hop artists do. I explained that I was willing to explore the idea, but that for me, a collaboration is a trendy but outdated concept. We do it all the time. In hip-hop, it's almost ridiculous to see... If an artist is hot this week and you go look at the American top 40, it's just "this artist feat. this other artist". I totally understand that one plus one can sometimes be three, but it gets very cynical. I don't want to do things cynically. I sing cynical things, I'm a cynical person, but I don't want to be cynical about my fans or my career. So I said yes, I would discuss it with Joe, but we'd have to see if we could agree on something, if there was romance in the air.

Joe and I sent a lot of messages to each other to try and arrange a meeting. He lives in Ireland, but also in LA. I live in Sweden, but I also spend a lot of time in LA, so we tried to find time to see each other. He was getting ready for his tour, I was getting ready for my tour, and we were just hanging out. And then out of the blue, he wanted to experiment; he went into the studio, recorded some vocal lines and sent them to me. I thought it sounded really cool and I said, "Look, I have nothing but good things to say about what you did. It sounds great. I'm not surprised by your voice, but by the fact that we sound so good together. I like that very drawling vocal, you really added something. But I have no desire to throw this on Spotify and say to people, 'Here's another thing you can buy.'" I asked him, "You know we do little skits to communicate with our fans in a funny way? Instead of posting on Instagram saying we'll be in such and such a city, we come up with little episodes." He had seen a few and said, "Yeah, that's funny. Let's do something funny with that." The gag is the important part, and the end result is a bonus.

It's like what we did with 'Kiss The Go-Goat' and 'Mary On A Cross'. The idea for the episode came first, and then we said, "OK, but we need a song. So I came up with the idea for this 60s-style sketch that was "Kiss The Go-Goat". Then, as I was writing and recording 'Kiss The Go-Goat', 'Mary On A Cross' came up in the process, and I thought, "Great, now we have a B-side! It'll be a physical single." So I put that in the script: "Let's start showing the single, now that it's official." Things work in tandem. Looking back, we now know that the end result was different. It was meant as a joke. There was 'Kiss The Go-Goat', which was the joke itself and was very successful. And then it turned out that "Mary On A Cross" was completely different. That's also what I told Joe: we do this to mess around with the band. My job is to write records and entertain people, but apparently I also have to communicate with my fans, and do all this promotion that I'm not really interested in. I have no problem doing this interview, but I don't want a fucking Instagram account where I post pictures of myself. I don't want to be that person. So, I'm doing this so that people... They're diversions, and sometimes those diversions become cool. "What do you say, Joe?" In the end, we found this way to spend time together and do something fun. Instead of turning our creativity into songs, we turned our creativity into episodes. It became something fruitful and fun, and I think it was a great success.

The title of the EP is clever, as it mixes the terms 'ghost' and 'pantomime'. The latter term is defined as "a type of musical for the entertainment of the whole family". Is this your goal with Ghost? Do you see the band as "a musical for the whole family's entertainment"?

Broadly speaking, yes. Of course, that suggests that the more adult elements and innuendos in our show are suitable for children, which I don't claim. But I would also like to stress that I have never asked people to bring children to our shows. So if the children in question are exposed to jokes involving penises, farts and copulation, that's their problem. I grew up in a very liberal family, where there were very few barriers and no censorship. I think it's possible to have a conversation, if others are open to it. I have no problem with whole families coming to us, as long as no one suffers. So, for me, it is indeed entertainment for the whole family. But I wouldn't sell it as such to most people, because there are still elements that are not suitable for all children.

I remember a Rammstein concert where I noticed children in the audience. I thought it wasn't really a good idea... Ghost seemed a bit more appropriate, but for young children, some things can still be a bit biased.

It's hard for me to have a clear line on this, because I'm not just speaking as a musician, but also as a parent. There's a constant debate about the right age to talk about certain things. Now, with two teenagers, things are more open. But that's one of the weird things about being a semi-public figure, talking openly and publicly about your life and what you do and sharing your opinions. My kids read that, too. They are aware of it. As soon as I say something, especially nowadays, where everything becomes a meme or a clip... People may think what I say is funny, which I don't mind, but my son and daughter, now fourteen, heard it when they were eight or ten. It's hard for me to be a parent and say, 'Go to school! Don't do that", when they know perfectly well that I didn't follow any of these precepts. I'm not trying to lie to them at all. I tell them: "I did this, I don't recommend it. I did this; I totally neglected this other thing. But I was lucky and I got there. My career isn't over, so I don't know if I've really "arrived", but for now, I'm here. It was a bit silly of me to be so confident, to think I could burn all the bridges, burn all the ships and throw the oars. I was lucky enough to make it to land, but I don't recommend this technique. Don't do the same thing! [Laughs]

#the band ghost #Tobias Forge #interview

136 notes · View notes