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idcwhattheuseris · 1 month ago

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OMGOMGOMGONGONG STOP THIS WAS SO AMAZING I NEED MORE OF THEM

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

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idcwhattheuseris · 1 month ago

Text

let me do this for you

You're having a bad week, and Carmy notices.

5k words

Carmy x female reader, the beef era, I have no real knowledge of how a restaurant works lol, original character towards the middle ish with Jensen Ackles in mind, Richie being Richie, Carmy gets jealous and over thinks.

Walking into The Beef with noise-canceling headphones and the usual scowl on your face wasn’t what alarmed Carmy. It wasn’t the lack of greetings or eye contact. That was normal. You usually only spoke to the others when you got to your station and got situated for service. It was the look in your eyes. It was blank. Almost empty.

“Ay-yo, Sebastian! You owe me five bucks!” Richie yelled from the front of the house. You two were friends. Great friends. Carmy always wondered how that started, and why you guys call each other different names almost daily. Today, you were Sebastian. What are you going to call Richie today? Yesterday, he was Vanessa.

Carmy could hear Fak from the dining area warn Richie.

“Dude? Didn’t you learn from last time?” He said, peeking through the window.

You came in last week, and Fak and Richie started bombarding you with questions about which one of them would win Survivor. Carmy could still picture the look on your face as they yelled in your ears. Deadpan and irritated, you said,

“If the both of you don’t get out of my fucking face in two seconds, I’m shoving my knife so far up your asses you’re gonna taste the metal in your fucking mouths.”

Carmy laughed to himself but quickly stopped when you turned to him and glared. Tina had to come in and set everybody straight.

“For what?” You were putting things into your locker.

Richie gave Fak one of those looks,

“The game! Your fucking loser Giants lost!”

Carmy found out that you were from San Francisco when you got a notification on your phone from the SF Chronicles.

He was impressed that you had a subscription to a newspaper.

He stalked your Instagram when he came back from New York after Mikey.

“You know what, Rebecca? I’m gonna keep my five dollars 'cause I never agreed to that fuckin' bet in the first place.”

Rebecca. Richie laughed, stormed into the kitchen, leaned on the counter, and started yapping.

“Okay, Chef’s! We’re opening in 15. Syd- Brigade, remember? Tina, I need you on vegetable prep. Ebra, you’re on meat. Marcus, I can’t have dry bread again, please. Cousin, get back to your station. Jesus. Umm, Y/N, can you come to my office real quick?”

The cooks made it feel like you were headed to the principal's office. Carmy sits in his stained office chair and runs a hand through his hair.

“I noticed you’ve been a bit slower on dinner service.” He’s fidgeting with the cord on the phone. You’re standing in front of him, all your weight on your left hip.

“Sorry, Chef. Won’t happen again.” You said. There was a slight tone he picked up. Tired or annoyed. He couldn’t tell.

“You okay?” He cares for all his employees. Carmy knows late nights and early mornings in a restaurant better than anyone.

“I’m good, Chef. Thanks. I’ll pick up the pace.” You say as you’re already out of the office.

Richie was outside eavesdropping the whole time,

“Cousin, you never personally ask me if I’m okay.” He pouts.

“Shut up, get back to work,” he said, walking past him.

Syd’s station was already prepped and was doing rounds. You sighed, already knowing what she was gonna say.

“Y/N, your sauce was good yesterday, but had too much salt.”

Technically, you’re not in charge of sauce. At your last job, you were just a regular line cook. Ever since Carmy started running things, he’s been on everyone’s asses on stations and positions. Syd is enforcing that even harder now that she’s sous chef.

“Heard, Chef.” You’d fight it like any other cook in the business most of the time, defending your cooking like it was your dying breath, but today, you didn’t. Something was wrong.

If Richie and Carmy weren’t yelling across the room, you and Richie would be going at it. If it wasn’t Richie you were fighting, it was Ebra (most of the time, it's you making fun of him for being old). Sometimes, when Fak was there, you gave him shit. You being this quiet was worrisome for everyone.

“Mama, you been gettin’ enough sleep?” Tina worried.

You took a deep breath, trying not to burst into flames at her asking you.

“Yeah, I’m good. Tina, I promise.” You smiled.

Breakfast service wasn’t typically bad or hard to get through. Unless it was busier than usual, you just couldn’t get it together. Bumping into Ebra twice, almost knocking one of the pans off the stove.

“Sebastian! I needed those fries for #12 like yesterday!” Richie yelled.

“Y/N, fire two more beefs.”

“I need the sauce for #9.”

“Behind!”

Working in a restaurant is chaotic. Everyone knew that.

“Y/N! These aren’t cooked, what the fuck are you doing?!” Richie’s voice was starting to get on your nerves.

You open the door to the walk-in, not listening to the noise and the constant calling of your name.

A clash vibrated through the building, and Carmy was trying to take a backseat, preparing deliveries and orders for the week.

The stock spilled all over the walk-in, and you were soaked.

“Jesus fucking christ.” You said defeated.

You’re standing there covered in beef stock and pieces of onion skin stuck to your cheek. Richie was laughing and trying to get a picture when Syd yelled for everyone to return to work and scrambled to get their orders done. Marcus was trying to help you out of the walk-in without slipping, and Tina was getting paper towels,

“Y/N, you good?” Everyone is asking you, laughing, and making jokes.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP PLEASE! I CAN CLEAN IT UP MYSELF.”

“Get back to work, Chefs,” Carmy intervened.

“I got it, Chef, get yourself cleaned up.”

You just walked straight out to the back and crouched with your hands over your face, trying to keep yourself from crying. Smelling like onions and celery, you pulled a half-soaked cigarette from your pocket.

“Y/N. If you need a day off- take it,” He crouches beside you, offering a fresh cig from his pack.

“I don’t need a day off,” you said, taking the nasty habit you picked up from Mikey to your lips. Carmy lighting it up for you.

“You’re struggling today, we can see it. We all have bad days, chef.”

“Try bad week,” You laugh.

Carmy knows bad weeks. Bad months. Bad years. He starts getting flashbacks to his French Laundry days. The late nights and overbearing white kitchen haunt him at this very moment.

“Talk to me,” Carmy said softly.

You take a deep breath and chuckle,

“My car is in the shop and won’t be fixed until two weeks from now. My apartment is infested with roaches, my shower isn’t draining correctly, my plants are dying, I haven’t had a meal that has any nutritional value in days, I can’t sleep, I’m overstimulated and annoyed all the time, and the only thing getting me through the day is just being here at The Beef. Still, I can’t even get anything right here either. I literally smell like beef, and I’m yapping to my boss like a baby.”

Carmy is staring at his shoe, taking in all the information you dumped on him. There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“How are you?” You asked, gazing up at the clear Chicago sky, desperately trying to get rid of the awkwardness.

Carmy doesn’t remember the last time he’s been asked that with a genuine intention of knowing how he’s doing. You knew exactly what he was going through; everybody did. It’s hard not to know.

“Well, service just started, and we’re already behind. N-not because of you or anything.” He nervously tried to backtrack.

“Our shipment of meat was delayed, so the beef we have is all we have for two days-” “Not about The Beef. How are you doing?” You’re looking at him now—same tired, sad look as when you came in.

“Me?” Why'd he say that, he thought to himself.

“Mhmm,” taking a drag from your cigarette. “I’m hanging on. Sugar wants me to go to this AA thing.”

“I miss Nat,”

He forgot that you’ve been at The Beef longer than he has. He forgets that you knew Mikey better than he did.

“We should get back,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants as he got up.

The rest of your shift went as smoothly as it could. Mr. Bishop (your favorite regular) came in looking for you, got his usual number 6 and coffee, and sat in his favorite booth. There was no more knocking over pots, and you managed to get all your prep done for tomorrow, too.

Syd and Tina gave you a pep talk afterward, saying that tomorrow will be better. Ebra gave you one of those hugs only a loving father can give. Richie offered to give you a ride home despite his license being suspended, and Marcus gave you a brownie.

Before you left for the day, Carmy walked out of the office and leaned on the door frame.

“Let me give you a ride.” It wasn’t even 10 pm, and trains were still running.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Carmy said seriously. “Heard.” You whispered.

You waited for him to get his jacket and lock up. Then, you followed him to his car a block away from the restaurant. His car was old, like, no leather seats, and old-school console type of old. You quickly typed in your address into his beat-up phone and just coasted in the silence.

“This isn’t the way to my place, Carm.” You frantically shift in the passenger seat. You’re at a Target parking lot.

“I know, I just need to get a few things.”

The fluorescent lights were blinding you. He took a shopping cart, and you reluctantly followed him around the store.

The cart squeaked through the relatively quiet store, and when you reached the aisle where they sell shower drains, the radio played 2000s pop songs.

He picks one up without a word, and you don’t question it. Exhausted and dissociating. He aimlessly walks to the pest aisle and grabs a bottle of roach spray.

He grabs laundry detergent and a pack of boxers for himself. You wander into the frozen pizza aisle and grab one for yourself, and he gets a pack of beer. It feels so domestic, like you’ve both done this together before. You pay for the pizza, and he pays for everything else.

“I wanna fix your apartment, if that’s okay with you?” he says, putting the stuff into the trunk.

“You really don’t have to, Carmy.” Protesting in exhaustion.

“I want to.” He wants to fix your apartment for you.

The drive to your apartment wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful. You’ve never been alone with him for more than five minutes, so this should be weird.

You take the elevator to your floor and walk a short distance to your door. A welcome mat is in front of the unit, and the dead plants are just sitting out.

“Make yourself at home, I guess,” you said, taking off your jacket and shoes. Carmy did the same and left his Birkenstocks by the door.

“This is a great place.” You had a red thrifted couch and a big fluffy rug. Pictures of you and your friends were on the wall. A shelf covered with books and more pictures. He noticed you didn’t have a suspicious number of cookbooks like he does. Instead, it’s Penguin Classics with Post-it notes tagged throughout. Sci-fi books, fantasy, romance, and non-fiction were also on your shelf. Anthony Bourdain had his dedicated shelf (I guess those count as cookbooks).

You had a record player and stacks of vinyl records on the floor. Your kitchen was a lot nicer than his. You had a good coffee maker but an old toaster.

He’s sitting at the island counter while you’re in your room. He can see the posters from where he’s sitting and the mirror in the corner of your room reflecting you taking off your chef's coat. He reminds himself that he’s being a creep.

“I appreciate you doing this, Carm. Saved me a phone call with my landlord.”

“You’d do the same for me,” he replied.

You pop your head through the door and furrow your eyebrows,

“Really?” you laugh. It's the first time you laughed, he notes.

You grab him a cup of water, tie your hair in a bun, and beeline to the record player.

“Guests can pick the music,” you gesture to the albums, and he runs a hand over his face nervously. Carmy gets up from his seat and over to you, sits on the floor, and looks through your collection.

“Why do I feel like this is a test?” He chuckles.

“Because it is,” You said while putting the previous record away.

His calloused fingers run through the aged vinyl slips and pick out Fleetwood Mac.

“Good choice.”

Carmy silently watched as you, put the plaque on the turntable and gently put the needle onto the grooves. The song began to play.

“I didn’t know you collected.” He said.

“Yeah, I started when I was in middle school. It was a pain in the ass getting them here.”

Right. You’re from California.

“Why’d you move out here?” He asks.

“Umm. I’m not really close with my family anymore, and I have friends that go to school here. I mean, I love San Francisco, but I felt like I had some growing up to do. You know,” You said getting up from the floor.

You’re rummaging through the Target bag, grabbing the frozen pizza, and prepping the oven.

It’s funny, you’re chefs but don’t always eat the most extraordinary things.

Carmy is just watching you, watching you in your home. He starts to second-guess why he’s there in the first place. He’s beginning to wonder why you haven’t been mean to him.

“I’ll get started on that drain,” he said, getting up from the rug.

You nod your head and just scramble a few plates together.

Your bathroom had candles and orange shower curtains. There was a pumpkin-shaped bath mat, and it smelled exactly like how he imagined it to smell. Your shampoo—the one he’d been smelling for the past few months, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. Apple and Honey. He took mental note of it.

He pulled back the curtain to see the shower, which had dried eucalyptus leaves hanging from the head. Your body wash was on the floor, and there was a pool of water.

He knelt on the floor, put the drain tool down the drain, and started moving it. It was a lot harder than he thought.

You stood by the door frame, watching him try to unclog your shower. You could have done it yourself, but you wouldn’t have refused free service.

You never noticed how long Carmy’s hair was getting or how his tattoos shifted when he moved his arms. His white signature T-shirt was riding up a little bit.

“You doin’ alright?” You finally asked.

“Yup- I think I got most of it.” He grunted.

He could hear you laughing at him. Now that he thinks about it, this is weird. He’s your boss. This is something a boyfriend should do, or a boy-friend—aka Richie or Fak or even Marcus. The two of you aren’t friends.

The two of you can hear the water finally slosh its way through the drain,

“I think it should be good now.” He wipes sweat off his face onto his shoulder.

“Good, great! Thank you, Carm.” You pat his back hesitantly.

It was nearing midnight. You and Carm are sitting on the red couch. You decided to open a bottle of wine, and an album that Carmy had never heard of was on.

“You’ve been working for The Beef for four years now?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You sip your wine and nod your head,

“Yeah, I moved here right after I graduated college. Saw a help wanted sign and applied.”

He gave you a look like he was trying to imagine you four years ago. He wanted to ask you what it was like working with Mikey. There was something in him that he didn’t want to know.

“How’d you and Richie become friends?”

“You think me and Richie are friends?” you laugh. Not thinking that Carmy was serious,

“Ummm, I don’t know. He’s funny, and he makes me laugh. I used to babysit when he and Tiff were still together.” Carmy nods twice.

You wanted to ask him to stay over, but it was almost one in the morning. You didn’t.

“Shit, I should go.” Carmy looked at his phone. Realizing he’s overstayed his welcome.

He put his glass and plate in the sink. (That was very considerate of him.) He then slipped his jacket on, and as he was putting on his shoes, you gave him a hug.

Carmen is frozen. His breathing stops, and without even knowing, he puts his arms around your waist. He doesn’t even remember the last time he hugged someone. Your breathing syncs, and you can feel his heartbeat,

“Thank you, Carmen. I mean it.” You whisper.

What is going on? His head isn’t even thinking anymore; he’s only focusing on that you’re hugging him right now. It feels like a lifetime. He’s engulfed in your scent and the warmth of your hands, making him dizzy.

“Anytime, Chef.”

He leaves.

When Carmy got to his apartment, it was cold—unlike yours. It was bare and colorless. He plops onto his bed and replays the night over and over again until he falls asleep at the thought of you.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

The next morning, he woke up later than he would’ve wanted. Quickly hopping into the shower, got dressed and jogged to his car. He got a whiff of your shampoo on his jacket and in his car.

What the fuck, Carmy? She’s your employee. He thought.

When he got to The Beef, you were already there. Headphones on, tapping your foot to whatever you were listening to.

“Carmy! I was able to get hold of another shipment; it should be here in an hour.” Syd cheerily said.

The chef quickly nods as he washes his hands,

“Yeah, that’s great, Syd. Umm, breakfast service starts in 30 is everyone good?”

Syd tells him that Marcus’s bread mixer isn’t working again, and Ebra will be late. Angel and Manny will also be late, and Tina has to redo her onion prep because Richie knocked it over in the walk-in.

Carmy can feel his blood pressure rising,

“What about Y/N?” He unconsciously asks.

Syd’s eyes grow wide, kind of shocked even to hear your name come out of his mouth,

“Yeah, she’s good. She has everything ready to go. She can take over Ebra’s station till he gets back.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Carmy insisted.

Syd’s following him around the kitchen like a sick puppy,

“I’ll do family, too.” He added.

A million thoughts are running through Sydney’s mind, but she doesn’t question it.

You were feeling a hundred times better than you did yesterday. You could finally shower without having a pool of cloudy, murky water up to your calves, and you haven’t seen roaches crawl up your sink. The car shop called to say they could get your car done on the weekend, and you had a good breakfast. Your bad week is officially looking up. All because your boss came over and sorted it out for you.

“Hey-” Carmy tapped your shoulders and pointed to your headphones.

“Oh- right! Sorry.” You could swear there was a smile on his face just then.

“Uh, whatcha listen’ to?” Small talk- great, Carmy was making small talk. This was basically flirting to him. Small talk with anyone who had nothing to do with food was his horrible attempt at flirting.

“Beyonce.” Carmy was expecting some obscure band he’s never heard of, hoping he could ask you about it and talk more. Ask you if you want to go to the local record store and browse. Ask you if he could come over again.

Shut the fuck up, Carmen.

“Cousin! Get this- so I was driving, right?” Richie bursts through the kitchen doors.

“Isn’t your license like expired?” You question.

“Suspended, but that’s not the point. I fuckin’ saw -fuckin’ Cousin Stanley! He was walking, and I rolled down my window, called him while I was fuckin’ floorin’ it. Heh- he finally saw me, he’s fuckin’ bald as shit now, Carm.” Richie rambled.

Carmy doesn’t remember cousin Stanley. He doesn’t know why Richie is even telling this story. He’s looking at him through his brows.

“Ew! Cousin Stanley’s bald?!” You exclaimed.

Of course, you know who fucking Cousin Stanley is, and he doesn’t. Carmy walks away as the two of you continue talking shit about this cousin he can’t place. It doesn’t sit right with him now; you know so much of his life because of Mikey.

The ballbreaker game is broken, and it keeps repeating the same thing over and over again. Frustrated, he pushes the front house door.

“NO!” Everyone said simultaneously.

He knows what everyone is going to say next,

You unplug it; it won’t work again.

Carmy pulls his phone out of his pocket to call Fak to come in and fix it for the millionth time when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“I know someone who can actually fix it,” You said softly.

The stressed-out, red-faced chef just nods.

You make the call, and in 20 minutes or so, someone comes in, calling out your real name. Not the countless nicknames they call you. He is tall and has a full beard and a mullet. He wears dark double denim; it’s vintage, Carmy notes in his head, is tailored and straight cut, and he wears cowboy boots.

“Raphy!” You practically screamed. (Raphy is Jensen Ackles)

Who the fuck is Raphy? What the fuck is a Raphy? What kind of name is Raphy? How the hell do you know this guy? He’s like 45! He’s good-looking and wearing good-quality denim. Carmy’s unexplainably jealous.

“Carm- this is my, umm, my friend Raphael. He owns a repair business,” You’re smiling from ear to ear.

“Hi. I usually do motorcycle restorations. She’s exaggerating.” Fuck, his voice is exactly what he thought it would sound like.

“Raphael?! My guy! Where the hell have you been?” Great- Richie knows him, too.

“Richie- good to see you, man.” Carmy hates this guy already.

You and Raphael met through Mikey. He had a phase where he wanted to buy this old BMW R 18. Raphael helped you move into your apartment, gave you rides whenever you needed them, and introduced you to some good music.

For some reason, he was also a perfect handyman. You fell out of touch for a bit when Mikey died.

“Chef, I’ve done most of my prep. Is it cool if I stay out here for a bit?” You're asking him if you could be here with this Raphy guy instead of in his kitchen, where he can awkwardly stand beside you while you both work. He wants to say no, but he says yes.

“Yeah just make sure he fixes this shit.”

“Not much of a talker?” Raphael asks. You pat his shoulder and shake your head.

“That’s Mikey’s little brother? Doesn’t really look like him-” Richie then starts laughing.

Carmen can hear you laugh from his office, and he can listens to that guy in his restaurant tell you how good you’ve been looking. About how you should’ve called him about your shower. Fuck him! I fixed it. I did that. Carmy thought.

“Chef, are you okay?” Sydney’s holding her clipboard to her chest, not wanting to know the answer to her question.

“Yeah. I’m good, Chef.” He’s lying straight through his teeth.

He really shouldn’t be bothered by this. You’re not friends. He spent one night over at your apartment to help. That’s it. He is your boss, nothing more.

Finally, the ballbreaker song is back to normal. The clinking of Raphael’s tools stops, and you no longer giggle like a schoolgirl. Richie is back on the register. A sigh of relief washes over him when he hears the bell and the door shut.

You walk back into the kitchen with a grin and rosier cheeks than when he saw you last.

“Raphy was here?” Tina said, disappointed. Cool, so everyone knows this guy.

You smile and mouth an excited ‘yeah.’

“If I wasn’t married- ooh the things I would do,” Tina says in a sing-songy way.

Which garners a look from a very disturbed Marcus and Ebra. Syd is now curious and disappointed she didn’t look when she could. Carmy looks at you and sees you cheesing from ear to ear.

“Me too. ME TOO.” Tina laughs at your comment. “Yo, David! Keep it in your pants, wouldya?” Richie said.

“Oh, please! Like you wouldn’t do him too if you were a girl??!” You replied.

Carmy leaves and takes a much-needed smoke break. Does Sugar know him? He wants to ask Tina who this guy is and why everyone but him knows him. He doesn't. He takes one last drag, throws it on the floor, and stomps on it.

The commotion over the hot motorcycle restorer has died down. The normal ebb and flow of a Chicago kitchen is back in motion, and everyone gets back to work.

Nothing shitty or unusual happens for the rest of service and Carmy is making everyone scrub the interior with toothbrushes and sponges.

Some random playlist is on, and you can feel everyone's exhaustion radiating off them like sweat.

Sweeps breaks the ice.

"It was good seeing Raphael again, huh?" Awesome. Carmy had temporarily forgotten about him while scrubbing the buildup on the stove's vent.

"He looks good. Healthy." Ebra adds.

"Who is he?" Carmy finally asks.

"Me and Mikey's other best friend. We were like two peas in a pod!" Richie snorts.

"Shouldn't it be the three musketeers?" Syd's eyeballs him.

Best friend? Mikey has other best friends who didn't always linger around the family?

"Yeah?" he replies.

"They met at this thing- a flea market?" Tina inquires.

"Estate sale." You say without missing a beat.

"I went with Mikey. He was obsessed with finding vintage shirts. Raphy was there looking for umm, what was it? Boots! Cowboy boots." You remember.

"You have a crush on em?" His intrusive thoughts got the better of him. Richie purses his lips together and does a lock and key motion.

"No! I mean, he's hot, but dude, come on?" Carmy hates that—the word hot coming out of your mouth in any other context than pots and stoves.

"I think you have a crush on him, or at least had a crush on him," Syd said.

"I remember the next day Mikey came in and started making fun of you cause you were basically drooling over him." Marcus laughs from across the room.

"I remember that too!" Sweeps adds.

"Wouldn't stop talking about him," Manny replies from the back.

You didn't mind everyone making fun of you; it was a silly moment in your life. It would have been even worse if Mikey had been there in person to reenact everything.

"He's not married?" Syd asks.

Please be married. Please be married with 4 kids. Please be in a loving happy marriage with his high school sweetheart. Carmen begged.

"He is uh- widowed." You said emphasizing the widow.

Fuck.

The rest of the night consisted of anecdotes of Mikey's life that Carmy would never have heard of otherwise. Tina's the first one to clock out, then the dishwashers, then Sweeps, and Marcus, Richie says his goodbyes, Syd punches out, and so does Ebra.

You stayed back. Sweeping the floor one last time, Carmy walked into the office. His head was hurting. Maybe it was from dehydration? Hunger? The chemicals he poured over the entire kitchen in an attempt to get the gunk off the tile?

"I'm gonna head out." You yell out from the lockers. Carmy walks out and leans against the doorframe.

"Do you have anything in your apartment I could fix?" You're joking, but not really.

He bobs his head down and gives you a tight smile, he didn't have anything to share. Everything in his apartment worked, he didn't have relics of his past to showcase and tell stories about.

The chef shook his head, crossed his arms, and stood stoically.

"That's a shame: goodnight, Carmen. See you tomorrow," you punch your card.

"Wait!" He doesn't know what he's doing. He has nothing to talk about. There's a sour taste in his mouth still from learning about Raphael. A bitter one because evidently, you knew his brother better than him.

You look at him, anticipating,

"Are you free?" He asks.

“Right now?” You reply.

He runs a hand through his hair.

"Carm, we have work tomorrow." You remind him.

"Yeah- right. No, umm, this Saturday. Are you free?" He's shaking inside.

"I should be. Why? Did you want us to come in or?" "There's this record store downtown. I was wondering if you wanted to go, " he blurted.

You kind of just stand there for a little bit. Shunned. Carmy's asking you to hang out outside of a work day? What's happening?

"Sure! I've been dying to do something other than cook, clean, repeat." You smile, which makes him smile.

"See you tomorrow, Chef." He says and lets you leave for the night.

Carmy couldn't stop thinking about all the things he wanted to do on your unofficial date on Saturday. His mind was reeling, and his stomach filled with butterflies he hadn't felt in so long. This consumed his every waking moment to the point that he had to force himself to sleep.

Saturday couldn't have come any slower.

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idcwhattheuseris · 2 months ago

Text

jaehyun x reader (fem) dandelion

────୨ৎ────

jaehyun who really loves his girl.

he spent months building up a solid friendship with you before asking you out. jaehyun who sends you flowers every saturday morning when he’s away and loves you more than anything.

now he loves his girls . all three of you now. both your daughters being a spitting image of you , from your hair to your smile. but they didn’t miss out on the jeong dimple genes.

after your second daughter was born, he was asked when you’d be trying for a son. and he waved them off thinking how he couldn’t even imagine life as anything other than tea parties every sunday. him squeezing into a small rapunzel chair sipping imaginary tea with your youngest while your eldest put bows into his hair.

makeovers with the girls before he has to put on his actual makeup before a show, him telling them they could be his actual makeup artist someday since they’re doing so good. jaehyun who can’t help but smile everytime he hears the pitter patter of the girls walking to your shared room in the morning. mornings filled with kisses on the cheeks and making breakfast together. him holding both the girls on his hips while you shape the pancakes into hearts.

people had asked him about who would carry on his family name, but jaehyun knows his girls carry your kindness of heart, his humbleness, and both your kids being proof love will always live on. your beautiful qualities instilled into your daughters will live past a last name.

────୨ৎ────

this was soooo self indulgent #sorry

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idcwhattheuseris · 2 months ago

Text

directing my dream like this tonight

Blurred Lines X Pedro Pascal

MasterList

Word count: 6.8K

Sex implied in a movie scene but no actual smut.

Plot: You and Pedro are romantic love interests in a new movie but there is a 25 year aged gap and it gets complicated when the feelings are becoming real underneath the characters.

There’s always a strange rhythm to film sets. Long stretches of waiting around, interspersed with bursts of concentrated magic. I’d learnt that quickly, although this set Falling Slow was different. Maybe it was the subject matter, maybe it was the man I was working opposite. Or maybe it was both.

The film was a sweeping, slow-burn romance between a young academic and her older, world-weary professor. Forbidden, scandalous, but written with nuance and aching tenderness. And, yes, it was about a large age gap. Just like us.

I was twenty-five. Pedro was fifty.

On paper, it should’ve been awkward. But Pedro had this way about him all warm smiles, self-deprecating humour, and inappropriate dad jokes that made the whole cast and crew instantly at ease. He was like the sun on set. Infectious. Easy. Except when it came to scenes with me. Because when the cameras rolled, he changed. He became something else entirely. Something... intense. Something that curled low in my belly.

And today, we were filming that scene. The one everyone had been whispering about for weeks. The sex scene.

It was a closed set. Just Pedro, me, the director, the sound guy, and Elodie, our lovely but terrifyingly precise intimacy coordinator. We’d choreographed it all beforehand where my hands would go, when to kiss, how long to linger down to the second. Every move mapped like a dance. Modesty garments in place. No actual sex. All smoke and mirrors.

But even with all the prep, I could feel the tension humming under my skin the moment I stepped onto the set a dimly lit bedroom dressed with crumpled linen sheets, soft golden light, and a half-empty bottle of red wine on the nightstand.

Pedro was already there, shirt unbuttoned, lounging against the headboard, eyes flicking up when he saw me. He smiled warm and reassuring but there was something unreadable beneath it. Like he knew the weight of what we were about to do. Like he felt it too.

"You good, cariño?" he asked softly as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I nodded, smiling back. “Just thinking I might’ve had one less coffee if I’d known I’d be straddling you today.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I’m flattered. I didn’t even have to buy you dinner first.”

Elodie raised a brow. “Alright, Pascal. Save the charm for the camera.”

We all laughed, and the tension eased just a little.

After a final rundown of the choreography, we got into position. I climbed onto the bed, straddling Pedro, knees on either side of his hips. He was warm beneath me. Solid. I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under my palms as I pressed them lightly to his chest.

“Scene twenty-two, take one,” came the director’s voice.

The clapper snapped.

And then the world narrowed.

In the scene, my character was supposed to kiss him first shy at first, then hungry. So I did. I leaned in, my lips brushing his gently, then deeper, letting it linger. Pedro kissed me back not as himself, but as Henry, his mouth soft but full of restraint, like he was holding back years of want.

Our movements followed the choreography: my hands sliding up his chest, his fingers trailing down my sides, my hips rolling ever so slightly.

But somewhere, somewhere between the scripted kisses and the unspoken glances, something shifted.

His hands gripped my waist a little firmer. My fingers tangled in his hair, not because the script said so, but because I wanted to. And then just barely I felt it.

The faintest shift beneath me.

A subtle, growing pressure against my inner thigh.

Pedro stilled for the briefest second. A breath caught in his throat. And then he kissed me again slower this time, deeper. Less scripted. More real.

I should’ve pulled back. I knew I should. But I didn’t.

The lines blurred.

Heat rose in my cheeks, pooling low in my stomach as I rocked against him again, instinctively, almost imperceptibly. And this time, the pressure was unmistakable. He was getting hard.

I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

His pupils were blown, lips parted, chest rising faster than it had a minute ago. I could feel his fingers flexing where they held me not guiding me, not moving me, just feeling me.

“Cut,” the director called, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

I jumped slightly, pulling back, blinking as if I’d just surfaced from underwater.

Pedro cleared his throat, giving me a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Got a bit... carried away.”

The intimacy coordinator stepped in immediately, her voice gentle. “That was great work. Let’s just take five. Everyone okay?”

I nodded quickly, slipping off Pedro’s lap and wrapping the robe around myself, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin.

Pedro stayed sitting on the bed, running a hand through his hair, then glancing at me with a crooked grin. “If I say I’m too old for this shit, do I sound appropriately flustered or just creepy?”

I laughed, breathless, still flushed. “Bit of both, honestly.”

He chuckled, then sobered, his eyes searching mine. “Hey. You alright?”

I met his gaze. There was no sleaze in it. No arrogance. Just genuine concern. And maybe a flicker of something else.

“I’m fine,” I said softly. “It was... intense. But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were incredible, by the way. I mean that. Professional. Committed. Very distracting.”

I raised a brow. “Distracting?”

He smirked, that familiar playful spark back in his eyes. “In the best possible way.”

We stood there for a beat, just looking at each other, and I wondered if he felt it too that slow pull. That blurred edge between fiction and something else entirely.

Then Elodie called us back.

The rest of the takes went by in a haze. We stuck to the choreography, reined it in, kept it clean. But the charge lingered. Like the air after lightning.

When we finally wrapped for the day, Pedro caught me just as I was leaving the trailer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Walk with me?”

I nodded, tugging my coat tighter around me as we stepped into the cool evening air. The sky was bruised with twilight, the last of the crew packing up around us.

We walked in silence for a while, side by side, shoulders brushing. Then he stopped.

“Today was...” He trailed off, frowning at the gravel beneath his boots. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I said quickly. “Not at all. If anything... I don’t know. I felt safe. Even when it got a bit... blurry.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah. Blurry’s a good word.”

Another pause.

Then: “You’re not just good at this, Y/N. You’re magnetic. I’ve worked with so many people, and you” he broke off, exhaling. “You’re dangerous.”

I smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound warm but laced with something heavier. “We’ve got more scenes like that coming up.”

“I know.”

“And we’ll keep it professional. Of course.”

“Of course.”

But neither of us moved. Neither of us turned away.

The next morning, set felt quieter than usual.

Not in the literal sense there were still cables being dragged across floors, PAs shouting about coffee orders, the wardrobe trailer buzzing with life. But there was a hush in the way people looked at us. Or maybe I was imagining that.

Maybe it was just the way he looked at me.

Pedro had always been good at eye contact playful, expressive, sincere. But today? He barely held mine for longer than a second. A quick glance. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A soft “morning, cariño” that sounded more distant than usual.

And I understood. God, I understood.

Because the moment I’d gotten back to my flat last night, I’d played the scene over and over in my head the way his hands had felt on my waist, how his breathing had changed beneath me, the weight of his body and the way our kisses had slowed, deepened, blurred.

It had been just a scene. Technically. But we both knew it wasn’t just a scene.

Today’s call sheet had us shooting a quieter moment our characters sharing wine in the kitchen, stealing kisses in between bites of takeout. Innocent. Sweet. No sex. No straddling. Still, my heart had already begun its steady, traitorous drumbeat the moment I saw his name next to mine.

I was perched on the counter, wrapped in a faded jumper that wardrobe insisted made me look “young and lovesick”, when Pedro walked onto set.

He looked... tired. Not in the usual way actors did. This was something heavier. Like sleep hadn’t come easy. Like he’d been wrestling with something all night. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.

But still, he smiled. Softly.

“You alright?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper as the crew adjusted lights around us.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just... head’s full. Long night.”

Before I could ask more, the director called for quiet, and we rolled straight into the scene.

We were mid-take when Pedro, in character, leaned against the counter beside me, close but not touching. I offered him a chip from our fake takeout box, and his fingers brushed mine when he took it. He didn’t pull away right away. Neither did I.

Our eyes met. The silence stretched.

It wasn’t scripted.

“Cut,” the director called gently. “That was nice. Really natural. Let’s reset and go again.”

Pedro stepped away immediately, exhaling through his nose, like he’d just run a mile. I could feel the shift in him something coiled and tense, barely held together.

After the take, he hovered near me, hands shoved in his pockets. Then finally as the crew fiddled with lights and lens changes he stepped closer, voice low.

“Can I talk to you?” he murmured, eyes still not quite meeting mine.

I nodded, following him off-set to a quiet corner behind a lighting rig. The hum of activity faded, and suddenly it was just us. And the air between us felt impossibly thick.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a breath, and finally looked at me really looked at me.

“Listen,” he started, voice rough. “I need to say something, and I hope to God I don’t make this weird, but I can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening.”

My pulse spiked. “Pedro”

“I’m not going to cross a line,” he said quickly, firmly. “That’s not what this is. But yesterday… you felt it too, didn’t you?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, like hearing it out loud confirmed some terrible truth. When he opened them again, they were filled with guilt and ache and something so tender it made my throat tighten.

“You’re twenty-five,” he said softly. “You’re brilliant and talented and beautiful and kind. And I am exactly double your age. I’ve been doing this for twenty years longer than you. I’m more famous. I have more power. That’s... that’s not a dynamic I want to mess with.”

I nodded slowly, my heart cracking open. “I know. I’ve thought about all of that too. People would talk. They’d assume the worst. I’ve already seen what they say when any young actress is seen next to an older man. They’d crucify you.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. I don’t ever want you to wonder if I respected you. If I saw you as just a... a pretty face or a fantasy. Because I don’t. You’re so much more than that.”

I blinked back sudden tears, overwhelmed by the gentleness in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” I whispered. “Not even for a second. You’re not that guy.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not crossing internal lines,” he murmured, looking down. “Because I wake up thinking about you. And then I come to set and try to be professional, and then we’re kissing, and suddenly it’s not acting anymore, and I hate how easy it is to forget where the fiction ends.”

A silence fell between us. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

Finally, I said, “So what do we do?”

He looked up, eyes heavy. “We be smart. We finish this film. We keep it clean. We don’t give anyone a reason to whisper.”

“And after that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He hesitated.

“If you still feel the same when the dust settles... I’ll ask you to dinner. Properly. Not as a co-star. Just as me.”

My heart flipped, twisted, bloomed.

“I think I’d say yes,” I whispered.

He smiled small, tired, but real. “That scares the shit out of me.”

I laughed quietly, because it did the same to me.

We stayed there for a minute longer just two people suspended in that blurry space between right and wrong, between reality and longing. Then someone called for us, and the moment shattered.

Back to work. Back to the act.

The set is quiet, save for the sound of the camera rolling and the soft direction from the crew. The kitchen set is warmly lit, almost intimate, and it’s just the two of us in the frame. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the scene we’re about to film or the electric tension between us. The weight of our confessions earlier still hangs in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable.

The director calls for a pause as the crew resets a light. I catch my breath, watching Pedro lean against the counter, his expression unreadable. He looks good in this scene his dark hair a little tousled, his shirt slightly undone at the collar. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. I know he’s feeling it too the same heat, the same unrelenting pull.

"Ready when you are," he says, his voice low, warm, almost inviting.

I swallow hard, nodding as the director signals for us to reset. My body feels light and heavy all at once. This scene it’s supposed to be a simple kiss. Nothing more. But the way Pedro looks at me makes it feel like everything else has faded away. The crew, the cameras, the world outside of this kitchen they don’t exist. It’s just him, and it’s just me.

We’re called into position, and my stomach flutters as Pedro moves closer. His hand brushes against my waist as he adjusts his position, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. It’s a light touch, but it carries an electricity I can’t ignore. This is the moment where everything we’ve been dancing around comes to a head.

The director calls out, “Action,” and I look up at Pedro, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes soften, his lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes not completely. I feel my chest tighten, my heartbeat accelerating.

Then, we kiss. It’s slow at first, tender, like we’re still testing the waters. But there’s something else now, something different that wasn’t there before. The kiss deepens, and I can feel his hands on my back, pulling me closer. He’s no longer just my co-star he’s the man I’ve been trying to keep my distance from, and now he’s here, wrapped up in my arms, his lips on mine.

And for a moment, everything blurs. The scene, the cameras, even the crew they’re all nothing compared to the heat I feel building between us. It’s as if we can’t stop ourselves anymore, as if the line between acting and reality is fading.

“Cut,” the director calls. But it’s not a relief. It feels like a premature end to something we both want to continue. I pull back slightly, our lips just a breath apart, and I see it in his eyes desire, conflict, the same storm I feel swirling inside me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back to give us both space. I’m not sorry for the kiss, not exactly. But I am sorry for the mess this is going to cause. “That was…”

“I know,” Pedro interrupts softly. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s getting harder to pretend, isn’t it?”

I nod, unable to speak. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to convince myself it’s just the job, that the attraction is all part of the performance. But this? This is something different. Something real. And that makes everything so much more complicated.

The director seems to notice the shift, and he smiles approvingly. “That was perfect. We got what we needed. Let’s take a break, everyone.” The crew begins to pack up, but I can’t shake the tension in the air. It lingers, thick and palpable.

Pedro stays where he is, watching me carefully. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can see the internal battle on his face. He knows this is all so wrong so forbidden but the chemistry between us doesn’t lie. He’s feeling it too.

The lights are blinding, and the cameras flash relentlessly as we make our way down the red carpet. The press tour for our film is in full swing, and I can feel the tension building inside me. Pedro walks beside me, as always with that calm, collected presence of his, but I know he’s feeling the weight of the questions just as much as I am.

“Y/N, Pedro! Over here!” A reporter calls out. They wave their hands, trying to catch our attention. We both smile, the practiced, polished smiles we’ve been wearing all day.

“Your on-screen chemistry has everyone talking,” another reporter chimes in. “What’s the secret to that incredible dynamic?”

Pedro chuckles lightly beside me, his arm casually brushing against mine as we pose for a photo. "I guess we just have a lot of fun with it," he says with his usual charm. "But, honestly, the whole thing is a team effort. It’s about trust, right?”

I nod, glancing over at him. There’s something almost too knowing in his eyes, but the smile on his face says it all. “Exactly. It’s all about trust and respect. We’re both in it together, and that’s what makes everything flow so naturally.”

Another reporter jumps in with a question that makes my heart skip a beat. “So, there’s been a lot of talk about the age gap between you two. How did that affect your dynamic, both on and off screen?”

I feel Pedro’s hand subtly brush against the small of my back as I step forward to answer. It’s almost imperceptible, but the touch still sends a wave of heat rushing through me.

“Well, I’ll say this,” I begin, keeping my voice steady, even though I’m aware of the weight of every word. “Pedro was always incredibly respectful, both in the work and outside of it. He’s very aware of the power he holds in this situation, and he made sure that I never felt pressured or uncomfortable in any way. It’s something that’s really important to me, especially with the age difference.”

Pedro turns toward me then, his smile warm, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells me he’s not quite as unaffected by all this as he’s trying to seem. “Yeah, it’s not lost on me that I have a certain... position, you know?” His gaze shifts, and I see the sincerity in his eyes. “But it’s all about making sure that everyone feels safe and respected. That’s the priority.”

The reporters are eating this up, their cameras clicking nonstop as we both speak. They want more, but they’re not going to get anything out of us that feels too revealing.

“I think we’ve both been really aware of the situation,” I continue, glancing back at Pedro to make sure we’re on the same page. He gives me a small nod, clearly in agreement. “We’ve worked together as equals, and that’s what makes the chemistry on screen feel so natural. It’s a partnership.”

Another reporter presses further. “So, with that in mind, do you think the age gap affected the way you approached the romantic scenes?”

Pedro gives a soft laugh, his hand running through his hair. “I don’t think it’s something we dwelled on. We’ve been doing this for a long time, both of us, and we know how to keep things professional. Of course, there’s always a certain level of vulnerability in those scenes, but you can’t let the circumstances get in the way of what you’re trying to achieve artistically.”

“Exactly,” I agree, trying to keep things light but feeling the tension in my chest as the press continues to ask about the dynamics between us. “We had an amazing team around us, especially the intimacy coordinator. Everything was choreographed with such care. So, honestly, it just made the process feel safe. And that’s key to making the chemistry believable.”

One reporter, seemingly a little more daring, steps forward and lowers their voice. “There’s obviously so much palpable chemistry between you two are you ever worried about people reading into it too much? I mean, you’re clearly very comfortable with each other. And let’s face it, the age gap is something that has a lot of people talking.”

I see Pedro stiffen beside me, his jaw tightening just slightly. He’s trying to keep his composure, but I can feel his internal conflict. I know what he’s thinking: This is a line we’re toeing, and if we’re not careful, it could all unravel.

“Well,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation, “Pedro and I have worked incredibly hard to develop this connection. It’s all been about creating a space where we both felt comfortable, respected, and safe. And yes, the chemistry is definitely there, but we’re also very aware of how people can interpret things. We have a responsibility to each other, as actors, to make sure we’re always in sync.”

Pedro’s eyes flick to mine then, something unspoken passing between us. He smiles again, but this time there’s a sadness in it, like he knows that the truth is always just beneath the surface, and yet we can’t allow ourselves to fully acknowledge it.

“Y/N is an amazing actress,” he says, turning to me. “She makes it so easy to get lost in the scene. But the most important thing is that we always communicate. Always make sure the other person is comfortable. And I think that’s what made the whole process work.”

I smile at him, feeling my heart swell a little. I’ve praised him countless times today, and I know he’s doing the same for me. The interviews, the questions they’re all just a front, a way to avoid saying what’s really on our minds.

But the truth is, we’re both terrified. Not of the chemistry or the age gap but of what it means if we were to ever let this connection spill over into something real. It’s not just the press, or the fans, or anyone else watching us that’s the problem. It’s that neither of us wants to cross that line. Not yet, at least. Not in a way that can’t be undone.

As we move on to the next round of questions, we’re both exhausted, but the answers keep coming, just as rehearsed, just as careful. Every word a mask for the real truth, the one we can’t say aloud.

I think Pedro feels it too the tension, the pull. But he’s always been good at keeping a straight face, keeping his emotions close. And for now, that’s what I’ll do too.

Because as much as we might want to, we can’t allow ourselves to fall too far into this. Not yet. Not when the consequences would be so much greater than the fleeting thrill of what we feel in this moment.

One month after the movie’s release the buzz still hasn’t died down.

Even with the press tour wrapped and the red carpets rolled away, the film has taken on a life of its own living, breathing, and growing in whispers and headlines, most of them no longer about the movie itself.

They're about us.

Pedro and I have been texting constantly. At first, it was innocent. A few “saw this meme, made me think of you” or “did you see that fan edit?” But slowly quietly it shifted. The texts got longer, deeper. Little confessions snuck in. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was thinking about that night we wrapped filming...” or “Do you ever replay our kitchen scene in your head?”

Now it’s every day. Every night. Sometimes I fall asleep with my phone in my hand, mid-conversation with him, and wake up to a sleepy reply at 3 a.m.

We’re not dating. We haven’t said that out loud. But we’re something.

Something complicated.

Something neither of us can define, because we’re both too scared to say the words.

So we start small.

A coffee run. Somewhere tucked away in a quiet part of the city. We wear sunglasses and hats and keep our heads down. But people notice. Of course they do. The blurry photos hit Twitter before we even finish our cappuccinos.

The headlines follow within the hour:

“Pedro Pascal & Y/N Seen Grabbing Coffee Post-Press Tour: Just Friends or Something More?”

Our publicists are fast. The statement goes out before the afternoon:

“Pedro and Y/N have remained close friends since working on the film. They’re simply catching up and celebrating the success of their project.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe we are just catching up.

But then it happens again. Another coffee. Then brunch. Then dinner with a group, but we still leave together.

The press might be playing along, but the fans?

They know better.

And they’re relentless.

It’s a rainy Thursday night when we finally cave and just let ourselves be still for once. Pedro’s place is warm and quiet, a world away from the noise. We’re on his couch, legs tangled beneath a throw blanket, my head on his chest. He smells like cedarwood and clean laundry, and his heartbeat is soft beneath my cheek.

He’s reading a book. I’m scrolling.

Bad combo.

“Oh my god,” I say, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Listen to this one: ‘Y’all, they’re not just friends. Look at the way he looks at her during interviews. That’s a man down BAD.’”

Pedro lets out a low chuckle, still not looking up from his book. “They’re observant, I’ll give them that.”

I keep scrolling, barely blinking. “This one says: ‘They think they’re being subtle, but the tension is screaming. Pedro blinked eleven times when she said his name.’”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Okay, that’s impressive. Eleven?”

“I’m serious! I think there’s a spreadsheet. These people are invested.”

I scroll again, my stomach sinking a little now. “Here we go... ‘Let’s not forget the age gap. I don’t care how good the chemistry is it’s inappropriate.’”

I feel Pedro tense slightly beneath me, just for a second.

I try to laugh it off. “Some people are really loud on the internet.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, gently, he reaches down and takes the phone from my hand, placing it on the coffee table.

“Hey,” he says softly. I glance up at him. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”

I bite my lip. “I know. I just... it’s hard to ignore. It’s like they’re waiting for us to mess up. Like we’re already doing something wrong, even though we’re not even...”

“Even though we’re not even saying what this is?” he finishes for me.

I nod.

He sighs, his hand finding mine under the blanket. His fingers are warm, steady. “People are always going to find a reason to tear something down. Especially something that doesn’t fit their version of what’s acceptable or normal.”

He pauses, then adds, “But this you and me this is real. Whatever it is, however it started... I’m not playing pretend anymore.”

My breath catches.

“I think about you constantly,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Even when I’m trying not to. And I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve run every reason through my head for why this shouldn’t happen. The age gap. The public eye. The press. But none of it matters when I’m with you.”

I blink, tears suddenly pricking the corners of my eyes. “Pedro...”

He reaches up, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “You’re smart, and kind, and brilliant at what you do. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And I’m here. I’m real. And I’m... I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hang between us, so soft and certain, I swear the world goes still.

I sit up slightly, just enough to look at him properly. He’s nervous I can see it in the way he swallows hard, waiting for me to respond.

So I kiss him.

It’s slow, sweet, careful like we’re finally stepping into something we’ve both wanted for months. His hand cradles the back of my neck, anchoring me. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’m more scared of not trying.”

We don’t say anything after that. We just settle back onto the couch, wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping gently against the windows.

And for once, there’s no press. No fans. No judgment.

Just us.

Three Months Post-Release we went on a holiday together to Amalfi Coast, Italy

What started as a “casual friends getaway” to Italy Pedro’s idea, after months of carefully planned dinners and movie nights behind drawn blinds turns into the headline of every entertainment outlet before our second gelato cone has even started to melt.

The pictures hit the internet first.

Pedro and I on a yacht, sun spilling across our skin, his hand around my waist as I laugh at something he whispered against my shoulder.

Then one of him pressing a kiss to my temple, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls, his fingers twined with mine.

Another of us walking along a cobblestone street in Positano, clearly mid-conversation, clearly not aware of the lens trained on us from a balcony above.

And the one that makes every news outlet spiral: us in a quiet candlelit restaurant, sitting side by side instead of across the table, my head tipped against his shoulder, his hand resting gently on my thigh, both of us smiling like there’s no one else in the world.

By the time we’re back in the hotel that night, our phones are buzzing nonstop.

Pedro scrolls through a few headlines and hands me his phone, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Pedro Pascal, 50, and Co-Star Y/N, 25, Spark Romance Rumors With Intimate Italian Getaway”

“Too Close to Call It Platonic: Inside the Blossoming Off-Screen Relationship Fans Saw Coming”

“From On-Screen Chemistry to Real-Life Romance? Internet Reacts to Viral Yacht Kiss”

I let out a shaky breath. “Well. Subtle isn’t our strong suit, is it?”

He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his chest. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” I say softly. “We weren’t. But they’re going to have opinions.”

Pedro is quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let them. As long as we’re clear, and respectful, and... honest.”

We are. So we act fast.

The joint statement goes out the next morning:

“After the completion of our recent project together, we found ourselves growing close in a way neither of us anticipated. With mutual respect, open communication, and the support of those closest to us, we are exploring this relationship with full awareness of the scrutiny that may come with it. We want to be transparent in saying that our dynamic developed after the film wrapped and was not present during production. The age difference has been part of many conversations between us privately, and we’ve approached this connection with care, mutual consent, and a shared understanding of the power dynamics involved. Thank you for allowing us the space to navigate this thoughtfully and respectfully.”

It’s careful. It's honest. It’s us.

Still, the world explodes.

Some are skeptical. Some are cruel. But the overwhelming majority especially fans support it. The same people who tracked every blink in press interviews now stitch together fan edits of our vacation photos, pairing them with dreamy music and captions like “this wasn’t acting, it was real all along.”

There are comment threads filled with speculation:

“You can tell how much care Pedro has for her. Look at the way he moves with her protective, not possessive.”

“Y/N always looks so comfortable around him. Like she knows he’s a safe place.”

And others more direct:

“I don’t care about the age gap, I care about how happy they look. Let them live.”

We do our best to stay grounded. For every sweet photo that gets posted, there are five blurry ones taken through restaurant windows or behind shrubs. I learn to ignore the flash of phones in the corners of cafés. Pedro tightens his hold on my hand when the paparazzi try to corner us leaving a small museum.

There’s one day hot, bright, filled with salt air and sun where we walk through a market in Ravello and split an ice cream cone because mine melted too fast. A fan catches it on video and uploads it with the caption: “They’re so in love it’s ridiculous.”

I want to argue. I want to say “we’re just figuring it out.” That we haven’t put a label on it, that we still talk more than we kiss, that some nights I stay up wondering if we’re really allowed to feel this way.

But then I look at Pedro.

The way he always lets me answer first in interviews, never interrupting. The way he sits just a little closer in photos, but never too close. The way he constantly checks in with soft glances and quiet, whispered questions: Are you okay? Are you overwhelmed? Do you want to go home?

And I know.

I’m allowed to feel this way. We both are.

The car door opens.

And for a split second, I hesitate. Not because I’m nervous about the flashing lights or the ocean of voices waiting to shout my name but because this time, I’m not walking this carpet alone.

I step out anyway, smoothing my hand over the satin of my dress as the warm Los Angeles evening hits my skin. The moment I reach back, his fingers find mine. No searching. No fumbling.

Just instinct.

Pedro’s hand is warm and steady as he steps out beside me, his other hand gently brushing the inside of my wrist in a quiet, grounding gesture. I glance at him, just for a moment. He’s smiling already soft, familiar, like this is just any other day between us. Not the moment the entire world has been waiting for.

Click. Flash. Clickclickclick.

The sound is deafening. But I keep my shoulders back and my chin high, hand wrapped in his.

We walk together down the carpet. Not arm-in-arm. Not anything too deliberate. Just two people... tethered.

And when the reporters catch on really catch on it becomes a blur. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing faster. One voice yells, “Is this official now?” and Pedro just lets out that low, breathy laugh of his. The one that says I’m not telling you everything, but I’m definitely not denying it either.

I feel his hand give mine a squeeze. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll melt into this feeling too much. And I need to stay composed professional. It’s what we agreed on. Even if we’re both failing miserably at hiding how giddy this feels.

We’re ushered toward one of the bigger outlets. I recognise the host. We’ve talked to her before back when all of this was just about the movie.

Now? She’s grinning like she’s sitting on a goldmine.

“Y/N, Pedro so good to see you together tonight!” she beams, and I can’t help it I smile too. Because despite the nerves and the constant beat of my heart trying to break through my ribs… I am happy.

“Lovely to see you again,” I say, my voice steady even though my hand is still clutching Pedro’s like a lifeline.

She dives right in. Of course she does. The Italy photos, the yacht kiss, the “mysterious gelato date.” I nearly roll my eyes but Pedro’s already laughing beside me, and it makes me laugh too.

He leans over, mutters, “Told you the yacht would haunt us,” and I elbow him gently.

Then the interviewer shifts. Her smile softens. Her tone goes from playful to genuinely curious.

“In all seriousness… you’ve both released such a thoughtful statement about your relationship. But people want to know what’s it really been like navigating something so personal, so publicly?”

Pedro lets me speak first. He always does.

I take a breath.

“It’s been… a process. But one we’ve been really intentional about,” I say slowly, making sure I mean every word. “We care about each other deeply, and we knew that if we were going to share any of this with the world, it had to be on our terms. Carefully. Gently. With respect.”

I feel Pedro’s hand brush the small of my back, and it steadies me.

“There were so many conversations,” I continue. “About power, about timing, about agency. Pedro’s been incredibly aware of his position throughout all of this. He’s never once made me feel pressured. He’s always made sure I felt safe and heard.”

She turns to him then, and he smiles at me before answering.

“She said everything I wanted to say,” he replies. “But I’ll just add that… being older, I was conscious from the start that I didn’t want to create any imbalance. I didn’t want to cross a line or risk anything we’ve built, professionally or personally. I just… wanted to honour her. And this.”

God. The way he says that.

Honour me.

I think it’s that moment that hits the crowd. Because the interviewer visibly softens. The air around us shifts. And suddenly, it’s not a story anymore. Not a scandal or a headline or a photo op.

It’s love.

Raw and warm and kind.

When the interview ends, we walk the rest of the carpet like it’s nothing. Like we haven’t just publicly opened a door we’ve been peeking through for months.

But I know what’s waiting online already. The screen grabs. The tweets. The shipping hashtags.

And for once, I don’t care. Because when we’re finally alone in the car again Pedro lacing his fingers through mine with a breathless little, “Well, that went alright” I don’t feel scared.

I feel seen. And protected. And quietly, fully adored.

The moment the hotel room door clicks shut behind us, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the car ride over.

Pedro doesn’t say anything at first. He just slips off his jacket and tosses it gently over the back of the armchair, his fingers already moving to unbutton his shirt, just the top few buttons. Casual. Comfortable.

Safe.

I kick off my heels with a quiet groan and lean against the wall for a second, still in my dress, makeup still flawless under the dim golden light of the suite. It’s quiet here. No flashing lights, no crowd. Just muted city sounds through the window and the soft hum of air conditioning.

“Do you want to take it off?” Pedro asks gently, nodding toward my dress.

I smirk. “Smooth.”

He laughs and holds up both hands. “I meant the dress, because you’ve been yanking at the zipper all night.”

I sigh dramatically and spin around. “Then help me, smooth talker.”

His fingers are warm and steady as he finds the zipper and drags it down, slow and careful. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, on set or off but tonight, it feels different. Not charged. Just… soft. Unspoken.

When I step out of the dress, I leave it draped over the back of the couch and tug one of his oversized T-shirts from the open suitcase on the chair. He watches me pull it over my head with the tiniest smile.

“Was that mine?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed.

Pedro walks over, tugging the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, and wraps it around us both as he sinks down beside me. His arm slips easily around my shoulders, and I tuck into his side like muscle memory.

Everything feels quieter here. Like the world left us alone, just for tonight.

“You were amazing,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair.

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow too.”

I turn to face him slightly, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Do you think it was okay? What we said? How it came across?”

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy shapes on my arm. “I think it was honest. And that’s the best we can do.”

I nod, letting the silence settle again.

For a few minutes, we just lie there. The weight of the evening slowly peeling away from our shoulders. The heels. The suits. The expectation.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” I whisper eventually.

Pedro tilts his head, brushing his lips against my forehead. “Tell me.”

“That first day we met. The chemistry test. When I walked in and you were so calm. And I was shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my water bottle.”

He smiles into my hair. “You hid it well.”

I pull back just enough to see his face, the tired lines near his eyes, the softness there now that he doesn’t have to perform. “And now here we are. Sharing a hotel bed, still kind of pretending it’s all professional.”

He chuckles. “I think we’re way past professional.”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and he looks at me like I’m the only person on the planet.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “About falling. About being here, being real.”

My chest tightens. In a good way. In a how-is-this-my-life kind of way.

“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”

We kiss then. Soft and slow. No cameras. No stage directions. Just his lips and mine and the quiet hum of something real threading between us.

And when we fall asleep tangled up in each other, wrapped in the blanket and the safety of everything we’ve built, I let myself believe this might just be the beginning of something that finally, beautifully, isn’t pretending at all.

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idcwhattheuseris · 2 months ago

Text

Stop it this was so beautiful, blocking out thorin, kili and fili dying 😭

unexpected loyalties

Bilbo Baggins x fem!dwarf!reader (no beard)

a/n: based off the movie, not the books, just to clear that up if there is any book inconsistencies. First time writing for this fandom, and posting on this blog, let me know if I got anything wildly incorrect

Summary: Neither of you ever expected to like each other, let alone anything more. But you find yourself drawn to one another, despite the boundaries between you.

Another knock, he wasn’t sure he could handle many more visitors. Four dwarves were enough for him to want to run out of his home screaming. He tightened the ties of his robe, took a deep breath, and quietly prepared himself to turn down whoever waited outside his door.

Yet, when it swung open his chest deflated and he found himself completely underwhelmed. He should be thankful that his doorstep was empty and that there were no more unwelcome guests to turn away. But he found himself incredibly confused. “Hm,” he pokes his head out slightly, looking around for stragglers. “Hello?” He calls out hesitantly.

He jumps back as a woman leaps out of his rose bushes. “Oh!” You smile widely at him, shoving your hand out for a strong handshake. “Sorry about that, I thought I had the wrong hobbit.”

He gives your hand a brief shake, never one to forgo his manners. “I believe you do. In fact, you all do.”

Your face screws up in distaste and you look so forlorn he almost feels bad. Almost. “You are Mr. Bobbins aren’t you?”

He shakes his head with a scoff, “I am most certainly not. My name is Bilbo Baggins-”

You interrupt him with a relieved laugh. “Oh, apologies, then you are the hobbit I’m looking for. I’m afraid my cousin’s handwriting is nearly impossible to read. So the meeting is here, then?” You look at him expectantly, eyes wide and eager.

Bilbo has to suppress the urge to stomp his foot and slam the door. He’s too old to be behaving like a child, but bebother and confusticate these dwarves he can take no more visitors! “There is no meeting here!” He snaps, nearly shouting in your face.

Your brows furrow and you shake your head stubbornly. “They cannot have canceled it.” You seemed nearly as stubborn as him. You plant your feet, crossing your arms and glaring at him. “I would have been informed.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to inform you that no, nothing has been canceled because nothing has been scheduled. At least nothing he has been informed of. He knows this is all that blasted wizard’s fault. If only he’d stuck to his fireworks and simply left Bilbo alone, he would be having the peaceful evening he’d wished for.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously, peering over his shoulder as something that sounds very old and sentimental breaks behind him. “Sorry about that!” A voice calls from his kitchen. Bilbo clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath, and leans so you can’t see further into his home.

“I do believe that was Balin’s voice,” you tell him, your voice low with an unspoken threat. “Mr. Bobbins-”

“Baggins.”

“Mr. Baggins,” you correct, “are my kin in there?”

He shrugs, playing dumb and giving you a confused look. “And who,” he draws slowly, “would your kin be?”

You let out a heavy sigh. He doesn’t have any time to stop you as you nudge him to the side and shove your way into his home. “Thank you for the hospitality,” you mutter sarcastically. Your face lights up as you catch sight of an unruly blonde head of hair. “Fili! Kili!”

They call your name in return, rushing over to greet you. “Any trouble on the journey?” Kili asks as he takes your sword from you. He absentmindedly tosses it towards Bilbo who has to rush to catch it before it breaks something.

“None at all, you know I’m a lot better at subtlety than the two of you are,” you tease.

Bilbo’s eyes narrow as he takes you and the other dwarves in. You said your cousin sent you a letter. There was no possible way you could be their cousin. You didn’t look like any dwarf he had ever seen. Not that he had seen many, of course. There wasn’t enough gold or adventure in Hobbiton to bring many through.

But he had heard the stories of dwarven women. How they were a dying breed, far more men than there were women. He also knew that it was incredibly hard to tell a wife apart from her husband, mainly because of the great big beards.

You were taller than the others, far less hair, and simply not what he thinks when he pictures a dwarvish woman. “I see you met our host,” Fili nods towards Bilbo whose arms are now absolutely overloaded with the ridiculous amount of weapons you carry. Fili is clearly suppressing a slight smirk as he looks upon Bilbo. It’s hard not to feel a little offended.

You turn back to Bilbo and frown, “Not a very welcoming host, these hobbits, are they?” Kili shakes his head, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and dragging you back towards the kitchen.

Bilbo huffs and tosses the weapons to the floor with a put-off look. There’s loud cheering coming from the kitchen as the others greet you. He takes in a deep breath and sets his shoulders. Enough is enough. Clearly, there has been some mix-up. Whatever bearded reunion is taking place in his dining room is not meant for him. He’s just going to walk over to you all and inform you to take your business elsewhere.

Bilbo only manages one step forward before a knock echoes through the front hall. It seems deafening, an ominous warning. He knows that if he goes to answer the door there will be no going back. These dwarves will be here to stay. He’s tempted to just ignore it, to usher you all out and slam the fence closed behind you.

But then there’s a second knock, a third. He cannot simply ignore it, it’s too rude. Despite knowing better, he goes and answers the door. He’s nearly knocked over by a pile of stacked dwarves. He jumps back in shock, glaring down at them all.

“That would be the rest of them,” you muse, appearing out of nowhere behind him. You grin at his affronted face, “Got any extra chairs?”

The Hobbit is certainly interesting. You struggle to find a kind word for him. He’s not exactly happy to have you all in his home. And you can’t entirely blame him, you and your kin aren’t the best guests. But Gandalf had told you all he was perfectly fine hosting the company in his hobbit hole.

Though, you have a growing suspicion he wasn’t telling the whole truth if the wicked looks Bilbo is shooting him is anything to go by. “Need a hand?” You ask, hovering in the entry of his pantry.

He lets out a low sigh, just barely glancing over his shoulder at you. He stands amidst the wreckage of his once-great food stores. The rest of it is being bickered over in his dining room. If what Gandalf has told you is true and he is going to be your thief, then it shouldn’t matter.

You’ve done him a sort of favor, clearing out his stores before the journey. No one wants to come back home to rot and mold having crept over all their food. But again, you’re starting to doubt the wizard’s words. He’s known for his tricks, but you didn’t think he would do something as sly as this.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” His voice is snippy, but he’s trying his best to be polite. You barely hold back a laugh at how hard he’s keeping up the pretense of being gracious.

“Don’t be stubborn,” you insist, moving past him and grabbing a broom. “I don’t mind. Durin knows we aren’t a clean people.” He gives you an odd look as you start to sweep the mess up. He stays firmly planted in his spot, gaze tracking you. You try not to grow uncomfortable at his intense stare but it is hard.

“You are a dwarf, then?”

Your face screws up in irritation and you shoot him a severe look. He lets out a slight whimper, whirling around and pretending to be fascinated by his shelves. “Yes,” you grit out, “I am. Despite the oddities in my appearance, I am a dwarf.”

He whips back towards you, face drawn tight in confusion. “Oddities?” He demands.

“Look at me,” you gesture to yourself, feeling a tight ball wind itself up in your throat. “No beard, too tall, I might as well just be a short human. I’m practically repulsive.”

His jaw drops and he stares at you for a long while. You can feel the judgment, and can practically hear his thoughts as he wonders at how ugly you are. Bilbo’s mouth opens and shuts multiple times before he lands on a squeaky, “Repulsive. That’s ridi-”

“There you are!” Gandalf’s head dips into the pantry and he gives you both an impatient smile. “We are waiting for you, Master Baggins,” he says your name and you nod. You throw the broom back in place and shove past them both, swallowing down tears.

They watch you go with varying degrees of shock. “My word, what did you say to her?”

Bilbo snaps his jaw shut and shakes his head, “I might have brought up how peculiar it is that she doesn’t have a beard.”

Gandalf nods sagely, as though this is something he has experience with. “Sensitive topic for young dwarvish women.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for him?” You hiss to Kili as you all leave the tavern. You’d written Master Baggins a note, promising to wait for him in the Green Dragon Inn. If he didn’t make it by 11 AM, you would all leave. But Thorin was demanding your leave early, it didn’t seem fair to not give Bilbo a chance.

Fili glances towards Thorin, making sure he’s not listening to the three of you. “Best not to argue with him. He’s been upset since the meeting in the north.”

You sigh, mounting your horse and falling into line with them. “I don’t blame him. They claim to be brothers, yet won’t come to our aid.”

“Watch, once we reclaim our home, they’ll all be demanding payment from the stores of Erebor.” You cannot help but agree with Kili. You are a greedy people, there’s no denying it. The lust for gold, at times, can rival that of a dragon’s. But you were loyal, to a fault. How could they abandon you all so readily?

You look towards Thorin and feel yourself deflate. He has been different since the stirrings of the journey were brewing. More prone to anger, and quicker to draw his blade. Something dark awakes within him when he thinks of Erebor. Reclaiming your home will benefit you all, but you cannot help but fear the dragon that lurks beneath its bones.

Not the actual dragon, yes that’s terrifying, but the curse that lays over that gold could spell all your doom. You’d watched as it happened to one king, you don’t want to see another fall to the sickness.

You’re about to ride up to Thorin when you hear a voice shouting wildly behind you all. “Wait! Wait!” You glance over your shoulder, a grin slowly spreading across your lips. Bilbo chases after the company, waving his contract in the air.

Thorin frowns, bringing you all to a halt. Bilbo slides to a stop beside Balin. “I signed it,” he pants out, holding the contract out. The older dwarf frowns suspiciously, taking it from him and examining it through his lens.

After a moment he nods at Thorin, “He signed it,” he reaffirms. Thorin glances towards Bilbo and you can’t tell if he’s going to honor his word or not.

After a tense pause, Thorin finally nods, “Give him a pony.” Bilbo shakes his head and waves him off.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he insists. “I’m perfectly fine walking. You know I almost made the trek to-” Kili and Fili lean down and grab him by the jacket, hoisting him atop a pony.

They both sport sore frowns as you ride up beside them. “I do believe I’m owed something, gentlemen.” You hold your palms out expectantly, Bilbo gives you an odd look as they both slam their gold into your hands.

“What’s that?” He wonders as they ride off.

You smile down at him, “You’ve just made me a rich woman, Master Baggins. They had a bet, about whether or not you would show.”

His brows raise and he narrows his eyes at you. “You thought I would come?”

You laugh, “Obviously.” You chuckle a little and toss him one of the pouches, “Here. It’s only fitting you should have some.” You nudge the side of your mare, urging her forward. Bilbo watches as you ride off, face furrowed in confusion as he rolls the gold around in his palm.

He doesn’t know why you believing in him means so much, but it does.

“Something caught your eye?” Bilbo startles from his thoughts and turns towards Balin. The old dwarf smiles slightly, glancing over Bilbo’s shoulder towards you. Bilbo flusters, stuttering slightly on his words as he shakes his head.

“No,” Balin raises a brow and Bilbo shakes his head harder, scoffing. “No, not at all. I was only lost in thought.” Unwittingly, Bilbo’s gaze drifts back towards you. You’ve stripped off the heavy leathers of the day and are leaning over the fire, stirring some stew.

The light of the fire casts you in a sort of glow. You could be mistaken for an elf by someone passing by. You tuck a braid behind your ear, standing up and glancing around camp. When your gaze drifts past him, he’s quick to turn back around.

Balin is staring expectantly at him, giving him a cheeky smile. Bilbo’s quick to change the subject, not wanting to fan the flames of Balin’s assumption. “Are there other dwarf women,” he points vaguely towards you, “like her, I mean?”

Balin shakes his head, puffing on his pipe. “No, no one quite like her. She’s a fierce fighter and an even fiercer friend. She’s been working hard to campaign for this journey.”

“No,” Bilbo glances back towards you, ensuring you’re not listening. You’ve walked off, looking towards the ponies with a confused expression. “I mean, physically,” he rubs over his chin, miming where a beard is meant to be.

Balin huffs out a laugh. “No, it’s quite rare for any of us to be without beards. I don’t recommend bringing it up to her, it’s quite a sore subject. We think there might be some human blood, maybe even an elf somewhere down her line. It’s the only explanation for it.” He shakes his head with a sad smile, “A shame, truly.”

Bilbo continues to find himself more and more confused by his company. The way they speak of you, you’d think you were a troll, not a woman. “A shame? She’s,” he hesitates on the word, worrying it might be inappropriate. “She’s quite pretty,” he lands on.

Balin shrugs like there’s nothing to be done about it. “By any standard other than a dwarf’s. You have to understand, laddie, she’s a dwarf, despite appearances. No beard, too tall, she’s not pretty, as you said, to her people.”

Bilbo thinks it’s a horrible shame that you’re going to go through your whole life believing yourself to be some hideous creature. In truth, you’re one of the most beautiful women he’s ever met. He finds himself distracted every time your eyes meet his.

“Bilbo,” you pop up behind him, scaring him as you seem to be doing. You smile slightly and nod towards the edge of camp. “Come with me?” Bilbo’s eyes widen as he follows after you. For a horrible moment, he thinks you’ve heard his and Balin’s conversation.

You lead Bilbo into an outcrop of trees, there’s a little bit of firelight shining through ahead. His suspicions shift and he wonders if something else hasn’t gone wrong. Kili and Fili both stand by an overturned tree, peering over it and staring at something. Bilbo can’t see what it is from where he stands.

You stop beside them both, turning towards him and giving him an apologetic smile. “We need your help-”

“We were meant to be watching the ponies,” Kili interrupts.

“We’ve encountered a slight problem,” Fili motions toward the tree and Bilbo comes up to join them. “We had sixteen,” Bilbo looks to the pen where the ponies were being held and frowns.

“Now there’s fourteen,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face and glaring at Kili and Fili.

“Oh no,” Bilbo frets. He counts the ponies again, just to ensure that you all didn’t make a mistake. “Should we not tell Thorin?”

Your face blanches and you share a panicked look with the brothers. “No,” Fili quickly butts in. “No reason to worry him. You are, after all, our burglar. We thought you might be able to help us.”

“We think we know where they went,” you tell him. Bilbo glances between the three of you and not for the first time he wonders how he got himself mixed up with this adventure.

Trolls, trolls you could handle. Being tied up and thrown in a sack, nearly roasted alive and eaten. All of that was palatable. However, being hosted by elves was not. You sit at Elrond’s table and glare down at the vegetables before you.

Elves, you almost scoff as one of them dances by you with a flute. They think they’re so much better than dwarves, so much more sophisticated. You wouldn’t be surprised if they were born with that haughty look on their face.

It’s difficult to have an appetite when you have a rabbit’s dinner in front of you. It’s even harder when you’ve got Elrond’s men glaring holes into the back of your head. None of them trust you. And not because they expect you’re going to rob them. They simply don’t trust your table manners.

A bread roll thunks against your cheek and you grimace. You pick it up, tossing it back at Dwalin and laughing as it knocks his salad into his lap. Well, they might have good reason to doubt your table manners.

You sigh, bored of your meal and tired of all the noise. You stand from the table, slipping away from the others. Thorin catches your eye as you leave, giving you a brief nod farewell. You head down the stairs, toward the pond you saw earlier. Perhaps, while everyone else is eating and arguing with each other, you can cleanse yourself.

It’s been a long while on the road. Scrubbing yourself with rainwater hasn’t exactly done a wonderful job of keeping you clean. You’re used to always being on the move, but you’ve been able to settle down nicely enough in the mountains. It feels a little odd to be adventuring once more.

You can practically smell the elves' magic permeating the air around you. It’s light, it feels like a weight being removed from your shoulders. It tastes like something sweet dancing along your tongue.

As much as you despise Thranduil and his kingdom for abandoning your people, a part of you has to admit that Elrond held no part of that. They did not offer you aid or a place to rest, but he had no reason to. It’s wrong to hold your bitterness against him.

And it does not make a good king to so stubbornly reject Elrond’s help. You worry for Thorin, worry for his sanity when it comes to returning to Erebor. He’s so like his grandfather, it wouldn’t be so difficult for him to succumb to the same sickness Thror had.

You drag your fingers lightly over the marble of the elves' home. It’s impressive, the way the forest manages to grow through their walls. Their architecture is something to be admired, even if it is not as grand as Erebor once was.

You stumble upon the pond and strip out of your clothes. You dive into the pristine waters and are surprised when you feel no chill on your skin. The water is warm and it eases your aching bones. The stress melts away from your tightened muscles. If you weren’t so skeptical, you’d think the water held a magic of its own. Then again, Elrond’s Last Homely House is renowned for the healing capabilities it provides, perhaps it does.

You swim for a while, stretching your limbs and floating along the surface of the water. The sky darkens above you and the stars appear.

The view on the road is always gorgeous and usually left unblanketed by clouds. But this is absolutely breathtaking. You feel as though you could reach up and steal a star for yourself.

You pull yourself onto the shore of the pond and find that your clothes have been taken. A white, gossamer gown hangs on the branch of a tree, and your brows furrow. “Elves,” you hiss with disdain. You wonder which one of the flighty things had left this while you’d been swimming. You’re sure whoever it was got quite the show. You pull the gown on and ponder going back to the others.

You can hear their laughter from here. You know they’ve probably found food that you can actually stomach but you can’t bring yourself to leave the peaceful serenity of the water just yet.

Bilbo does not want to admit that he was looking for you. He simply dismisses the idea as wanting to explore more of Elrond’s home. After all, he’s never gone further than the shire. He’d had the desire to, once, when he was a child. He’d all but abandoned that for the comfort of home.

He can see why he had once wanted to see the elves so badly. The entire place is filled to the brim with magic and people older than the oak trees surrounding the Shire. He seems to be the only one recognizing how truly wonderful this place is. He knows the others all want to leave. He can see how restless they are the longer they stay.

He wonders if you feel the same way. He cannot tell, he finds it harder to read you than he does the others. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s afraid of thinking of you for too long or if you are simply an enigma to him.

He ascends the stairs, gazing out at the forest and smiling as the breeze brushes against him. Something catches his eye by the glittering waters of the pond and he frowns. He peers further over the railing and spots what must be another elf. They’re surrounded by starlight, basking in the glow of the night. Their beauty is nearly breathtaking.

Imagine his surprise when they turn and it’s you. His eyes widen infinitesimally and he backs away from the rail before you can see him. Why does he keep mistaking you for an elf?

Bilbo finds himself moving before he really thinks about what he’s doing. Your back is to him as you drape yourself along one of the rocks near the shore. Your toes dip slightly into the water and he can just barely hear you humming to yourself.

He’s caught completely off guard by the sight of your hair. Damp and curling, it lay along your back without any braids. It’s the first time he’s seen any of the dwarves without a braid in their hair. He doesn’t have a vast amount of knowledge of your culture, but he feels as though it’s taboo to have your hair unbound like this.

He clears his throat awkwardly and you shoot up in surprise. Your hand drifts to your hip where he’s sure there’s usually a dagger. Tonight, though, you are wholly unarmed. The thought doesn’t seem to bring you much comfort as you narrow your eyes at him.

“Bilbo,” you call out, slightly breathless. “You scared me.”

He gives a strained smile and laughs, taking a hesitant step towards you. You sit up straighter and beckon him closer. He obliges embarrassingly fast, taking a seat beside you at the edge of the pond. He doesn’t even mind as moisture and mud stain his pants.

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice light and tired.

“I was going for a walk,” and wondering where you had gone, he thinks to himself. But that is not something he is ready to admit to you, yet. You’re still practically strangers.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

He nods and the question that’s been lingering in his mind slips out. “How do you know Thorin?” You give him a confused look and he quickly adds, “You’re the only woman in the company, I’m only curious.”

“Oh,” you smile slightly and look towards the water. “I believe he’s my distant uncle, possibly a few times removed.” He frowns and you laugh, “The family tree grows a tad confusing. We’d gone through a long list of kings named Durin and the familial relations got hard to keep track of. It’s possible we might not share blood at all. But the dragon had left me orphaned and I was raised alongside Fili and Kili, blood or no, we’re family.”

There’s a faint smile on your face as you speak of the others and it makes a small one form for him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “losing your family, it must have been incredibly hard.”

You shake your head, shrugging his apology off. “No need, I was too young to truly remember them. Besides,” you gesture towards the balcony above and you both listen as the others laugh, “I’ve got more than enough now.”

It’s admirable, how loyal you all are to each other. Bilbo’s almost envious of your bond with the others. It’s clear each of you would die for your king, for your home. It’s a dedication and purpose he has never had.

“Do you miss the shire?” You ask, curious and not accusing as Thorin often is. “I imagine life on the road is nothing compared to the comforts of home.”

“Yes,” he answers so quickly it makes you both laugh. Your face lights up when you smile and you smile so little. But when you do, it makes his breath catch. He grows even happier when he’s the reason for it.

“I do miss home. But,” he leans in and you follow, smirking like you’re sharing a secret. “I must admit, adventuring is not as bad as I once thought.”

“Ah,” you lean back, “we’re poisoning you Master Burglar. Soon you’re not going to want to go back.” Well, Bilbo would not go so far as to say that, but you do have a point. The recklessness of the dwarves has seemed to be influencing him, just a tad.

“Well,” he hums and shakes his head slightly. He catches the teasing smile on your lips and doesn’t bother correcting you. “Maybe,” you look a little surprised that he played along and it only makes him more amused.

His eyes drift towards your hair before looking back at you. You give him a self-conscious smile, idly running a hand over the strands. “I took them out to bathe, I didn’t have the energy to rebraid.”

He speaks before he can even think. Perhaps it is the joy of being alone with you that loosens his tongue so foolishly. “I could braid it for you.”

Your eyes widen with shock and you ever-so-slightly flinch back from him. “Do you,” you clear your throat, practically gaping at him. He doesn’t know what about what he just said is so appalling to you but he wishes he’d just never spoken at all. “Do you mean that?”

“Well,” he mutters lowly, “I suppose. Yes,” it sounds more like a question than anything. He can’t help but wonder what he just offered in your culture.

You blink rapidly, pushing your shoulders back and straightening. “Alright,” you whisper and there’s a giddy grin on your lips that he can’t help but be suspicious of. “I’d love it if you would.”

He gets to his feet, moving to stand behind you and idly running his hand through the damp strands of your hair. He doesn’t do many, just enough to keep your hair out of your eyes as you’re on the road. But you seem to get more and more restless with each one he adds.

Finally, when he’s done, he takes a step back and gives you a strained smile. “There you are.”

You get to your feet, running your hand over the braids. “Oh,” your eyes widen as you feel them. “You put quite a few.”

He glances away from you and looks to the tree beside him like might hold the answers to this bizarre encounter. “Was I not meant to?”

You shake your head rapidly and wave him off. “Oh, no, this is wonderful.” You wince and give him a strained smile, “I mean, it’s good. Thank you,” before he can question you on your odd behavior you run off. He watches with a furrowed brow as you rush up the stairs to the dwarves' quarters.

He’s absolutely bewildered as he makes his way up a moment later. He can’t imagine what he could have done to offend you simply by offering to braid your hair. When he makes it to the quarters, he’s not greeted with the rowdy laughter and loud conversation he was expecting.

Instead, the majority of the dwarves are huddled around the fire, whispering lowly amongst themselves. When he walks in each of them turns towards him so quickly he nearly runs back out of the room. He can’t imagine what he could have done to have warranted such odd reactions from both you and the company.

“Er,” he skirts around them, or attempts to at least, “good night.”

“Bilbo,” he clenches his eyes shut, sighing as Thorin calls his name. Whatever he had done, any attempts at escaping the consequences are thrown out the window. He turns towards Thorin who's standing in the corner, away from the others. He waves him forward.

Bilbo feels very much like a child about to be scolded as the others watch him move towards Thorin. Thorin glances towards the others and lets out a heavy sigh. He walks outside and Bilbo follows him down the stairs and back to the path he was on before.

“I doubt you know what you’ve done,” Thorin grumbles bitterly. He looks to Bilbo who only shakes his head. “Braids mean a great deal to us, I don’t imagine they hold much meaning for hobbits.”

“No, they don’t.” Bilbo glances back towards the balcony, and he sees you standing there. The moonlight still shines down upon you and he still can’t fathom that you would ever believe yourself to be anything but beautiful.

“She is young, but she’s not a fool. I’m sure she knows that you didn’t mean anything by giving her courting braids,” Thorin emphasizes the words with a severe look. Bilbo curses his foolishness under his breath. He can’t believe he’s done something so stupid. “Did you?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo shakes his head quickly, “No, of course not. I didn’t-”

“Know,” Thorin finishes for him. “I know. Could you?”

Bilbo looks up at him with a confused scrunch to his face. “Could I… what?” he asks hesitantly.

“Could you ever care for her like that?” Bilbo goes to answer but Thorin interrupts him before he can. “She’ll never have any luck with her own people, not with the way she looks. If anyone did marry her, it would only be so they could be closer to the king and I don’t want that for her. I’m not asking you to marry her Master burglar, I’m only asking if you’d ever consider it.”

Thorin leaves Bilbo standing right back at the pond. He goes back to join the others and when Bilbo turns to watch him go, you wave at him from the balcony. He considers what Thorin said, and considers how he feels every time you two get a chance to be alone.

He entertains the idea for a moment, but it's foolish. Even if he was truly in love with you, you were two completely different people. You were used to the road, always looking for a new adventure. Bilbo knew he would only ever have one great adventure in his life. His heart would always call him back to the Shire, back to home.

He smiles and waves back at you. He watches you go back inside and he stays by the pond, thinking of what it could be like.

The last time you see Bilbo is at Thorin’s funeral. You’re consumed by your grief and can’t spare him any attention. Three men to be mourned. The last of your true family is dead while another sits the throne that Thorin had earned.

You can’t help but weep over their bodies, can’t help but leave the room so you won’t have to look at them any longer. You run from the procession, and that’s when you see him. Slipping away from everything like a proper thief.

“Bilbo?” You call out, your voice is watery and thick. He lingers by the entrance of the mountain. His shoulders jump to his ears as he tenses at the sound of your voice. He turns back to you, offering you a weak smile. “Leaving?” You question, a weak tease lying somewhere in your tone.

He nods, “I thought it would be better like this.”

“You didn’t think we’d want to say goodbye?” Bofur’s voice echoes behind you. You turn to find the others all standing there, watching as Bilbo tries to leave. You must not have been the only one unable to stomach seeing another wearing the crown.

Dain had fought for you all, he’d come to your aid when you needed him most. He’d earned the title of king. But that didn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.

Bilbo laughs sadly when he sees the rest of the company. You’re sure he thought it would be less painful to simply leave you all. But you needed some sort of closure with him. Even though you’d always known that nothing could ever truly happen between the two of you, you still weren’t ready to let go.

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End,” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “tea is at four. There’s plenty of it.” His gaze drifts towards you and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eye, “You are always welcome.”

You only know he’s gone when you hear his footsteps retreating. Pain and heartache make a coward out of you. You don’t chase him or call out to him as you should. You watch him leave and you let him go.

One Year Later

The clock chimes just half past four and a knock rings out through Bag End. Bilbo frowns, head lifting from the map he’s working on. He pauses and his home remains silent. He shakes his head, dismissing it as a hopeful illusion. Just as he places the quill back on the parchment another rapid set of knocks ring out.

This time it’s persistent. It grates on him as his door rattles from the force. Bilbo huffs, “A moment, please!” He snaps, glaring at whoever lurks behind his door. Another impatient knock and he wonders if it would be wrong to get Sting out of the chest by the door.

He stomps towards the door, grabs the knob, and throws it open, “What-”

He cuts himself off, eyes widening and face going slack with shock as you smile at him. You’re here. You’re here and standing before him and he almost wonders if he’s dreaming of you again.

“Master Bobbins?” You tease, a watery laugh leaving your parted lips.

“What-” he stutters and stumbles over his words, not even sure what to say. He’s barely processed the fact that you’re even here.

You shrug, “I’m sorry I’m so late. I was hoping to get here at four but Bofur had some problems on the road,” you cut yourself off and give him a breathless laugh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a while.”

Bilbo can only smile, something thick and choking hanging at the back of his throat. He feels his chest tighten and he shakes his head. “Please,” he breathes out, “stay.”

You grin at him, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes as you take a step inside. “You planted the tree,” you point out, looking toward the sapling growing by his home.

“It reminds me of,” he trails off. It reminds him of everything. Thorin, the adventure, all the friends he’d left behind. You. You nod, not needing words to understand him. “What are you doing here?” He asks, not yet having processed what you’d said.

“I thought it was time for a different adventure,” you tell him, your hand grazing against his as you smile at him. You walk into his home and Bilbo closes the door behind you, already thinking of a million ways your adventure could begin.

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idcwhattheuseris · 2 months ago

Text

Iron Chains and Other Precious Metals

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Summary: Erebor has been reclaimed. But a dark, sinister curse lays over the riches of the mountain, a curse that Thorin succumbs to all too quickly. As the dragon sickness takes its toll, you try desperately to keep the peace.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: dragon sickness!thorin and absolutely everything that comes with it

“It is in these halls. I know it.”

“Thorin, we have searched and searched.” Dwalin was the first to speak.

“Not well enough. Have them scout the west halls, send them to the mines if you have to.”

“Thorin, they have been searching for days–”

“And yet it is still not found!” The ferocity in his words left you feeling hollow, bouncing off the stone walls and rattling in your chest. “The Arkenstone lies within this mountain and I will see it returned. It is the king's jewel. Am I not the king?!”

Balin, the hardened warrior that he was, seemed to be the only one amongst the few of you brave enough to respond to his words. “Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” He asked.

Thorin fell back on his heel like a scorned child. His gaze, deathly and accusing, lost a fraction of its malice as it turned on you and Bilbo. You both stood behind the dwarf, Bilbo to his right and you to his left with the shadow of the broken throne at your backs. His eyes swept over you quickly before turning once again to his fellow dwarves before him. “Know this, if someone should find it and keep it from me they will know vengeance beyond that of dragon fire.”

Each of you bowed your heads as he left, less as a mark of respect and more so to avoid catching his eye. The moment he was gone, air seemed to return to the room. Dwalin made an irritated, rough sound deep in his throat and Bilbo shuffled his feet, feeling awfully small where he stood. Balin caught your eye and the heaviness in his stare caused a weight of unease to settle within your lungs.

“I’ll go speak to him,” you decided, voice thin as your breaths came late.

“I’m not sure it will do any good,” Balin said. “Thorin is his father’s son, once fire is stoked in him it's near impossible to put out.”

Silence took the room again and remained until you left.

The gentle crush of frost beneath your boots announced you as you ascended the rampart steps. Winter was coming, its icy beginnings painting themselves across the ancient stone of the mountain. Your eyes fell on the burning embers of Laketown in the distance, a kindling ruin against the darkened sky. You wondered for the very briefest of moments if an end by dragon fire would have been kinder than the harsh months that lay ahead of the townspeople.

Thorin stood off to your right, in the very centre of the battlements.

“We've come all this way, and for what?” He didn't look to you as he spoke and so you didn't answer. “The line of Durin, my kin has had claim of the stone since the first days of Erebor, without it I am no more than the dwarf that laboured in the villages of men. A vagabond–”

“You are king, Thorin.” The words came to you easy. “With or without the Arkenstone. Just as you were king before we had the mountain. To me and each dwarf that has followed you all this way.”

Something shifted behind Thorin’s eyes and for a moment you hoped he’d seen sense. Then his jaw set. “The stone–”

“–will be found. Have patience.” The realisation that you’d given an order, and rather offhandedly so, to a monarch caught up to you slowly but the anger that plagued Thorin back in the throne room seemed to have dissolved into something far more timid. And he smiled at your words.

“I fear it is a virtue I do not possess.”

“I'm inclined to agree.” You rested your arms over the stone, shoulder brushing against the king and as you looked out upon the night it felt as though you were back on the road, sleeping under great oaks and finding rest in the sheltered caverns the blue mountains would offer. It was odd, you thought, that you felt far richer then than you did now. “Have faith in us, Thorin. Faith in your company.”

You understood Thorin’s wrath and his fear. It came from wounds that had decades to heal and had not yet begun to scab. Wounds left by broken spears, shattered shields and dragon fire. A prince without a kingdom and a son without a father, Thorin’s pain was palpable and if it manifested in stormy bouts of anger and accusation then you’d learn to weather them.

The fires in the distance clawed against the night, reaching up into the dark and showing no sign of resignation. Somewhere on the outskirts of the settlement, a burning townhouse crumbled into the water.

“Balin and Fili have begun preparations, we should be ready to send them aid by tomorrow morn,” you said. “Everything we can spare.”

“You will do no such thing.” the unforgiving edge had returned to Thorin’s voice. “What lies within these halls are the birthrights of my people.”

“Thorin.” With uneasy appallment, you turned to him. “They've lost everything.”

“Do not speak to me of loss. They do not know the meaning of the word.” His words were harsh and left no room for you to argue. “Nothing leaves this mountain. I will not see our wealth squandered on the likes of them.”

A deep cavern opened up beneath your ribs and you felt hallowed by the orders you’d been given. Erebor held a sea of riches, just a portion of its gold would be enough to rebuild the settlement of Lake Town ten times over, to refill its streets with merriment and ensure its people lived with bountiful meals and warm beds. Even the old fabrics and clothes that sat untouched in the belly of the mountain would be worth their weight in gold to the townsfolk now.

But Throin’s orders and the unwavering harshness with which he gave them rang ceaselessly in your mind like clanging bells.

You met with Balin in secrecy. Even in the cavernous halls and unending tunnels of the mountain, it was a difficult task. There was always the fear Thorin would stumble upon you both, he stalked the halls so ceaseless in his determination to find the arkenstone it was a fair concern. You worried he no longer slept.

“Dragon sickness.” The words hang heavily as Balin speaks them, as stale and difficult to breathe as the air of the crypt you stand in. “A terrible illness, a desperate need for gold. It is a fierce and jealous love that burns above all else. It took his grandfather, I fear it will take him too.”

The genuine anguish upon the dwarf's features, the most steadfast of the company, causes you to falter. Balin is wise beyond his many years, he'd seen the same ailment take hold of Thror and if he believes that Thorin will succumb to the same faith, you find yourself fearing the worst.

“The Arkenstone–” you try to reason but Balin shakes his head, his beard almost brushing the floor.

“Will only solidify such greed. That stone is the summit of the mountain's great wealth. A dragon protects its hoard. And the more precious it's plunder,” Balin shakes his head. “The more aggressive the beast.”

You heed Balin's words. How can you not in such a time of uncertainty? And as predicted, Thorin only grows more volatile. His virtue diminishes with each new day, his noble ways crumbling like worn stone in his hunt for more gold. Few of you are spared from the ferocity of his outbursts. One of which stands to show just how far the king had fallen.

During another meeting that had become all too common in Thorin's haste to find the Arkenstone, Kili's criticism, intended for his uncle, stirs the king instead. Fili, who'd always tried to make the best peace, stepped in and the scuffle that followed nearly sent the young Dwarven prince over the edge of the throne room floor.

The harrowing moment invites a deathly silence. But when you catch sight of Bilbo, who never had any kind of stomach for confrontation, flee the room, you follow after him.

A hobbit's ability to disappear and go unseen proves to be true as you twist and turn through the stone warren that is Erebor as you follow after the halfling with no sign of him. Each call of his name bounces off the stone, and after a dizzying few minutes of navigating the many interlinking halls, you find Bilbo sat alone, his small form hunched against the stone.

“Bilbo, I–” Your reassuring words fall flat as your eyes fall upon the slight glow that emits from his hands, something the halfling rushes to hide as he looks up at you. His eyes are wide, frantic and frightened and your face pales with realisation. It's not an assumption, it couldn't possibly be anything else. You've been searching for it for weeks, since first reclaiming the mountain. You knew exactly what sat in the hobbit's hands.

“How...”

“I mean to give it to him, I do!” Bilbo rushes to explain. “I was not keeping it for myself, you must believe me!”

You sink to your knees, evening out the height between you both in an attempt to reassure him. Your hands settle against his thin, trembling arms. “I don't doubt you, Bilbo, not for a moment.” Your voice is as steady as you can keep it, eyes shifting to where his hand remains in his pocket. “May I...”

He follows through before you can finish the request, pulling the stone from his tattered coat and holding it before you. Suddenly, for the briefest of moments, Thorin's lust for the gem seems justified. It shines like a star fallen to earth, sitting in Bilbo's palm like a shard of divinity, a rightful giver of a divine right to rule. You can almost feel the promise of power, the stone's alluring pull. How easy it would be to take it from a creature as small as the halfling–

It's Bilbo's words that draw you back to reality. “We can give it to him right now. This very moment. End this madness–”

“No!” You rush, the halfling starting slightly at your words. You cannot afford for the gem to fall into Thorin's hands. Not now when doing so would forsake him entirely. “No.”

You rake your brain. You could take it, destroy it, toss it into the cavernous mouth of the mines... But could you truly trust yourself to let it go when its call is so great? You could give it to Balin. But dwarves, with their natural love for all things shining and bright, could a dwarf, even one as steadfast as Balin, remain immune to dragon sickness?

You swallow then, hand shifting to close Bilbo's fingers around the stone. “You need to keep it.”

The hobbit visibly panics, eyes widening as his body goes stiff. “No, no, no, no, I can't! I won't! If Thorin finds out–”

“If he finds out the stone has been found it will corrupt him beyond recognition.” Your hands squeeze gently around Bilbo's hands, tightening his hold on the gem. Your breathing grows slightly frantic as you think. The stone must stay hidden and you've come to realise that it's already in the safest hands it can be. “Bilbo, you need to keep it hidden, keep itout of sight. Don't breathe a word to anyone, not even the company.”

The request evidently weighs heavily on his shoulders, his small stature shrinking further at your words. Your hand shifts to cradle his head, curls against your palm. The desperation in your eyes stresses the severity of it all.

“Do you understand?” You stress, voice straining.

Bilbo's features twist with notable anxiety, nose twitching and eyes widening. He nods feebly then, lips pulled in a tight line. You hate that you've forced him into such a position, but you truly don't know what else to do.

If Thorin were to gain the stone now, you can't help but fear you'll lose far more than just him, that his corruption will seep into far greater schemes, like rotting roots into the earth.

You walk timidly around Thorin after that, far more timidly than before, as though one wrong footing would snap a twig and set the vicious manifestations of his paranoia upon you like dogs on a deer.

He grows far more hostile, speaking less but with greater anger when he does, a burning rage that gains more kindling with each passing day.

He hadn't left the Great Hall in near a week. He didn't eat nor sleep, simply stood there, nearly blinded by the gold's mighty glow.

“Look at it,” he breathes as you approach him one night, steps quiet against the marble stone. His hand reaches out, hovering before him as if to touch the gold that fills the hall before him. “Beautiful.”

Your gaze shifts from the amassed wealth to Thorin, even such a small action carried out with caution in his presence.

“Thorin.” His eyes don't leave the hoard of precious metal, it's dim glow painting his features golden. You say his name again.

When his gaze meets yours it's almost crazed, wild with a hunger, a lust.

“Is it not?” A ghost of a smile reaches his lips and it's unnatural, almost uncomfortable. It's the first time you've seen him smile in weeks. “Beautiful.”

“It is a sight,” you answer, entirely unsure of what else to say. To argue would be to invite his rage and you couldn't bear it. Not when he's smiling.

He laughs at that, a quiet breathless sound and you shiver.

“And it is ours. Ours alone.”

The word hangs in the air, the weight of it slowing time. He seems to mistake your disbelief for something else. His hand shifts and curls around something in the pocket of his regal furs. It's a deep blue, the necklace he produces, gems darker than the great sea strung together by little white jewels that shimmer like stardust in the light.

“A gift.” He raises the jewellery and in your speechless shock, you bow your head so that he can slip it on. His fingers ghost over where the jewels rest upon your chest, precious stones looking all the more fragile beneath the density of his hand. “A mark of honesty.”

You feel a little ill, guilt and a sense of helplessness knawing away at you. Thorin, in his haze, mistakes it for humbleness.

“Don't you see? You are the only one I can trust,” he says, voice breathy and faint. His gaze falters. “The only one...”

It feels like an opening, a sliver of sunlight pouring through a crack in a grimy window. It's almost a faint glimpse of the old him shining through the dirt. “Thorin, we have the mountain. Erebor is reclaimed. Isn't... isn't that enough?”

Your hand shifts to brush Thorin's as you speak, but he pulls away from the touch. He seems almost wounded by your words and when he speaks again, his tone seems to beg for your understanding.

“Have you not heard their mutterings?” He asks frantically. “They conspire, they mean to take it all for themselves. The stone has been found, I know it. But they keep it from me–”

“Thorin,” you try, and in your desperation, your hand brushes his shoulder. “Do you truly doubt us? After everything? All we've persevered together, what would possess us to leave you now?” You hope it's not evident how close you'd come to saying 'me' instead of 'us.'

But the words, desperate as they were, seem to work magic as Thorin's expression begins to crumble, softening slowly at first until his very eyes lighten.

You sigh a trembling breath. “Thorin, I–”

“Thorin!” Dwalin's commanding voice cuts you short. “Survivors from Lake Town, they're streaming towards the mountain in the hundreds. The elf is with them.”

You watch as the brief softness in the dwarf's expression dissolves, a bitter and vindictive shadow taking its place.

“Call everyone to the gate. Now!” He brushes past you so harshly it almost throws you off balance. “They are fools to think Erebor will be desecrated so easily.”

The bitter wind bites at you, winter sunlight catching upon your armour as you join the company. They stand as some inverted visage of the last number of months, jovial group turned stoic. Before you is an army of elves, so great in number they blend into one great golden adversary. You find your place beside Thorin and catch sight of Gandalf other side of the wall, your armour begins to feel heavy, fusing you to the stone beneath you, a soldier upon a chess board, the pieces neither black nor white but a horribly muddled grey.

“We have come with good tidings,” Thranduil speaks. “For your debt to our people has been paid, and handsomely so.”

Thorin bristles at the words from the decorated forest king, bares his teeth in antagonised warning.

“I have given you nothing. You will not see a single shred of what belongs to my kin.”

Thranduil shares a glance with the bowman and your fingers twitch, overcome with the same itching desire you feel at the beginning of a battle that longs for you to grab your sword. Bard’s hand slips beneath his furs and what he produces is far more deadly than any weapon. The Arkenstone.

You see the change in Thorin, feel it from where you stand by his side. In your mind's eye, his skin turns to scales, fingers sharpening into talons and his head splits with the growth of a twisted horned crown. “Liars,” he hisses, as though molten fire burns in his throat. “Thieves!”

You stand on the precipice of war, neither the dwarves nor elves before you see the carnage they threaten with these foolish shows of power. A battle for the stone and its sickly blue glow. You seek out Gandalf, hoping to catch his eye, to implore him to bring about some semblance of sanity.

“They’re not thieves, it wasn’t stolen.”

You freeze, a cavern opening beneath your lungs. Bilbo moves between the company until he stands before Thorin andyou feel you’ve just watched a lamb willingly lay before the butcher. He doesn’t realise the goodness of his actions will not purify him and you shake your head, eyes already glossy, imploring and pleading with him for it to not be true. To not say it if it is.

“I gave it to them, as my share of the quest,” he says. You feel sick. Thorin’s rage is silent, silent in the same way a predator is silent.

“You, you would steal from me?” He growls, and his own kin falter. Bilbo panics, seeming to fully grasp the danger he is now in for the first time. He frantically meets your eye before looking back to the king.

“I stole nothing. I- you are changed, Thorin. The mere idea of the stone has already driven you to madness!”

“Thorin-” you attempt to intervene, reaching for his shoulder, and he shrugs you off so aggressively you stumble. The company mutters, some shifting to steady you on your feet, others watching wearily as the king sizes up the hobbit.

“Petulant, little rat,” he spits. He grabs Bilbo’s arm in such a vice grip you fear it will snap. Bofur and Kili rush to free him but Thorin yanks the halfling away so harshly his feet leave the floor. “Retrieve the stone, do what you must,” he barks at Balin and Fili as he drags Bilbo along, back towards the steps, descending back into the mountain like a drake with its sacrificial lamb. “I have a more pressing matter to see to.”

You follow as though their shadow, racing down the stone. You catch them just as they enter the great hall. Thorin recoils his arm like a whip, sending Bilbo to the ground, his words as searing as dragon fire.

“Thorin, enough!” Your voice bellows and he turns on you.

“You,” he accuses. “you stay in our halls, our home,” he raises an accusatory finger. “Know your place. ” He spits out the final words.

“Leave him be,” you warn, and when the king remains silent and unmoving, you glance at Bilbo, where his small body lays crumpled against the stone and nod. He gasps as he gets onto his feet, and steadies himself before attempting to rush to your side. He’s cut short by the press of sharpened iron to his middle.

Thorin is crazed, his sword blocking the halfling's way, the weapon looking so much more formidable against such a powerless foe. Bilbo’s breaths come short and fast and you speak the king’s name with more contempt and warning than your mind had ever associated with him. “I said leave him.”

Thorin tilts his head in a way that leaves you incredibly uneasy. “Thorin, you have no quarrel with him, he is your friend-”

“Friend? He is a lying shire rat forced upon this company, a thief, liar!”

He roars, and then metal meets metal. Your sword crosses his and somewhere deep within the depths of his clouded iris, the old Thorin stirs, regarding you with shock. “He did not lie to you,” You gasp, fingers clenched around the hilt of your weapon. “I did. I knew of the stone, I counselled him to keep it hidden. To keep it from you.” Another roar tears from him as he raises his sword. You block the attempt, teeth bared as your weapons clash. Bilbo makes it to the steps behind you, Bofur and Balin there to retrieve him, they both have the good sense to leave. At the very least to get the halfling somewhere safe before they return.

You regard your current position with a nauseous familiarity; locked in battle, the mighty gold hoard your backdrop. Thorin’s enraged roars grow more animalistic each time his weapon meets yours. His eyes have sunken into darkened coals, his breaths ragged and growling. You feel locked in some ancient tapestry, a knight made up of silver threads facing off against a fire drake.

“You are changed, Thorin!” You yell, having just dodged an assault of his blade. “You’ve forsaken your loyalty, your honour, your own kin!”

“Silence!” His movements are groggy, lazy, hunched over and heavy. He is no longer a warrior, made slothful by greed. “I will not be counselled by you, an honourless child of man that crawls the lowlands, made a leper by your own people. You have spewed poison in my ear, corrupted my mind, tried to set in me a mercy for the likes of them!”

“The likes of them?” You ask, made breathless by the audacity of his words. “The likes without homes? The likes that run from dragonfire? You forget who you are.”

He roars again, his blade near kissing your cheek. But the corruption of his mind has made him slow, his movements languish and he topples, sword clattering onto the stone. You kick it away from his grasp. It’s a pitiful sight, seeing how far the king has fallen, how the dwarf you would have once followed anywhere has become so devoid of all honour.

“Look at what you have become,” your eyes cloud at the sight of the tragedy before you. “You’re no king, not anymore.” You drop your own sword, surrendering to the illness that has claimed him, the shadowed serpent that clings to him. “Have your gold, keep your treasure. I will not stay and watch you rot any longer.”

You turn with an aching chest. It kills you, the thought of walking away. But you can sit and watch him orchestra his own destruction no longer. With your back to the king, you ignore his desperate shouts for you to turn back, pick up your weapon and fight. When they dissolve into pleas for your help, for your forgiveness, you still do not turn.

You miss the shadow on the stone wall, the drag of sharpened iron against stone as a weapon is lifted from its place on the ground. It’s too late before you feel it, a sudden blow to your head, dull and heavy. The world spins and your vision blackens as you meet the harsh coolness of the stone beneath you.

You wake to cool iron around your wrists, the shine of jewels catching your eyes as you groggily blink them open. The carved stone wall of the cell is coloured a warm yellow by the reflection of the gold that pools around you, the small room having been filled with it. Your skin feels warm and heavy, weighed down by the silver that now decorates your limbs. The necklace is stained slightly red from where the wound upon your head had bled. You can almost make him out before you, frame made obscure by your blurred vision.

“What is this?” Your voice is hoarse. “Thorin, what is this madness?”

He lights his pipe, embers painting his features gold, the shadows cast by the burning leaves hardening his features. “I did not understand, why you of all of them would turn against me,” he begins, voice low. He sounds dangerously calm, as though sobered by the knowledge that your distrust in him had run so deep you drew your sword against him. “But I see now.”

He draws closer until you can smell the smoke upon his breath, taste it in the back of your throat. His fingers brush your chin and you twist away from the touch. But he does not relent, caressing up past your temple, brushing wishfully against your hair. “It was never meant to be like this, to come to such bleak detrimentality. But you are blinded by virtue-” His fingers ghost over your eyes. His voice is almost mournful, weighted by self-appointed duty. “-honour, foolish sentimentalities. But you will see in time, just as I have come to see.”

He pulls back, retreating like a shadow. “Once I have the stone it will show you. You will understand.”

Realisation greets you, chilling in its arrival. “Thorin-”

The sound of the metal bars meeting the stone doorway as it closes makes your bones ache, and your heart drop.

“You will understand,” He repeats. He no longer sounds like himself. He does not answer your desperate shouts, does not so much as react to them. He continues as he walks away, disappearing back into the mountains depths of darkness and gold. “One way or another, you will.”

thank you for reading <3

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idcwhattheuseris · 2 months ago

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Shutupshutupshutupshutipshutup this is so cute I could actually stop breathing

❀ - so confusing sometimes | multi

Description: i have a request for some beautiful lotr elves! how would they react to their human s/o being so…human? sleep talking, bumping their hips on a counter, catching their clothes on doorknobs, expressive, etc? REQUEST

Thranduil. Legolas. Elrond.

A/N: I wanted to squeeze as much elves in here but alas I only wanted to make this for the elves that (i feel like) i know.

Thranduil of Greenwood (Sleep-Talking)

He's been having difficulties with sleep.

It all started after the darkness took hold of his kingdom, placing his people's lives in danger. How was he to rest? When his soldiers were risking their lives fighting against the darkness - all while he had the luxury of sleep, on a soft bed with his lady-wife beside him.

His human.

Gods, another reminder of why he cannot sleep.

He fears that time will steal you away from him. Your life was a mere blink of an eye to him, a minute of rain and he'll be thrown back into the barren desert. He cannot bare to lose you. It will consume his soul with grief. It will ruin him. It will kill him.

"Catch the fish, Thran." you mumbled in your sleep.

He raises an eyebrow, believing you to be awake. "It's a big one." you continued mumbling, while burrowing deeper into the sheets. "Meleth," he whispers, wrapping his arms around you. "But I feel bad, we should let it go." you hummed.

He forgets about his fears - his anxiety.

You looked adorable while sleeping - evidently still dreaming about the summer you both spent in Laketown. Before the darkness. Before the clock ticked against your favor.

"I am quite hungry." you bit your lower lip.

Thranduil chuckles, pulling your body closer until your head was on his chest. "Continue dreaming, my love. I hope that you find light in your dreams, as we've been surrounded by darkness as of the late." he whispered, although you were unable to hear.

Still dreaming about the past, and mumbling strings of incoherent words about fish and lunch.

Legolas of Greenwood (Bumping their hips on a counter)

Legolas was perhaps the most hilarious elf in all of Arda. He likes making jokes, sharing anecdotes of all the trees he's had a conversation with. He's always on top of a tree, coming home all covered in mud. He was adorable.

But he was still an elf.

He still possessed grace and elegance. He's never scraped his knees as a child. He never loses his balance. He always has his shoulders squared, and walking in a straight line.

"Chocolate is evidently better than vanilla." he rolled his eyes at you.

"You are an elfling." you say plainly, continuing to mix the batter for his father's nameday cake. "Chocolate is naturally better. When an elfling wants to be happy, they don't reach for the vanilla, they climb the counter and reach for the hidden chocolate." he defends.

But you can see through him. He's a sweet-tooth.

"You told me that Ada's favorite flavor was vanilla." you reminded, referring back to the conversation you had about your good-father.

"- but I am also his favorite child, which means that I will have the biggest piece of cake. I want to eat chocolate." he pleaded.

"You are his only child, Las." your eyes narrowed teasingly. The humans were always quick to point out the chasm between your ages, but Legolas acted more like an elfling sometimes.

"- and you will eat chocolate cake on your nameday" you walk past him.

Bumping your hips on the counter.

"Ow," you flinch, and his eyes widen.

"What was that? Are you okay? Are you hurt?" he wrapped his arms around you, caging you in his warm embrace.

"Are you sick? Is that normal?" he continued asking, concern flashing through his blue irises. The pain subsides, but his concern does not. "Should I call for a healer?" he inquired.

Why was he so worried? You only bumped your hips on the counter. He continues staring deep into your irises, checking your eyes for any sign that you were feeling pain.

You piece his reaction together.

Damn.

"My wife." he repeats firmly, snapping you back into reality. "Las," you say before beginning to laugh.

Your reaction catches him off guard. "Why are you laughing at me?" his eyebrows merge together, his face turning serious. "There's nothing to worry about, I just bumped into something." you comfort.

"There's something wrong with your eyes. We must have it healed." he insists, but you shake your head. "It's normal, Las." you smile.

"- you mean to tell me that you didn't see it?" he was flabbergasted.

His face softens, his eyebrows return to their normal place. You answer him with silence and with silence he understands. You are human, same in face as the elves - but still human nonetheless. "I'm sorry," he apologized, you wrap him in a warm embrace.

Ultimately forgetting about the cake you were baking.

Elrond Peredhel (Catching their clothes on doorknobs.)

Elrond's heart heaves at the sight of that scowl on your face. His lady-wife whose anger quickly turns into sadness. "Meleth, please, talk to me." he pleaded - like a lost little puppy. "I can't believe that you've left me in the dark about the Fellowship." you frowned.

You've been married for a decade, and he's always told you everything. What he ate for breakfast, luncheon and dinner. He even shares with you the types of wine he drank. You trusted each other with even the tiniest details of your lives, but why did he lie?

"I do not wish for danger to happen upon you. The great darkness has been marching against us. I fear that those forces take you." he confessed, keeping his voice low. "- but there is no use in hiding that from you, not when you already know." he breathed.

His eyes were cloudy with tears.

"As Lady of Rivendell, is it not my duty to know?" you explained, suddenly feeling guilty about confronting him all those hours ago.

"I know that it your duty, meleth. I was being selfish. I allowed my fears to consume my judgement." he apologized.

"- while the Fellowship still marches, I urge you to not speak about them, even in the confines of our haven. The darkness has grown in power. I believe that he is strong enough to pierce through my defenses." he reminded.

"Yes, I understand." you pressed a kiss to his forehead. Standing up to close the door, after closing it shut - you turn around to face him, but your robes have been caught in the doorknob.

"Gods," you mentally facepalmed, trying to pull your robes free. "Meleth," he stood up, helping you free your robes but you continued tugging at it - giving him a harder time. "Meleth," he smiled, preventing the chuckle that threatened to escape from his mouth.

The littlest joys.

He frees your robes from the treacherous hold of the doorknob.

"Thank you." you smile in return, already red in the face.

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idcwhattheuseris · 3 months ago

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Wish I could heart this a thousand times

series masterlist. +18 (minors dni). reposting and/or translating is not allowed.

part one

you and pedro are married, but you've kept it a secret up to the point you sometimes forget there's supposed to be a golden band on your finger. but then you both get cast in your first movie together. the chemistry is off the charts, and it starts to catch upon you: will the lines between shipping and reality finally blur?

part two

your relationship is finally out to the world. now, pedro and you will explore what it feels like to have your love out in the open.

part three

becoming an actress has always been your dream, and this job you've taken to be elvira lind's assistant is a step closer to doors of an industry so far has only given you meaningless extra role's, but you get more than you bargained for.

more parts to come! (until the song runs out of lyrics or i run out of requests lol)

Y/n L/n Goes On A Chicken Shop Date (Coming soon!)

Y/n L/n Joins Brittany Broski's Royal Court (TBA)

First Date! (TBA)

I Want To Wear His Initial On A Chain 'Round My Neck (TBA)

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idcwhattheuseris · 3 months ago

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This is some cute fucking shit right here

place to crash

pairing: carmen berzatto x reader

summary: carmy steps in as your knight in shining armor when your apartment’s electricity breaks, which makes you both test the line between friends and something more

word count: 2.9k

warnings: swearing, whole lotta fluff

“Oh, come on. Hurry the fuck up,” you muttered to yourself. You were currently on hold with the electricity company.

After a hectic service at the Bear, you had come home to your pitch black apartment with no power. The one thing you wanted to do was curl up and eat some leftovers while watching some tv, but that clearly wasn’t happening tonight.

“Hello? Are you still there?” The man’s voice echoed through the speaker. “Yes, I’m here,” you said, quickly. You didn’t want to risk him hanging up on you and having to start this process all over again.

“So, it looks like our crew has already gone home for the day. We can’t send anyone to look at it until tomorrow morning.” He told you. You huffed, running your fingers through your hair. “Alright, thank you. Have a fantastic night,” you said, passive aggressively.

You threw your phone down onto the kitchen counter.

With the electricity out, that also meant no air conditioning. You pulled your hair up into a quick ponytail. You were already sweating, so you knew there was no way you could stay at your apartment for the night.

You glanced back down at your phone, and it felt like the answer was staring you in the face. You opened your contacts and saw the one person you knew you could always rely on.

You clicked on Carmy’s name, smiling to yourself when you saw his contact photo. It was a goofy picture of the two of you from a party that Sydney threw. He had his arm haphazardly thrown around your shoulders. You were sticking your tongue out at the camera while he kissed your cheek.

You both had a history of becoming more affectionate than normal when you had been drinking. That night was a great example.

It only rang once before he answered. “Hey, what’s up? Are you okay?” He asked, immediately. Having seen Carmy less than an hour ago, he knew something was going on if you were calling him so soon.

“Hey, I’m fine, no need to panic. I just have a little favor to ask you, but you can totally say no—” you started to explain before he interrupted you.

“You’ve got it. What do you need?” He answered without a second thought. It made your cheeks heat up. Carmy was always ready to drop everything for you.

“You don’t even know what it is yet, Berzatto.” You told him, giggling to yourself. You couldn’t see him, but you could perfectly imagine the way he’d shrug. “I don’t need to know. I have no reason to doubt you.” He said, simply.

“Not even gonna make me work for it?” You teased him.

“You never have to work for it. Not with me,” he told you, honestly. Every time you talked to Carmy, it became harder for you to pretend you weren’t head over heels for him.

“Alright, well the power is out at my apartment—” you started to tell him. “Come stay at my place tonight,” he offered. You felt so grateful for him.

“Are you sure it’s not a burden? You don’t have to feel pressured to say yes.” You assured him, but you knew his answer wouldn’t change.

“Of course I’m sure. I’m not letting you stay at your apartment with no power. Come on over. I’m making dinner now. You eaten yet?” He asked. “No, not yet,” you told him.

“Alright, perfect. I’ll make you a plate, and I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said, and you could hear that he was smiling.

“Thank you, Carmy, truly. I’ll see you soon,” you said, before hanging up.

You quickly grabbed a bag and stuffed some essentials inside it before heading out the door. Carmy’s apartment was only a short walk from your apartment. After five or ten minutes, you were at his door.

You knocked on the door and heard a lot of noise on the other side. “It’s open,” you heard Carmy yell.

You turned the doorknob slowly before walking inside. You saw Carmy turning his pullout couch into a bed. He was neatly fixing the blankets and adding some pillows.

You also noticed the table was set with two plates of pasta, and you couldn’t tell where, but from somewhere in the apartment jazz music was playing.

“You didn’t have to do all of this for me, Carmy,” you said, feeling guilty. He put a final pillow on the bed and walked towards you. “I wanted to,” he said, simply. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in for a quick hug.

“I’m sorry about your apartment,” he said, sincerely.

“None of that is your fault, Carmy. You don’t have to apologize.” You replied. His hand grazed the small of your back, and he gestured towards the dining table. He even made sure to pull your chair out from the table for you.

“Such a gentleman,” you said, unable to get the smile off your face. You always felt like a giggly schoolgirl around Carmy. “Only the best for you,” he jokingly flirted, but wasn’t willing to push it any further.

Carmy cared about you so much. You were practically his world, and he was terrified that if he told you that, you’d leave.

After eating dinner, you both got ready for bed in Carmy’s bathroom. It made you feel like a married couple, and you had to force yourself to ignore it.

“I know I’ve asked you like ten times, but are you sure you don’t want my bed? I can sleep on the couch.” He offered, wanting you to feel right at home. You grabbed his hand without thinking about it.

“Carmy, you are so sweet, but I promise that sleeping on a couch will not kill me. I will be fine, sweetie.” You told him. You weren’t sure where the pet name had come from. You’d never called Carmy “sweetie” before.

Carmy had practically jumped out of his skin hearing the name roll so smoothly off your tongue. He only wanted to hear you call him sweetie from now on. It took everything in his power to not confess his love to you right then and there.

“Okay, fine,” he gave up, knowing you were more stubborn than he was. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a tight hug. You happily wrapped your arms around him as he held on to you.

You were taking in every part of this moment. You could smell his cologne, the same one he’d worn since you met him. You’d told him how much you liked it once, and he promised himself he’d never change it.

“Goodnight. Sleep well,” he said, kissing the top of your head and leaving you smitten.

You walked into the living room, and fell asleep within seconds of crawling under the blankets.

In the middle of the night, a sound woke you up. You jumped to sit up, looking around to see what the noise was. The bright LED numbers from the clock read 3:42. You realized the sound was someone jiggling the doorknob on the front door.

You jumped off the couch and ran into Carmy’s bedroom. You were half awake, and it was the only thing you could think of.

You reached forward and placed your hand on Carmy’s forearm, trying to wake him up. He jumped up as soon as you touched him.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, quickly. Even being half awake and in a dark room, he was somehow still able to sense that you were afraid. “It sounds like somebody’s trying to come in the front door.” You told him, which woke him up fast.

He grabbed the bat from beside his bed and headed towards the front door. Your fear only made him more confident. He knew that he needed to step up and protect you.

You stayed behind him. He got within a few feet of the door. Then, you both saw the door start to open.

“Get the hell out,” Carmy threatened whoever was on the other side of the door.

The door quickly was flung all the way open. “Cousin, chill the fuck out. It’s me.” You both heard Richie say.

You both breathed a sigh of relief. Carmy dropped the bat down to his side, irritated at Richie. “Do you know what time it is? What the fuck are you doing here?” Carmy asked him.

Richie flipped on the light switch and held up his spare key, as though that explained his presence.

“Oh shit, Y/N? What’re you doing here?” Richie asked, finally noticing you standing behind Carmy.

Before you could even answer, Richie’s eyes darted between the two of you. He saw Carmy just in boxers and you in an oversized tshirt, which he assumed must’ve belonged to Carmy. Then, it made sense to him.

“Oh wait. You two are hooking up?” He asked, smirking at the both of you. Richie was the most convinced of all your friends that you and Carmy were meant for each other. He saw it all, especially the way that your’s and Carmy’s gaze always found each other in a crowded room.

“No!” You and Carmy both quickly assured him, but Richie’s smirk didn’t fade. He didn’t believe either of you for a second.

“She’s just sleeping here tonight,” Carmy tried to explain.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure there’s been lots of sleeping going on here.” Richie teased, causing Carmy to put his head in his hands.

“The electricity is out at my apartment, so Carmy’s letting me crash here tonight. That’s it,” you tried to shut Richie up.

“So you came here for the electricity?” Richie asked, very aware of the double entendre. He loved how much he could get under yours and Carmy’s skin with just a few comments. “You’re the worst, Richie.” Carmy said, exasperatedly.

“See, we have the pullout,” you said, gesturing towards the couch. You saw a mischievous glint in Richie’s eyes. Richie was like a brother, so you knew the joke he was going to make before he even opened his mouth.

“The pullout COUCH, you fucking child,” you said, smacking his arm. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Carmy with his eyes trained on the floor and his hand covering his mouth as he tried not to laugh.

You crossed your arms and frowned at him. “You are not helping,” you said, glaring at him. He quickly held his hands up in surrender, not wanting you to hit him too.

Richie moved past the joke, but wasn’t quite ready to stop teasing you yet.

“The couch looks pretty messy to me. I wonder how that happened.” He teased. You knew that was just trying to get under your skin, but if you stopped denying what he was saying, he’d be so much worse.

“Yeah, cause I jumped up in a panic thinking someone was breaking in.” You defended. Carmy placed his hand on your back, rubbing small circles. You and Richie were the two most stubborn people he knew, and he knew that neither of you liked to lose an argument.

“And little Carmy was ready to protect you? I won’t lie, that’s pretty sweet, dude.” Richie said, watching the way Carmy’s cheeks turned a soft shade of pink.

“So, why’re you here?” Carmy asked, changing the subject. Richie plopped himself down on the couch. “I need to crash here too. My neighbors are in a big fight and they won’t shut the fuck up.” Richie explained.

“Well, you aren’t staying here. Go find some other fucking place to stay.” Carmy said. He didn’t want anyone to break up his alone time with you.

“That’s not what you told her.” Richie argued, gesturing towards you. Richie had a point, but Carmy would never tell you no.

“Richie, just please leave. Besides, there’s nowhere for you to sleep,” Carmy begged him. Carmy knew if Richie stayed out, it would ruin everything with you. Richie would tease every move he made, and he couldn’t be as affectionate with you. That should have been Carmy’s first indicator that you both were more than friends.

“I’m taking the couch, you two figure out the rest.” Richie said, grabbing you both by the wrists and shoving you into Carmy’s bedroom. Carmy went to open the door, but realized Richie was leaning against the back of the door.

“Richie, let us out,” Carmy begged. You went and sat down on Carmy’s bed. “Carmy, c’mere, you know Richie’s stubborn, and he won’t give up,” you said, patting the spot next to you.

“Reminds me of someone else,” he teased you as he sat beside you. You lightly smacked his arm. “I am not stubborn. I was out there defending myself but also defending you. He’s gonna be insufferable at work tomorrow. He’ll tell everyone that we hooked up, and we’ll never hear the end of it.” You rambled.

“He’s been trying to get us to hook up for years, it might just be easier to actually do it and shut him up.” Carmy joked before he could process the words he was saying.

You felt your eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, Carmen Berzatto. Did I mishear you? Did you just suggest that we hook up?” You asked, truly stumped.

“Don’t look at me like that. I was just joking.” He tried to backpedal. He couldn’t read your expression, which was a first. It was because if he’d actually suggested it, you would have said yes immediately.

“I’m sorry about this. First, your apartment. And now, Richie being Richie.” He said, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “Carmy, none of this is your fault.” You said, grabbing his hand and tracing your finger over his tattoos.

You both were painfully aware of the fact that you’d never been this physically close before. This was beyond the level of affection that you both could defend as friendly.

“So, if it wasn’t Richie, you were gonna protect me?” You asked.

“Of course, I was. I’m always watching out for you. Gotta keep my girl safe,” he said, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

You sat straight up. Once again, you thought you’d misheard him. “Oh, fuck it,” he said, cupping your face and kissing you roughly. It didn’t take you any time to kiss him back.

He pressed his palms against your back and carefully pushed you back onto his bed. You ran your fingers across his toned chest. You could feel his muscles flex under your touch.

“I thought you said you were joking,” you teased him as he pressed kisses down your jaw. He let out a soft chuckle, his chest shaking against you. “Why? Do you want me to stop?” He teased.

“Fuck no,” you mumbled, cupping his face and pulling him down to kiss you. His fingers fumbled with the hem of your tshirt, letting his hands slip under it and caress your skin.

He felt you groan against the kiss and took it as a sign to keep going. One of his hands crept higher up your chest while he removed his other hand. He grabbed the bottom of your shirt and was ready to pull it over your head when the door burst open.

“Richie, the fuck? Get out,” Carmy yelled, quickly pulling your shirt back down to make sure you were completely covered. You hid your face in Carmy’s chest, not wanting to face Richie. You could already imagine the smug grin on his face.

“Well well well,” Richie said, in his signature “I told you so” tone.

Carmy didn’t want to put up with his gloating. “Richie, enough. Out!” He repeated, grabbing a pillow off the bed and throwing it at Richie’s face. The whole time he kept one arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to him and letting you hide from Richie.

Richie jumped backwards to dodge the pillow and finally closed the bedroom door. As soon as the door clicked closed, Carmy cupped your face with one hand and kissed you again.

You could feel the butterflies in your stomach as he ran his hand down your side. He let his fingers trace every inch of your skin.

You placed your hand on his chest and pushed him away. “Did I do something wrong?” Carmy asked, immediately concerned.

You quickly shook your head, trying to reassure him. “There’s nothing I want more right now, but we can’t do this with Richie here. You know that, Carm.” You said, caressing his cheek.

“One part of my brain knows that, but the other part knows how long I’ve waited for this, for you,” pressing a soft kiss against your cheek, “but you’re right.” he said.

“We’ve waited this long, what’s a little longer?” You joked, smiling up at him. He kissed your forehead, falling in love with the way you were looking at him. “Tomorrow night. I’m gonna take you out to dinner, and we��ll have a real date. I’m gonna spoil you.” He said, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you said, leaning forward to peck his lips.

You both sat in silence, soaking in the moment. You both knew that it was perfect, and you wanted to remember it forever.

“You look really pretty in the moonlight.” You complimented him, admiring the way Carmy’s curls framed his face.

“You’re making it really hard to not fall in love with you,” he teased, pulling you in for another kiss.

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idcwhattheuseris · 3 months ago

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nothing in the world belongs to me |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: still new in your relationship, you show up to the bear for dinner unexpectedly, surprising carmen and the others.

based off this prompt from the other day :)

contains: fluff lol. really, it's just fluff. established-ish relationship (the others don't know). carmen being a little nervous and possessive but mainly cute <3 language.

“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?”

Carmen nodded slowly, a strangled thank you on the tip of his tongue. The door swung open behind Richie, and for a second, Carmen caught a glimpse of you. Smiling and laughing, leaned in over the table, no doubt giggling with your friends about him. Carmen’s heart squeezed, but this time, without fear. No, there was no dooming fear that you were mocking him, making fun of him. This time, he felt the content rush of adrenaline filled love. A change in his routine, yes. Unexpected, sure, but he was glad for it. Glad that you were there- here, with him.

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idcwhattheuseris · 3 months ago

Note

omg I love your work! I was wondering if you can write about the reader sleeping over at carmy’s place for the first time. maybe they cook dinner together and stuff? 🫶

Slumber Party

A/N: I kinda wish I'd gone in a different direction with this one, but it works, ya know?

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