alaska

the room is lavish for what you’d expected. indeed it has a basin; a fireplace, too. you begin to unbuckle your belt, then start with the drawstrings that fasten your leathers to your torso. the dried blood that splatters it binds the string together and you huff, unsheathing the knife at your hip to snip through the burden.

your leathers fall to your feet, leaving you in your cotton tunic and trousers. across from you, sandor struggles to rid himself of his own clothing, confronting his clasps with words you’d rather not hear.

“hells,” you mutter, marching toward him. “let me do it.” you smack his hands away and start to undo his doublet, foul-smelling thanks to the death he’s reaped.

“it will be better to share the bath water, then wash our clothes after we’re clean. i’ll light the fire and leave them to dry—”

“the fuck you will.” he growls, pushing away from you to do the rest himself.

“oh, wind your neck in, will you?” you scoff. “most feared man in westeros my arse.”

“they can air-dry.” he barks, hands moving to his waistband. “leather’s waterproof.”

“water-resistant, actually. but whatever.” you grumble, stripping down to nakedness.

he eyes you, gaze sinking to your chest. you take note of his silence and glare back at him. “what? never seen a woman naked before?”

“none as flat as you.” he spits, a rosy hue staining his cheeks.

you chuckle, grim. “alright then, clegane, pull it out. let us see that needle the gods forced you to go through life with.”

he says nothing and tugs his tunic over his head, discarding it at his feet.

“i thought as much.” you smirk, triumphant, and pad over to the basin, only there’s no jug to be seen. “shit.”

“the fuck’re you whingeing about now?” he huffs, the bed groaning when he settles atop the mattress.

you let out an exasperated sigh and turn to throw a sarky comment his way, but the words die on your tongue when you catch sight of his bare torso. his chest is barrelled and pumped from your altercation on the road, biceps swole and the muscles in his back rippled from their exertion.

“so it’s alright for you to ogle.” he quips, a hint of disport clear in his tone.

your nose wrinkles, but you can’t help but sneak another look before turning away again. “in your dreams, clegane.”

“i’ve dreamt of it, don’t you worry your pretty head about that.” he retorts, manspreading across the mattress.

you roll your eyes. “make yourself useful and ask him for a jug.”

“why me?” he grumbles, making himself comfortable.

“because you’re still clothed.” you parrot, walking around the bed to yank one of the sheets out from under his head to wrap around yourself.

he sits up, and just as you think he’s about to comply with you for once, he’s pulls his trousers down and slings them back at you. they hit you in the face and you glare daggers into the back of his head.

“not anymore, i’m not.” he throws a glance back at you. “but you are.”

your nostrils flare and you challenge his pettiness, dropping the sheet from your frame. it bunches at your ankles and you kick it away. “not anymore, i’m not.”

his eyes dip, then snap back up. “you’re a difficult little bitch, aren’t you?”

you quirk a brow. “you could’ve gotten it by now.”

he holds your stare, then stands from the bed to face you. as if of their own accord, or by some invisible force, your eyes are drawn to his nether regions. he’s well-endowed and you find yourself eating your words.

not a needle at all.

“i’ve spent my whole life doing as i’m bid,” he says lowly, moving on heavy feet until he’s a mere a foot from yourself, much inferior in comparison. “forgive me if i refuse to be bossed around by some uppity stark bitch.”

but his eyes don’t carry the same thick agitation as his voice. they’re full of something far thicker; the kind of stare your mother used to warn you of, only you’re not unnerved by it. in a twisted sort of way that should bring you shame, you quite like it.

you start to throb.

“you call yourself a dog,” you remind him, having to crane your neck rather uncomfortably when the gap between you lessens. “expect to be treated like one.”

he grins, crooked and profane. “your daddy liked to run his mouth.” then his face appears inches from yours. “look where that landed him.”

“honour got him killed.” you tilt your face up like you mean to inspect the ceiling. “there’s nothing about this that i would call honourable.” and you gesture between you.

his chestnut eyes narrow down at you, leering and predatory. he may expect you to cower or relent. but you don’t blink, hell, you don’t even breathe. he can’t find any fear in your gaze, nor any disgust or revulsion.

you don’t know how or when, or who moved first, but your mouths find one another in a hungry clash of tooth and tongue, hands groping and clawing.

you bite down harshly on his lip and he grunts, licking at your teeth before meandering past them to tackle your tongue with his.

you’ve never been kissed like this, like he wishes to strike you instead, piling all of his anger into it.

then he fists you by your hair, wrenching your faces apart. a rough hand presses between your shoulder blades where it shoves you, bending you over the edge of the bed.

you feel so insignificant when he does, spade-like hands lifting you by the hips to situate you on your knees, arse in the air and your cheek smushed against the mattress.

“stark of winterfell.” he mimics, hateful and bitter. “look at you. . . no better than a common whore.”

you fist the sheets, though you make no attempt to fight him off. “fucking a lady on her hands and knees,” you counter, stomach flipping when his thick fingers brush through your folds to collect your slick. “look at you. . . no better than a dog.”

if he had a retort he decides against voicing it, instead opting to bully his cock within your soaked cunt.

you both go rigid and the sheets find place in the clamp of your jaws. it takes his hips a few sputters for him to submerge himself completely, but once he has, you feel as though he’s torn through your loins.

you can feel him everywhere. in your stomach, in your guts, in your throat.

he stills, fingers gnawing at your hips. “fuck.”

you groan, the stretch of your hole shooting a tremor that scorches up the length of your spine.

“never been fucked?” he presumes through gritted teeth, your tightness compressing him.

“not for a while.” you manage, still adapting to what might as well be an impalement. “not by the likes of you.”

not by a cock this big.

he grunts, then attempts to retract from you. the width of him drags against your walls and you shudder, wincing slightly as your opening starts to shrink again when only his cockhead remains inside of you.

but he doesn’t allow you much of a chance to adjust to him this time, and plows back in to the hilt. it propels you forward, your nipples grazing the sheets as he sets an unyielding pace.

you mewl, his taking of you almost as vicious as when he takes a life. the pressure at your hip eases when he grabs you by the scruff and yanks you back against his front like you weigh nothing, your sweat combining whilst the wiry hair that masks his skin scratches and nips at yours.

“would’ve done this a long time ago if i knew it would shut you up.” he grunts, bending over you slightly so his words tickle the shell of your ear.

you’d bite back an insult if you could, but all you manage is a pathetic whimper, one that fuels his thrusts to snap more furiously.

he’s hitting that gummy part within you perfectly, the spot that twists your insides like a knife. you start to rock yourself back along the curve of his cock, meeting his hips halfway. it’s raw, the room loud with the sound of skin slapping skin. it’s filthy.

a cramp starts to form as you try to maintain a rhythm as desperate and unremitting as his. you wonder how long it’s been since he felt the warmth of a woman squeeze him; and it occurs to you that selective obedience isn’t the only thing he shares in common with a hound.

soon his hips start to falter just as you sense your peak approaching, mind growing hazier when a rough palm slips around you to fondle your breasts, gathering both of them in its paw. there’s nothing gentle about the way he tweaks your nipples, pinching and rolling them whilst he ravages you like a bone.

“shit. . .” you slur, becoming limp in his arms.

he’s struggling, too — his core engaging every muscle so that they strain against your back, cock rummaging a little messily without much manner.

soon you’re one with the mattress again, flat on your stomach and prone before him. but he never leaves you unfilled, the bed dipping beneath his weight when he mounts your backside and resumes his evil treatment of you.

“gods—” you try, though it emits in a croak or something closer to a squeak.

the head of his cock punches your summit over and over, ruining you for the next man if you can even bare to be fucked again after this, or in such a way.

the occasional deep and guttural groan slips past his lips, large body tensing above you as you start to clamp down on him like you mean to swallow him or hold him there forever.

“relax.” he hisses, fingertips landing on where you gape around his girth, rubbing the aching flesh with surprising skill. “can hardly fuckin’ move.”

“go slower.” you snap back, tears brimming as every ligament and tendon seems to seize.

so he does, not by much, but enough for the pleasure to start subsiding the pain again. then your back arches inward when it all becomes too much. his unforgiving pace; the noises he makes; the way he seeks that same region of your depths, kissing it every time like no other man has; and just from being fucked so thoroughly.

and finally it hits you, cracking down like whip. your jaws wrench open when the heat of it simmers in your veins and narrows on your cunt, thighs snapping to a close and eyes clenching shut.

he’s still going. even as you fall silent, twitching from the aftershocks, he pounds into you like it’s all about his release and nothing to do with you.

but you’re numb to it now, an exhausted little heap for him to use. you don’t even mind.

and only when you feel the warm spurting of him relieving his load over your tailbone and buttocks do you realise he’s finished with you, and muster the strength to settle onto your side, more exhausted than you were following the confrontation that landed you here in the first place.

the door creaks and you find it in you to open your eyes, weary and lidded. “where’re you going?”

"See that lord with the piggy eyes and the red doublet?" His voice is a gravel rasp against the tiny hairs on your nape.

"... What about him?" Your pulse quickens. What's he up to now, of all times?

"He's been looking at your tits for the past half-hour. The way he's sweating, he's probably thinking about putting his fat mouth on them."

The heat treacherously spreads all the way to your ears, hairline, and chest, and you pray for people to think it's the midday sun getting to you. Maybe if you faint, you'll be spared...

Your breath hitches audibly and your cheeks ignite. Another noble lady standing next to you gives you a questioning look while flapping her fan, and you shake your head with a tight smile. She turns away.

"He has no idea soft they are, does he? How they fit in one hand. How you gasp and moan when I suck on them instead."

Then again, lower, more insistent, "Aye, that's it. That pretty pink I love... Just like you go when I put my mouth on your sweet cunt."

You clench your jaw, willing the tremor that goes through you away, but it's no use. You're shivering, and he notices. He always does, like a dog that smells blood. You hear a silent groan of approval behind the droning buzz of the lordlings.

"Ah, yes, I'm sure that's very interesting, but the lord here is talking about—"

His gloved knuckle brushes over the small of your back and lower until it reaches the expanse of your rear under layers and layers of clothing. So fleeting that no one else can see, but it nearly makes you jump out of your lace slippers, his touch searing through your very bones.

You stomp on his foot. He doesn't even blink.

"What would they say if they knew? All those fine lords and ladies, if they knew how you scream up to the gods when I split your cunt open on my cock? Looking all prim and proper while my cum's still warm, trickling down your legs."

You notice Sansa Stark staring at you from across the hall, an unsure grin on her pale face. Her blue eyes shift elsewhere once they land on the Hound. You suck in a breath. Who else is looking?

"Sandor—" you let out a shaky breath, your voice a fine tremor now. Digging your manicured fingernails into the skin of your wet palms, you pray—you don't know for what.

"Shut up," he whispers into your ear, and his scarred lips nearly brush the side of your face as he shifts closer. "Last night you begged me not to stop, the little proper lady you are, bent over that oak table of yours. Bet you can still feel me inside. Bet you're wet just from that."

His words are filth, crude and obscene, and they send a bolt of pure, aching want straight to your core. You worry your lower lip between your teeth now as you feel his massive hand creep up your arse, right under the folds of your gown. He squeezes the sensitive flesh and tugs at the globe just like he does when he has you on hands and knees underneath him. Images of his calloused hands and mouth on you—grabbing your breasts, your belly, biting your bare thighs, licking your—they have your legs wobbling. Sandor grips your elbow as he continues.

"When this farce is done, you'll wait for me, door unlatched." He pauses, letting the instruction sink in. "Gonna fuck you every way I can think of. Hard and deep, the way you like it. On your feather bed. Against the window. On that soft fucking rug in front of the fire, from behind. Until you're crying on those furs and dripping with my—"

"My lady, are you unwell? You look flushed."

The voice is like a bucket of ice water over your head. Sandor's hand jerks back to his side, yanking your rumpled skirt over your behind. A young knight is looking at you with polite concern. You open your mouth, but only a dry whine comes out, so you nod vigorously like a fool. He mumbles an apology and retreats into the crowd.

"Fucking knights, always sniffing around."

He sees you spill three goblets of the good stuff trying to take it up the stairs on a tray, then the next night at dinner a whole roasted quail and all the golden potatoes made special for the queen regent. A splatter of juice at your feet, tears in your eyes, you brush by his shoulder to beg the kitchens for another.

Sandor knows the population of labourers swells and abates nearer to and further from grand events, but he wonders if they’re really so desperate they haven’t thrown you out or let king at you for all the trouble you've caused.

The tourney for the nameday of the golden princess grows nearer, amplifying the chaos behind the velvet curtains where the bluebloods can’t see. The kitchens smell perpetually of bread and meat and herbs, of sweat and toil. You hide there when you can, thinking no one will notice, that nobody can see. His eyes flit to you when he walks by or through, where you’re begging to just be made to peel potatoes or stir a great pot of sweet smelling broth.

“Please, they’re already cross with me,” you whine, soft and insistent, fingers twisted in your cream coloured skirts.

Sylvanna the old kitchen maid always takes pity, always negotiates with the stewards to let you be useful here rather than disruptive in the hall or gods forbid serving a noble. Three of her now grown children work in the keep, and you seem to have weaseled your way into her maternal old heart.

He tries to pay no mind, knows you’ll likely be gone soon after the festivities are over and therefore he doesn’t feel the need to do much more than snap at you when you bump into him and then watch your ass in those skirts move as you scurry away.

Sandor would never force a woman, but he won't keep himself from looking and lusting, of thinking of the way your voice goes high when you've gotten in trouble yet again and how it might sound when you're full of his cock, the way you might look with your dress pulled down and those sweet tits dangling in his face. He's no more than a man, and he'll honor his urges by fisting his cock to the thought of lapping at your cunt if he wants.

He finds you smeared in mud after a smattering of rain one morning, herbs tucked into the apron of your uniform, hands full of leaves, the unnecessary shit nobles need to eat their food. You're rushing, flustered again, hands making a mess of the gardens.

“They'll whip you for that,” he grunts, “looks like a rabbit's been at it.”

You look up, eyes wide with a familiar fear. It makes him sneer.

“I'm to take all the rosemary to–”

“Are you supposed to tear up the roots, too, little rabbit?”

You pause, and your mouth works for a moment. The garden bed is a mess, and half the rosemary you've got is the woody ends, the roots pulled right from the ground.

The realization dawns on you at the same moment he steps forward, and you lean back, whispering, “that's why it was so tough…”

He laughs, neither cruel nor kind. When his leather clad hand curls around the pommel of his shorter blade, your eyes widen and you fall back onto your bum as he draws the steel out.

“I didn't mean to–” you squeak, poor little rabbit. He cuts the remaining herbs and leaves the stump to grow back again, tossing the plants to the ground. You sag in relief.

“Are you simple?” He knows you aren't, he only wants to be abrasive, wants to punish the fear you felt, make you feel silly for thinking he'd cut you down over some rosemary.

He's a dog, not a monster. Though he benefits from his reputation, he isn't Gregor.

“No, I'm not- I'm sorry, I thought…” you look away, standing, mud on your skirt.

“That the castle dog would maul your pretty neck?”

“I'm not used to seeing steel!” You insist. He can't tell if you're truthful. “I was just startled is all.”

He straightens fully, towers above you, feels acutely aware of his face and his stature as he grunts, “no? That was the smaller one.”

You step around him on the soggy garden ground and, like prey, your eyes follow him from the side. He finds it both tired and endearing.

He wonders how you'd look at him should he reveal he's got no sword for you but instead a long hard cock.

“Thank you for your help,” you say quickly, before disappearing.

The next time he sees you is in the stables. Stranger has been snuffling around a ripe new mare, and now nobody but Sandor can brush him down and put him away for the night. Too rowdy, his boy. Too like his rider.

It isn't until the padlock is shut that he hears you again with your tears. Soft, weeping just behind the wall. He pauses.

“I haven't got the coin,” your voice is quiet, miserable, “they haven't paid us yet.”

The low murmur of another voice, something he can’t make out, sounds angry, pointy. He hears you sniffle loudly, hears the shuffle of feet.

The conversation peters off, until he hears you walk around the stable and back towards the keep.

Sandor steps into your path—he can be quiet when he wants.

It’s not the first time he’s startled you (he hopes not the last), and that little squeaky gasp is enough to rush blood to his cock, straining against armor, trying to get at you. Down, boy.

“What’s that you’re weeping about?” he looms, “poor little rabbit. Not enough coin?”

The immediate scrunch of your nose and the pull of your lips makes him pulsate.

“That wasn’t any of your business, Ser.”

“No?” he looks you up and down, lecherous, but not threatening. He stands still, lets you squirm, “not a Ser.”

You return the look, only your eyes are far away, sad and frightened. The anxious expression on your face doesn’t flag his cock, but it does make him curious.

“Someone hurting you?”

That makes you pause, frown. You look up at him and your eyes are more focused, yet no less distrusting.

“Want me to kill them?”

The evening air is all he can feel for a moment, trapped so in your wide eyes, little rabbit girl and the sweet smell of her hair, her wet face, eyes lashes clinging together. You don’t understand— why should he offer such a thing? A beast like him.

“Nothing so sweet as killing someone that deserves it,” he presses, “who is it? Some ugly little whelp you took for a husband? That sorry fuck hit you?”

His eyes search for marks, knowing all too well the kinds of abuses women can suffer, especially in this godsforsaken castle. The image of his brother knighted still haunts him worse than the smell of his own skin charring.

Your mouth opens, moving again—cute— and you shake your head, “no, no. I’m not married. Nobody’s hurting me.”

“Then what?” he presses, reaching out quicker than you can anticipate and cupping his huge hand to your soft cheek. Not married. He looks down at your body, wants to see it swollen, trapped by a babe.

You look up at him, sucking in a soft breath, then rush, “I just need— I need my coin from the steward, because,” you pause for a breath, “because I’m in debt. It’s stupid, it's all my fault. I just need to pay or they said they’ll burn my home down.”

Burn. That makes him freeze. Who’d threaten such a thing against you? You’re a silly, clumsy woman, what kind of trouble could you possibly be in— he isn’t naive enough anymore to believe in appearances anymore, but his gut tells him you’re as sweet as you look.

“What kind of fucking debt?”

“The— they wanted my house. But I grew up there! I was born in it, I wanted to have children there too, and who else has a house? I’m fortunate to have—” he stops you with a hand over your mouth. Littlefinger, that rodent had been buying up property, god knows for what. Sandor can picture it now, men at your door, demanding some kind of tax, punishing you until you're destitute, all for some fucking house he’s sure is smaller than Baelish’s room in the Keep.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Your eyes, impossibly wide. You bravely pull his hand away from your mouth, holding his thick fingers with yours, “no! But how? I can pay, I think, I just need my salary.”

“You think some fucking maids salary is going to satisfy that greedy bastard? I thought you said you weren’t simple.”

It takes nine days to corner that smarmy cunt and make him accept Sandor’s coin, to back down to a threat and the promise that should Littlefinger not turn his sights to another place, then who’s to stop the Hound from separating his head from that scrawny throat?

You find him in less than an hour after he leaves Baelish. You’re panting, sweating, eyes wide and in awe as you see him, “Ser!”

“Not a Ser,” he says, muscle memory.

“How did you do it?” you step close, too close. All your fear is gone, all that weight. He feels a smidge of something warm in his belly.

He tells you the truth—

You touch his armor and look up, wide eyes and sweet face, “how can I repay you?”

Sandor brings you to his preferred inn. Far, but worth the ride for its privacy. The innkeep isn’t afraid of him and the tavern girls are getting there, too. They know he’s there to drink and sleep, sometimes to bring a whore for the night. They know he won’t hurt them.

You lean back against his chest the entire way, watching as the city thins enough to relax, as the smells abate. You’d kissed his cheek and smiled when he asked to take you to bed, naive girl. He wants to marry you, but he won't say it yet. Wants to pump you full of brats and fill that empty house of yours just to see you smile again.

There’s no need for drinks, though he offers anyway— wine? Ale? You shake your head to both, insisting on seeing the room first. I’ve never been in an inn you say, like it's fancy. He supposes you’d have no need to, no extra coin to. It was stupid and brave to try and pay Littlefinger with a maids salary, now you can keep it all.

He pulls your dress down to see what he’s been waiting for for weeks, exposing your tits to the air, hunching down and bringing one to his mouth so he can suck on your tight nipple.

His mouth lavishes them, enjoys the feeling of soft skin in his mouth and the smell of your soap, the breaths form your lips.

When you see him, that angry red bobbing cock springing free from his britches, you swallow, “that— it’s way too big.”

“A maid, then?” he says against the skin of your soft breast, fingers hiking your dress up, finding the wet seam of your cunt. No underclothes. You’re soft there, too, skin and hair caressing his hand, sweet little pussy.

“No,” you shake your head, “I almost got married once. But you're much bigger than he was.”

He laughs, hitches you further up the bed by cupping your lady’s place and pulling, making you squeak. Sandor has always known he’s bigger than most, but he loves to hear it. Especially from a pretty woman, in bed with him without the promise of coin.

“I’ll lick you first,” he bunches your skirts up and pushes them up to your stomach, laying down to reach your pussy.

He’s only a man, and this is just the sweetest sight. You’re damp for him between the thighs, plush and pretty. His thumb finds the junction between your thigh and groin and presses there, fingers curling around your asscheck, as he leans forward and sniffs.

“Oh, don’t!” you cry out, bending so as to pull away.

“You’re in bed with a fucking hound,” he presses his nose to the slit of you, breathing in your sweet musk. You lay back down. Sandor puts his tongue on you, splits you with it, sliding through your folds like tasting the most decadent meal. He pushes it inside, tasting your hole, making an introduction before his cock arrives.

You keen, high, as loud as you want— who’s going to interrupt Clegane in bed? Nobody who wants to keep their head. When he comes up to suck on your swollen clit, you shout your pleasure into the air.

It’s only when he can fit four thick fingers inside you that he sits back up and presses the head of his cock to you, an angry ram battering down the door. You tense for a moment as he pushes in, holding your breath.

“You can take it,” he slides further, “feel that?”

Your pussy squeezes him, involunterarily or not, he snarls with how tight you are around him, “sweetest fucking cunt I’ve ever had. Grateful fucking cunt.”

You make a pained little sound as he pushes in another inch or so, a squeak, your pussy squeezing around him like a vice. He knows he’s a big man, shushes you by rubbing your flank like a horse, “hush, girl.”

“It’s hurting,” you complain, bottom lip pushed out, hips wiggling to try and make space, “just wait—”

“You’re almost there,” he’s not lying, there’s only half an inch or so until he’ll be buried all the way up your snug cunt, but he doesn’t want to make you suffer. No, he just needs you a little wetter, so he waits right there and swipes a tough thumb over your begging clit. You gasp, and whine again.

“San- Sandor,” your hand goes trying to grasp his wooly forearm, but you’re overwhelmed and uncoordinated, eyes glassy, fingers wiggling in the air, “stop, or I’ll come.”

“Come,” he doesn’t stop, pulls back the delicate skin covering your precious clit and presses until he feels it jump and flex against his thumb, “wet my cock.”

A comet in the sky, a star bursting open— you’re amazing to see, so open, shaking and squeezing on him, his cock sliding through the gush of your orgasm to bottom out.

“That’s a good girl,” he encourages, not letting up, sliding back out through your soaked hole and back in. He abandons your clit and instead pulls back the wet lips of your pussy so he can watch himself disappear all the better inside you.

“Look.”

You do, head coming up, unfocused eyes searching for where he's connected to you. You’re so full, he can tell by the way you’re gasping for every breath, fingers gripping your skirts now to hang onto anything, to pull them up so you can see too.

Sandor regrets not tearing the dress from your body when he could, laments that he can’t see your belly so that he can picture what it might look like swollen up with his babe. He gives the fabric you're holding the stink eye, palms itching to hold your middle as he ploughs you like a ripe field.

“How’s that big cock feel in your guts, little rabbit?” he pants, damp with sweat, the room hot. Wonders if his callouses and scars and body hair hurts your soft skin, “gonna be even more full when I give you my load.”

“Mmhn,” you lift your eyes to him, mouth wide and open, “you’ll put a babe in me.”

“Yeah?” he pumps you harder, watching himself disappear, fingers moving to your knees so he can push your legs back further, “can feel how wet you are, doesn’t sound like an issue. You want me to make you a mother?”

“Please,” you nod slowly, rocked up the mattress by his thrusts, “oh, please.”

“Pretty little rabbit,” he grunts, mouth curling into a snarl as he really starts to focus, “don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

The veins in his neck pop, throbbing in time with his cock, back aching from how frenzied he’s becoming. You begin to shout again when you can breathe, fingers clenched, pressed so against the mattress so that you can’t move. He’s going to pump you full, breed you, make you his.

“That’s right,” he snarls, “I’m going to fill you up, rabbit, you hear? Best cunt I ever felt.”

That expression— she must have been made in the image of the Mother— he’s heard it a thousand times, praise for delicate princesses full with the next heir, for the peasant girls that visit the king for him to bless their babies or swollen stomachs. He’s tuned it all out, only ever interested in spilling outside or watching the woman he’s bedded drink her contraceptive.

Sandor understands, now, looking down at you. His muscles tighten, balls drawing up to his body as he fucks you hard with the singular goal of making you withchild. Of planting himself inside you and watching you grow and grow.

He lowers his face to yours and scratches your delicate neck with his stubble, growling promises threats in your ear about the way you’ll need to depend on him after, about how he’s going to marry you after this. He watches the way your tits bounce, wants to see them leak with the evidence of this union.

His pace stays consistent even as he swipes over your clit again, demanding one more time for your surrender, waiting to come until you’ve begun to shake again, begun to cry with the sensitivity.

He pulses inside of you, pressing all his weight down for a moment, snarling like an animal as he makes a mess.

Just as you begin to push weakly at his shoulders, he sits up, gingerly pulling his cock out. You’re wide, swollen, leaking. He pushes a pillow under your hips and lays beside your exhausted body, murmuring, “they make the royal ladies do this to make sure the seed took.”

You turn to him, pressing your forehead to his hairy chest.

Richie’s ears rang and pounded, he heard his heartbeat between breaths, almost forgot how to breathe for a quick minute until he heard you storm out of the morgue, sobbing. If two messes made a stockpile of garbage, you and Richie were it. Between his constant string of curses and your ragged breathing between your sobs. 

Did you know? The weeks leading up to the funeral, that’s all you were asked. By Donna, distant cousins, random aunts, everyone who didn’t deserve to know how and why, asked. Then it became the not-so-silent whispers of gossip: “How could she not know?”, “If my husband was going through some shit I’d smell it from a mile away, she’s probably the reason”, and your favorite, “Was she pregnant? Did he just not want to deal with her?”.

“Do we really gotta go?” Mikey groaned as you rolled out of bed, it was 6 am Christmas morning and you promised Natalie you’d be there before she was so she can at least have a sense of solace. 

“Baby you never miss a Christmas” you kissed his cheeks, trying to coax him out of bed. “Maybe tonight Santa won’t be the only one coming” you obscenely joked. If one thing could get Mikey out of bed, it’d be the insinuation or act of sex. “Plus I promised Nat we’d save her from your mother”. 

“We?”.

“More like I will save her from your mom, you from Lee, Carmy from both you and your mom- I swear you would think your mom would love me by now” you interjected, “2 years together, engagement ring and all, hell maybe we should give her a grandkid”.

“Wanna try again?” Mikey looked over at your naked silhouette standing, last night's escapades made him hungry for more. 

“Let’s get over this, then we can think about adding a third” you responded honestly, “You gonna go to N.A.?” you asked, looking into his brown irises. He knew you wouldn’t judge if he said yes or no, knew his addiction wasn’t fully spiraling but you were worried nonetheless that it would. The lack of response led you to tilt your head, “One meeting please? That’s all I ask babe”. 

One meeting was a start, if you were being honest, it was mainly from the weight of the burden. You were worried you weren’t equipped mentally to handle the erratic personality of your fiancé, an erratic personality that was heightened when he was high off painkillers. 

By 8:30, you were in Donna’s home as she cooked tirelessly and chaotically. You stood with Donna in the kitchen, Mikey stood with Carmy and Richie doing whatever the fuck guys do during Christmas Day. Silently you hoped Lee would just avoid them all. 

“Did you notice any signs?” a calm voice emerged from your earshot as you drifted off into distant memories that were misconstrued into blacked out memories. “Any changes of behavior? Breaking habits, going into them? Destructive behaviors are more commonly remembered but any rapid lifestyle change can be a stress indicator”.

The sterile office with dimmed lighting began to tear you apart from your memory of his voice, his smile. The gruff of his voice, his annoying and infectious personality. 

“He would scarf down opiates and shoot heroin” you nonchalantly confessed, “He always did it when I wasn’t there— I caught him once but, Mikey was smart, he knew where to hide, when to act and lie, say the right things” you furrowed your eyebrows, “He went to therapy before we met, his therapist prescribed serotonin inhibitors— went into withdrawal when his mom went on a pill binge”.

“You mentioned he didn’t have the most supportive of familial structures growing up, do you think that in turn caused him to resort to drugs to self medicate or if he did it as a replacement for therapy?”.

It took you months to come to understand that Mikey wasn’t a horrible person. That him leaving wasn’t a betrayal to you, the people who loved him. That his action wasn’t selfish. When you broke, you were doing laundry in your shared apartment that was not stripped bare from you wanting no trace or sign of Mikey. 

You had put your dirties in the washer, not caring for color, shade, or texture, “Put the shit on cold and it all comes out the same” was what Mikey would say during wash days. Your lack of acknowledgement led you to wash Mikey’s sweater that smelt uncannily like him, like his skin, not the cologne he would put on and you would shamelessly spray on your pillow every night just to lull yourself to sleep. 

After putting your clothes into the dryer and seeing the dark navy sweater look near black from the soak of water, the once sandalwood musk was now a sterile soap.  

That night you freaked the fuck out of Natalie, out of Richie. You had locked yourself in the bathroom with a bottle of red wine and everything you hid that was Mikey’s, refusing to touch his clothes in the closet. You screamed at both of them as they got you up on your feet, knees begging you to just give up. 

“He’s gone Nat!” you croaked, Richie resting your head on his lap as he rocked you back and forth as if you were a child. You hadn’t eaten enough for you to be functioning fully, you weren’t sleeping, you were just as much a ghost as Mikey. You were breaking both of them down as they were grieving the dead and the living. 

“He resorted to drugs because it became messy— quick— it became shitty over and over again, and the pills and injections would make it bearable” you told your therapist. “He thought that the drugs would get him back from losing himself and when he felt better, he could just stop”.

“Do you think he realized that wasn’t the case?” she queried, her voice remaining calm and observant. 

“Mhm” you licked your lips, nodding as well. 

“When?”.

The Seven Fishes. 

“Jesus fucking Christ Y/n, you pregnant or something?” Donna cursed as she put the seven fishes in the oven, nursing her wine. 

You shook your head in response, wondering why the question was asked, “Then pull out a fucking glass and drink with your mother in law”. 

“Christ ma, we haven’t even made it down the aisle!” Mikey’s voice emerged, placing a kiss to your temple before whispering in your ear, “Wanna go smoke?”.

You nodded before leaning into him, “I’ll be back Don” you told Donna just as you both walked outside.

You wouldn’t let him use, but cigarettes were your mutual vice. Walking outside to the cold stricken Chicago air, seeing Natalie two steps ahead, inhaling the nicotine as if it were a saving grace.

“Everything alright Nat?” you asked, taking your own pack out as Mikey lit both of yours.

“I thought you were pregnant” Natalie avoided the question, a singular eyebrow raised. 

“You know I'm starting to think I wore the wrong dress,” you joked. 

“Suits your ass nicely babe” Mikey commented.

“Some of the nonnas were talking about a baby dream they had” Natalie gossiped, “All signs point to bear being with child”. 

“You’re going to beat me Nat” you replied, “No kids til we’re both ready. You and Pete however?”. 

“Oh hell no, way too early” she shook her head as Carmy came out of the house, automatically getting teased amongst the both of them. 

After a slight bit of tension, all four of you reentered the home, hoping this Christmas would be better than the one before, and before that, and even more before that one.  

“Now what about you? You think Stevie is gay?” Riche asked as you held your wine in the palm of your hand, Mikey’s around draped over your shoulders as you leaned into him. 

“I think he loves Michelle” you chuckled, “How’s Tiff?”.

“Nauseated as fuck but she’s resting up in D’s room” Riche answered, “Something to look forward to?”.

You rolled your eyes at the comment, tapping on Mikey’s hand to excuse yourself and help Donna clear the oven. 

“You know I never like the girls these fuckers bring but you are my favorite one yet” Donna drunkenly joked, the kitchen was scorching and musty. Dirty and chaotic but also simple and in-character. It was the complete Berzatto.

An hour passed in the kitchen which only felt like a few minutes the way Donna worked, sweat beading on your head as Natalie and Donna clashed— needing a moment to breathe, Natalie took the front, you took the bathroom. The indistinct pleas at the table as you heard the front door open and close, the sniffles of Donna as she wandered off. Mikey was causing a ruckus and from the way your body was shutting off, you didn’t want to begin to deal with it. 

“He had plans for the future—“ you cut yourself off, in trouble with your mind and thinking, “He just…” you licked your lips, tasting the salty tears you weren’t aware of, “That was 2018, he had just started the spiral down into heroin and it was a rough year for everyone”. 

“What was rough for you?”.

“I miscarried— twice. Once in January the other in August” you shrugged, “My fiancé was becoming an addict right before me, I was working insane hours to cover the bills, Mikey’s bills, his own fucking addiction at that point and, I miscarried”. 

“Did that put a strain on your relationship?”.

It put more than a strain, it put a fucking fault sized tear between you two. In retrospect, you shut him out, almost completely until one night, whilst breaking one of Donna’s crystal cups that she gave you, you gave in.

It was a cold fall night in Chicago, two days before Halloween and rest assured, the wind and city howled like no other when you made your way down to the restaurant where you knew you’d find Mikey. He never locked up until he was out of the restaurant, pleading the case that he was strong enough to defend himself if worse came to worst. Nevertheless, the bed was cold, you hated it, so you bit your pride.

“We’re closed!” Mikey’s voice shouted through the area, voice somewhat dry. 

“Knew you’d be here” you spoke up as Mikey rounded into the corner, just shy of shoulder-checking the wall. “The bed was cold so…” licking your lips and avoiding his eyes. 

“I was just about to head home baby” he softened, getting out of the kitchen area and into the dining, taking your head in his hands- warm and calloused hands that worked tirelessly just to avoid his own demons- and kissing your forehead. “Wanna see what we got back there or wanna go home?”.

“Eh I made the walk down here might as well” you shrugged.

“You walked? Baby, what did I tell you about-“.

“Thought it’d clear my mind” you shook your head, resting your hands onto his arms, “I was safe” you assured him, voice never above a whisper. Your arms investigated for any signs of tracks, your heart aching from the need of having to question the man you loved. 

There were fading bruises, old collapsed veins that never fully healed from the puncture and frequency. With enough pressure, it’d hurt him, and you could feel the rope-like texture of the tissue.

You noted the look of his eyes, his pupils weren’t blown or not responding light, they were reactive and alert, not constricted as they would be when he was on heroin, or blown as they would be when he was on opiates. With that, your heart and mind were at ease. 

He took you out back, into his office, therein sketches of plans laid on the surfaces and walls. Checks and tills, yellow legal pads that you wondered where they went months ago, scribbled notes. The inner machinations of your fiancé lay bare in front of you. 

“It’s a mess but it’s a start you know?” He breathed out as you took it in, “I really need to work on organizing my shit” he took one hand to run through his hair only for your own to beat him to it. 

“It’s an organized mess” you encouraged, if scribbles and notes would get him off drugs and fixate him elsewhere, you’d take the chance any time. “Like us”. 

“Like us” he chuckled in agreement, kissing the palm of your free hand. The silence that struck you two wasn’t strange or unnerving, it was comfortable and gentle, “We’ll get through this”. 

“It did what any miscarriage would do to a woman who wanted a child and her partner” you shrugged, “Brought us closer, tore us apart individually”. 

“You said you found a note, besides the one given to his brother, would you like to talk about it?”.

The note struck a nerve in you, a wild and agonizing nerve. Sending electric waves to your neurons and putting your body on overdrive.

“It wasn’t meant for me, it was meant for his mom” you shook your head, “I gave her it at the funeral and she ripped it immediately, I refused to read it because it could’ve been something personal that I would rather honor than violate”. 

“Did it anger you? Not receiving a note from the man you shared a life with intimately?”.

You thought back at your past self, you were glad almost that he didn’t, knowing it’d break you. “He didn’t need to write me a note, he knew I’d hurt regardless if there were instructions to cope. When he left that night he kissed me, told me he was going out and that was it”. 

“To you that was a fulfilling goodbye?”.

“No. There is no such thing” you deadpanned immediately. “35 or 53, 80 or 99, it still wouldn’t be a fulfilling goodbye, I want him here with me” you shook your head, “You can prepare all you want for death of the love of your life and it still wouldn’t be enough to mend the pain”.

“Was he the love of your life? Would you give that absolute to him?”.

“Everyday”. 

“Everyday?”.

“Everyday”.

“Oh Jesus Christ! Mike, get your ass in here now!” Donna yelled out into the house as she cooked Thanksgiving dinner. It was your first holiday with the Berzatto’s and in honor of wanting to make the best first impression to any midwestern Italian mother, you gave in and made homemade Cannolis only for Donna to give the Italy versus Sicily distinction. 

“She’s normally not like this— she’s usually well, worse” Natalie stumbled on her words lightly, afraid her mother might hear her timid voice no matter how far away she was. “But she does love cannolis don’t be alarmed, just doesn’t like outsiders, it took her months to remember Pete’s name”. 

It was Lee’s second holiday, your first, Pete’s third. 

“Hey sorry I’m late” Pete came in through the door, immediately hugging Natalie, “Well if it isn’t the D.A. we keep hearing about, I’m Pete- Nat’s boyfriend” he smiled at you. 

“Hi, I’m Y/n” you smiled back. Michael had told you all about Natalie’s boyfriend who was a lawyer for some bank company in Downtown Chicago. Always kept an open mouth just to make a snide comment towards him but you insisted Pete was and is a good guy. 

“Sug’ who’s picking Carmy up from the airport?” Michael’s voice rang through the halls, oven mitts in hand.

“I thought you were!” Natalie exclaimed in confusion. 

Sensing the tension, you reached into your jeans pocket for the keys to Michael’s car, “Baby let’s just go” you eased, looking at how frantic Natalie got. 

The drive to O’Hare wasn’t far but the traffic made it enough for Mikey to cuss out any car that cut him off. His hand rested on your upper thigh, squeezing every few minutes, waiting to spot and hail his little brother. 

“Pete seems like a cool guy” you made conversation, “Lee is a dickhead though, I don’t see what your mom sees in him”.

“Probably his dick” he shrugged, “Pete is ‘ight, whatever makes Sug’ happy”.

“More than ‘ight’, he’s smart, loves your sister, might wanna loosen up on the criticism” you defended, “My parents weren’t too welcoming of you for the unfortunately right reasons but I still love you, they don’t smack you upside the head any chance they got”.

All he did was look at you, the cold air of Chicago frosting the windows, “You make it hard to not just fuck you right here” he groaned. 

“Sex-crazed idiot I swear” you joked, pecking his lips that were overwhelmingly close and hot against your skin, “Tonight— if you manage not to cause chaos, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me”. 

“Really? Even the handcuffs?”.

“Even the handcuffs” you assured.

“What about that little Hibachi wand I got ya’?”.

“It’s Hitachi. Yes, even that” you corrected, breathing against his lips. 

Just in time for Carmy to rush into the car. “Sorry Mikey, the fucking baggage claim was a bitch, three people almost got their shit stolen” he breathed as he placed the luggage and carry on next to him in the backseat, “You must be the public defender!” Carmy mistook.

“District Attorney— well, assistant” you jokingly correctly, “Heard a lot about you Carmen”. 

“At the funeral, you had a talk with his mother, how do you feel about that?”.

You could only scoff at the memory, very few memories you had that were positive with Donna— so very few that you could count on one hand. The funeral was not one of them.

“My son blows his head off and everyone flocks to the one person who could stop him” Donna muttered under her breath as you both stepped outside.

You scoffed in disbelief and anger, “I tried Donna. I fucking tried, I urged him to get sober but that is something he had to want and do” you seethed between your teeth, “He was sick Don’, fucking sick and no one knew— I didn’t know-“.

“Bull-fucking-shit!” she spoke up, lighting another cigarette to chainsmoke, “Not my son! Whatever you think he was you are completely fucking mistaken sweetheart”.

“Really?” you urged, raising your voice.

“Really”.

“You think you’re fucking all high and mighty because your kids stay in the fucking picture even though if they truly cared for themselves other than their psycothic and unstable fucking mom they’d be out of this goddamn place” you argued, “He shot himself! On the fucking bridge Donna! He was sick, he needed help and no one fucking did. Not you, not me, not Richie, your fucking punk ass loser boyfriend”.

“Thank god you didn’t become a fucking mother, it’d make two of them” she finally seethed before returning back inside. The sentence broke you, the final blow to the already unstable relationship. 

“I felt exposed and humiliated” you confided, “Mikey’s ex-girlfriends were there, all sobbing over the casket, one gave speech”.

“Do you think they deserved that time?”.

“Selfishly I’d say no” you shrugged, “Only ones who deserved to speak were Richie and Nat— Carmy if he made it”.

“And what about you?”.

“Made him a promise, no speech. ‘Save it for the deathbed or gravesite alone’ he’d tell me whenever the idea came up” you answered.

“Do you think that was a hint?”.

“No” you shook your head, “The closest to a hint I got was a month before”. 

It was 3 am and Mikey was gone, gone from your shared apartment, Donna’s house, Richie’s place, no one has seen him or bothered to check on Donna’s behalf. You and him spent the night watching movies with the heater on full blast. 

“This fucker better be so close to dead so I won’t beat the shit out of him” Richie cursed as you unlocked the back entrance to the Beef. Your heart was pounding beneath your chest, you could hear it in your eardrum.

Michael wasn’t high, not on a trip. But he was severely broken down. That night, you saw the worst of it. The anger, the inadequacy and pain. “Baby?” you shouted as you scoured the kitchen only to find him locked in his office, head in hands to his knees, eyes bloodshot.

“Baby what’s wrong?” you asked concerningly, searching for any sign of injury, “You’re okay baby- it’s okay” you assured, kissing his forehead whilst crouched beside him.

“Yo Mik-“ Richie shouted before being greeted by the scene, “I’ll just… stay in the car I fucking guess”. 

When left alone, it’s not that Mikey didn’t want to tell the two people who meant the world to him, it was predominantly the feeling of not having the words.

“There’s syringes in the drawer” he whispered to you, gripping your hand, “I almost relapsed baby, I almost—“

“Shh, it’s okay” you whispered back, afraid even the slightest bit high would lead to this whole thing blowing out of proportion. Reaching into the drawer to grab the syringes and the baggy of painkillers, his hand stopped you by your wrist. 

“Leave the pills”. 

“No honey—“.

“Baby please” he cried out, “Please, I promise I’ll stop— I just need a little something to-“.

“You won’t get better if this is still here” you sternly said, grabbing the baggy yet again, knowing he wouldn’t fight you on it.

That is when you knew, he was giving up. 

“Do you think it was always leading up to end this way?”.

“Short answer or long answer?” you seemingly joked, really you were conflicted. This was the most you talked about it— about him.

“Humor me with both”.

“Short answer, yes. Long answer is that I think we weren’t doomed, even if this would always happen in every instance. I think people stigmatize suicidal people as they wouldn’t of done if XY-and-Z happened, that there was some greater reason. He abused drugs, never sought out formal therapy or counseling despite his best efforts, he was at war with himself at the end of the day, he was sick. Yet people want a dramatic story that’s different and less severe than the fact that he shot himself” you ranted, “I loved him, with everything I had and didn’t have. If I was him, it probably would end the same. That’s not doom or fate, it’s not seeking help, not being validated in seeking help or supported”. “That concludes our session for the evening”.

“Alright, listen up,” Richie stood next to Sydney, flicking through the piles of tickets that were ringing through by the second. It was normal now, an expected task in their routine. “We need to walk the focaccia to table seven, please.” 

“Yes, Chef!” A chorus of nearly robotic voices rose from the sizzling hiss of the lamb searing in Carmen’s pan, lifting the spatula to tip the meat over, before giving it back to the chef on the line. 

“And for table nine, we’ve got a shellfish allergy, alright? So let’s triple check the cross contamination on that. T, can you handle that one?” Richie moved from his leather bound book of notes back to the ticket. 

“Yes, Chef!” Tina chimed, pulling a freshly washed pan, filling it with the veal stock. 

“Table nine, is that- that’s the senator?” Carmen turned to Richie, tasting the roux bubbling on Victoria’s station, giving her a curt nod of approval. 

“No, that’s table eleven.” Richie hummed, looking back at his notebook. “Nine, is… a birthday. Booked online.” Carmen had already begun to drone him out, mind racing with a million other things as Richie listed the guests name. Until he got to one. 

The name Carmen was sure he was hallucinating. The name no one knew- How would they know? How could they possibly know your name? 

You and Carmen had been seeing each other for a little while. A few weeks that were slowly turning into months. A casual thing that was slowly turning more serious. Dates and meetups are becoming more frequent. You’d even invited him over to your place a few times, he’d spent the night last week. 

Still, Carmen hadn’t managed to tell anyone. Selfishly, he liked that you were all his for now. Privacy was not guaranteed in the Berzatto house, in Carmen’s life still. He knew they meant well, they always did- he knew it wasn’t purposeful, the intrusion that almost always led to a demise. Carmen wasn’t ready for it, not yet, he still wanted you all to himself. 

“Carmen?” Sydney’s voice pulled him out of his panicked trance. “Chef, are you- are you good?” Her voice lilted with that familiar suspicious quip, the one always accompanied with her lifted brows. 

“What?” Carmen blinked, hands buzzing, heart thumping. He could see the window, Richie’s frame blocking most of it. “Sorry, yeah- yeah, I’m good, Chef.” 

Sydney watched him carefully, a slow nod before she continued calling out orders. Carmen could feel Richie’s eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity. Carmen tried to be nonchalant, crossing the kitchen back towards Tina, his eyes cutting carefully, looking out the window. 

There you were. 

Sitting pretty at the middle table, surrounded by friends, some Carmen recognized from your Instagram. He’d actually logged in to the app, looked you up after the first date, consumed every photo of yours in the dark of his room. Cheeks burning with excited heat, stomach fluttering in a way he hadn’t felt since junior high. 

“Alright, walk five salads to nine.” Sydney called out. “Where’s our runners? God, Richie, can you run-” 

“-I got it.” Carmen called, the urgency in his tone making Tina jump behind him. Carmen took the tray before Gary could, his hands shaking as he lifted it. 

“Cousin, I can get it.” Richie frowned. 

“No, I-I got it.” Carmen nodded, swallowing down his fluttering nerves. His eyes cut to your table through the window, heart skipping when he saw you. “I got it. I’ll be- I’ll just be a second.” 

“I don’t- I can’t even handle that one right now.” Sydney sighed in exasperation. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s get back on track.” She announced, shaking her head. Richie frowned, pulling out his phone. 

Sugar’s cell buzzed against the hostess stand, excusing herself to check it. 

From: Richie 

‘Look at table nine.’ 

Sugar huffed. 

To: Richie 

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ 

She stepped back, casually turning to scan the room, eyes landing on the table. A small group of girls, younger, and amongst them- Carmen? 

To: Richie 

‘Is something wrong with the food? Do I need to comp it?’ 

From: Richie 

‘No. Cousin wanted to go out there.’ 

Sugar frowned, angling her body behind the large plant near the front as casually as she could. She watched through the leaves as Carmen passed out the salads, each girl grinning widely, but their eyes always cut to one on the end. 

Carmen saved your salad for last, hoping the lowlights of the restaurant would hide his boyish blush, setting the bowl in front of you carefully. “Hey,” 

“Hi,” You smiled sheepishly, looking to meet his gaze. “Everything looks so good.” 

“Yeah? Thanks.” Carmen nodded. “I-I didn’t know you were comin’ tonight.” 

“I’m sorry.” You cringed softly, embarrassed heat flooding through your veins. You knew better, knew you shouldn’t have done this- showed up at his restaurant unannounced. 

“I, uh, it’s my friend’s birthday.” You nodded towards Alicia at the end of the table. “And I was telling them about that pasta you made me, and they really wanted to come try it.” Your nerves bubbled, rambling in nervous peals that seemed to pour out before you could stop them.  

“Yeah, no, that’s really nice. Thank you.” Carmen nodded, giving a half smile to your friends, hoping they didn’t see the way he wiped his clammy hands on his apron. “Why didn’t- Why didn’t you just call me? Tell me you were comin’ in.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You muttered softly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d even see us here, I swear. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything-” 

“-You’re not bothering me.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a coo, accompanied with a soft smile that had your head spinning. “Never a bother, but, uh, next time? Bother me, ok? Wanna make sure you get the best seat in the house.” 

Your cheeks flushed with heat, your friends excited giggles only intensifying the rushing heat blanketing over your body. Carmen’s own cheeks heated, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. 

“Alright?” Carmen added, and in a complete act of shocking boldness, his hand squeezed your shoulder affectionately. A small gesture on the outside, but for Carmen, it was huge. 

“Alright.” You grinned, leaning into his touch, your hands sliding over his. 

“How’s everything so far?” Carmen turned to the table, nodding at the excited gushes of compliments, not missing the way your friends cut their eyes to you with animated glee. 

“Just let me know if you need anything, ok?” Carmen turned to you.

“I will.” You nodded, starry eyed with love sick affection. 

“Good. I’ll see you before you leave, alright?” Carmen muttered, ducking down towards you. His lips brushed over your cheek, your perfume clouding his senses. “You’re not botherin’ me. ‘M glad you’re here.” 

Your cheek pressed to his, a gentle, affectionate rub before Carmen parted. Both of your features painted with shy delight. 

Carmen could feel everyone’s eyes, through flickering gazes and lifted brows. Sydney’s gaze lingering over him skeptically, still counting tickets. Fak’s wide grin from the corner, loading trays to take out. 

“Hey, uh, Marcus.” Carmen ignored Richie’s raised brows, a teasing, questioning remark on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yes, Chef?” Marcus muttered, looking up from the cannolis he was garnishing. 

“Table nine has a birthday. I was thinkin’ maybe the chocolate ganache, punch it with the little circle to make it look like a cake. Add a candle?” Carmen muttered, hand rubbing across his face. 

“Yeah, Chef, I can do that.” Marcus nodded. 

“Thank you.” Carmen nodded. “And Chef? Let me know when it’s ready before you walk it.” 

Marcus frowned. “No, it’s not- I just wanna walk it, ok?” Carmen shook his head. 

“Alright.” Marcus nodded slowly. “Heard, Chef.” 

Richie smirked, leaning against the stainless steel table. “So,” Richie hummed. “There a complaint or somethin’? Need me to go talk to ‘em-” 

“-No,” Carmen snapped, the possessiveness in his tone startling the both of them. “Sorry, it’s- No, I-I don’t need you to do that, Chef. Everything’s good.” 

Richie nodded slowly, passing the dishes to Gary with a nod. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” 

“No, Chef.” Carmen clipped, an edge to his tone that was teetering on annoyed. “But, uh, there’s not gonna be a check on table nine.” 

“What?” Richie frowned. “Did you mess somethin’ up? Seriously, Cousin, if something's wrong it’s my job to know-” 

“-No, it’s not-.” Carmen huffed, eyes pinching closed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Look, that’s… The girl on the end? I-I’ve been kinda seein’ her, ya know?” He muttered. 

Richie gawked, blinking in disbelief. “No shit.” He grinned. “No shit? You-You’re serious?” He turned to look out the window. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look.” Carmen hissed. “Look, it-it’s not a big deal, alright? Just don’t-don’t say anything o-or do anything.” 

Richie swallowed back a teasing remark, a reactive reaction from years of being with Mikey. How the two of them used to tease Carmen endlessly, until they were fighting on the front lawn, Mikey howling with laughter while Carmen was red faced with mortified anger. 

This time, Richie held back. He wasn’t sure why, call it divine intervention, a gut feeling maybe, but it felt different this time. 

“Alright.” Richie nodded slowly. “No ticket for nine. Heard.” 

Carmen’s foot tapped anxiously. “I mean, right? Th-That’s what I should do right?” Carmen looked over his shoulder out the window. “That would be shitty to give her a check? Be a complete jagoff move to charge her?” 

“Yeah,” Richie scoffed lightly. “Jagoff of the fuckin’ year. Makin’ your girl pay to come to your place.” 

Carmen’s heart swelled at the term- your girl. His girl. You were his girl. 

“Walk four Pappardelle to nine. Walk one Pappardelle vegetarian style to nine.” Sydney called. 

Carmen dipped the spoon in the glaze, garnishing the plate before sliding it towards Sydney. “So, you gonna take these out?” He muttered. 

“No,” Carmen huffed. “Gonna wait until the cake.” 

“Yeah, good idea, Cousin.” Richie nodded with a proud smile. “That when you’re gonna tell them no check tonight?” 

“No,” Carmen shook his head. “I don’t- It would feel weird comin’ from me.” He looked up at Richie. “I was gonna let you do it.” 

“Yeah, I can handle that.” Richie smirked. “And I won’t say anything, Cousin.” He stopped Carmen before he could say it. “I got you, Cousin. I won’t fuck it up, alright?” 

“Alright, listen up,” Richie stood next to Sydney, flicking through the piles of tickets that were ringing through by the second. It was normal now, an expected task in their routine. “We need to walk the focaccia to table seven, please.” 

“Yes, Chef!” A chorus of nearly robotic voices rose from the sizzling hiss of the lamb searing in Carmen’s pan, lifting the spatula to tip the meat over, before giving it back to the chef on the line. 

“And for table nine, we’ve got a shellfish allergy, alright? So let’s triple check the cross contamination on that. T, can you handle that one?” Richie moved from his leather bound book of notes back to the ticket. 

“Yes, Chef!” Tina chimed, pulling a freshly washed pan, filling it with the veal stock. 

“Table nine, is that- that’s the senator?” Carmen turned to Richie, tasting the roux bubbling on Victoria’s station, giving her a curt nod of approval. 

“No, that’s table eleven.” Richie hummed, looking back at his notebook. “Nine, is… a birthday. Booked online.” Carmen had already begun to drone him out, mind racing with a million other things as Richie listed the guests name. Until he got to one. 

The name Carmen was sure he was hallucinating. The name no one knew- How would they know? How could they possibly know your name? 

You and Carmen had been seeing each other for a little while. A few weeks that were slowly turning into months. A casual thing that was slowly turning more serious. Dates and meetups are becoming more frequent. You’d even invited him over to your place a few times, he’d spent the night last week. 

Still, Carmen hadn’t managed to tell anyone. Selfishly, he liked that you were all his for now. Privacy was not guaranteed in the Berzatto house, in Carmen’s life still. He knew they meant well, they always did- he knew it wasn’t purposeful, the intrusion that almost always led to a demise. Carmen wasn’t ready for it, not yet, he still wanted you all to himself. 

“Carmen?” Sydney’s voice pulled him out of his panicked trance. “Chef, are you- are you good?” Her voice lilted with that familiar suspicious quip, the one always accompanied with her lifted brows. 

“What?” Carmen blinked, hands buzzing, heart thumping. He could see the window, Richie’s frame blocking most of it. “Sorry, yeah- yeah, I’m good, Chef.” 

Sydney watched him carefully, a slow nod before she continued calling out orders. Carmen could feel Richie’s eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity. Carmen tried to be nonchalant, crossing the kitchen back towards Tina, his eyes cutting carefully, looking out the window. 

There you were. 

Sitting pretty at the middle table, surrounded by friends, some Carmen recognized from your Instagram. He’d actually logged in to the app, looked you up after the first date, consumed every photo of yours in the dark of his room. Cheeks burning with excited heat, stomach fluttering in a way he hadn’t felt since junior high. 

“Alright, walk five salads to nine.” Sydney called out. “Where’s our runners? God, Richie, can you run-” 

“-I got it.” Carmen called, the urgency in his tone making Tina jump behind him. Carmen took the tray before Gary could, his hands shaking as he lifted it. 

“Cousin, I can get it.” Richie frowned. 

“No, I-I got it.” Carmen nodded, swallowing down his fluttering nerves. His eyes cut to your table through the window, heart skipping when he saw you. “I got it. I’ll be- I’ll just be a second.” 

“I don’t- I can’t even handle that one right now.” Sydney sighed in exasperation. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s get back on track.” She announced, shaking her head. Richie frowned, pulling out his phone. 

Sugar’s cell buzzed against the hostess stand, excusing herself to check it. 

From: Richie 

‘Look at table nine.’ 

Sugar huffed. 

To: Richie 

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ 

She stepped back, casually turning to scan the room, eyes landing on the table. A small group of girls, younger, and amongst them- Carmen? 

To: Richie 

‘Is something wrong with the food? Do I need to comp it?’ 

From: Richie 

‘No. Cousin wanted to go out there.’ 

Sugar frowned, angling her body behind the large plant near the front as casually as she could. She watched through the leaves as Carmen passed out the salads, each girl grinning widely, but their eyes always cut to one on the end. 

Carmen saved your salad for last, hoping the lowlights of the restaurant would hide his boyish blush, setting the bowl in front of you carefully. “Hey,” 

“Hi,” You smiled sheepishly, looking to meet his gaze. “Everything looks so good.” 

“Yeah? Thanks.” Carmen nodded. “I-I didn’t know you were comin’ tonight.” 

“I’m sorry.” You cringed softly, embarrassed heat flooding through your veins. You knew better, knew you shouldn’t have done this- showed up at his restaurant unannounced. 

“I, uh, it’s my friend’s birthday.” You nodded towards Alicia at the end of the table. “And I was telling them about that pasta you made me, and they really wanted to come try it.” Your nerves bubbled, rambling in nervous peals that seemed to pour out before you could stop them.  

“Yeah, no, that’s really nice. Thank you.” Carmen nodded, giving a half smile to your friends, hoping they didn’t see the way he wiped his clammy hands on his apron. “Why didn’t- Why didn’t you just call me? Tell me you were comin’ in.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You muttered softly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d even see us here, I swear. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything-” 

“-You’re not bothering me.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a coo, accompanied with a soft smile that had your head spinning. “Never a bother, but, uh, next time? Bother me, ok? Wanna make sure you get the best seat in the house.” 

Your cheeks flushed with heat, your friends excited giggles only intensifying the rushing heat blanketing over your body. Carmen’s own cheeks heated, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. 

“Alright?” Carmen added, and in a complete act of shocking boldness, his hand squeezed your shoulder affectionately. A small gesture on the outside, but for Carmen, it was huge. 

“Alright.” You grinned, leaning into his touch, your hands sliding over his. 

“How’s everything so far?” Carmen turned to the table, nodding at the excited gushes of compliments, not missing the way your friends cut their eyes to you with animated glee. 

“Just let me know if you need anything, ok?” Carmen turned to you.

“I will.” You nodded, starry eyed with love sick affection. 

“Good. I’ll see you before you leave, alright?” Carmen muttered, ducking down towards you. His lips brushed over your cheek, your perfume clouding his senses. “You’re not botherin’ me. ‘M glad you’re here.” 

Your cheek pressed to his, a gentle, affectionate rub before Carmen parted. Both of your features painted with shy delight. 

Carmen could feel everyone’s eyes, through flickering gazes and lifted brows. Sydney’s gaze lingering over him skeptically, still counting tickets. Fak’s wide grin from the corner, loading trays to take out. 

“Hey, uh, Marcus.” Carmen ignored Richie’s raised brows, a teasing, questioning remark on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yes, Chef?” Marcus muttered, looking up from the cannolis he was garnishing. 

“Table nine has a birthday. I was thinkin’ maybe the chocolate ganache, punch it with the little circle to make it look like a cake. Add a candle?” Carmen muttered, hand rubbing across his face. 

“Yeah, Chef, I can do that.” Marcus nodded. 

“Thank you.” Carmen nodded. “And Chef? Let me know when it’s ready before you walk it.” 

Marcus frowned. “No, it’s not- I just wanna walk it, ok?” Carmen shook his head. 

“Alright.” Marcus nodded slowly. “Heard, Chef.” 

Richie smirked, leaning against the stainless steel table. “So,” Richie hummed. “There a complaint or somethin’? Need me to go talk to ‘em-” 

“-No,” Carmen snapped, the possessiveness in his tone startling the both of them. “Sorry, it’s- No, I-I don’t need you to do that, Chef. Everything’s good.” 

Richie nodded slowly, passing the dishes to Gary with a nod. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” 

“No, Chef.” Carmen clipped, an edge to his tone that was teetering on annoyed. “But, uh, there’s not gonna be a check on table nine.” 

“What?” Richie frowned. “Did you mess somethin’ up? Seriously, Cousin, if something's wrong it’s my job to know-” 

“-No, it’s not-.” Carmen huffed, eyes pinching closed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Look, that’s… The girl on the end? I-I’ve been kinda seein’ her, ya know?” He muttered. 

Richie gawked, blinking in disbelief. “No shit.” He grinned. “No shit? You-You’re serious?” He turned to look out the window. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look.” Carmen hissed. “Look, it-it’s not a big deal, alright? Just don’t-don’t say anything o-or do anything.” 

Richie swallowed back a teasing remark, a reactive reaction from years of being with Mikey. How the two of them used to tease Carmen endlessly, until they were fighting on the front lawn, Mikey howling with laughter while Carmen was red faced with mortified anger. 

This time, Richie held back. He wasn’t sure why, call it divine intervention, a gut feeling maybe, but it felt different this time. 

“Alright.” Richie nodded slowly. “No ticket for nine. Heard.” 

Carmen’s foot tapped anxiously. “I mean, right? Th-That’s what I should do right?” Carmen looked over his shoulder out the window. “That would be shitty to give her a check? Be a complete jagoff move to charge her?” 

“Yeah,” Richie scoffed lightly. “Jagoff of the fuckin’ year. Makin’ your girl pay to come to your place.” 

Carmen’s heart swelled at the term- your girl. His girl. You were his girl. 

“Walk four Pappardelle to nine. Walk one Pappardelle vegetarian style to nine.” Sydney called. 

Carmen dipped the spoon in the glaze, garnishing the plate before sliding it towards Sydney. “So, you gonna take these out?” He muttered. 

“No,” Carmen huffed. “Gonna wait until the cake.” 

“Yeah, good idea, Cousin.” Richie nodded with a proud smile. “That when you’re gonna tell them no check tonight?” 

“No,” Carmen shook his head. “I don’t- It would feel weird comin’ from me.” He looked up at Richie. “I was gonna let you do it.” 

“Yeah, I can handle that.” Richie smirked. “And I won’t say anything, Cousin.” He stopped Carmen before he could say it. “I got you, Cousin. I won’t fuck it up, alright?”