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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

Text

Run Away To Me (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.5k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, intentional harm (in the recent past), blood, angst, protective Johnny, hurt/comfort, pining, speedy relationship, etc.

A/N: Johnny sweaty and working the forge...that is all.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You groggily awoke to the steady sound of a hammer meeting metal and the scent of eggs. Warm bread makes your mouth water. Eyelids peeling back, your lashes flutter in even intervals as you groan in the back of your throat, content and unbothered in this soft bed of fur and cotton. For a moment you had forgotten everything that had transpired—the run and the rain slamming into your scalp.

Had it all been some dark dream? A trick?

“Ow!” You hiss, hand darting out from the plush covers as a sharp pain darts through it. Your eyes blink on the bloody bandages, white now completely bled through with fresh crimson.

Everything comes rushing back in a lightning-strike moment of realization.

Quickly sitting up, your face moves all over the sun-lit room, rays of light leaking in through the opened shutters; past the glass of the windows, the nearly violent green of the near forest line meets your wide gaze. A small sound exits your throat, fingers sliding through the bear fur that had been once pulled up to your ears as you gather your senses.

Johnny. The blacksmith.

Your eyes lock onto the small table across the room.

As the hammering outside continues to ring in your eardrums, you tilt your head at the items sitting atop—slipping off the bed you go to tidy the fur but pause in your curiosity. A patch of blood from your wound stains the sheets and you slow at the sight, the air leaving your lungs.

“Oh,” you swallow down your slight nervousness, heart jumping for a moment as you bite your lip.

You would have to tell Mr. MacTavsish—your brows furrow.

Not Mr. MacTavish, he asked me to call him Johnny. A strange thing, now that you thought about it as you slowly back away and go to the table, gut rumbling at the sight of fresh eggs on bread. There was also a parcel covered in cloth sitting on the chair.

Carefully tiptoeing, you grab the plate with a delicate hand, picking it up as you lick your lips. Had the man…made you breakfast?

“What reality have I slipped into?” Your lips whisper, Johnny’s clothes hanging off of you heavily. Not only food but milk had been poured into a carved cup as well, and utensils placed on the table with care. Fork and knife on the right, spoon on the left; all forged and tempered.

It was sweet, perhaps. Kind.

You eat standing, bare feet taking you around the homestead as you listen to the blacksmith work outside. Your hands take up carved knick-knacks of animals, twirling them in a hand as you lick your lips before placing them back with all the care of a priceless possession. Chuckling at the poorly wooden face of a deer, you bring the last bits of food to your lips as you pass the window.

Sucking in a swift breath, your body freezes.

Perhaps it was the sudden freedom of your situation or even the want of true, honest, companionship, but you had suddenly never seen someone look as good as kind Johnny MacTavish as he worked his forge.

The earth was still layered in dew and mist, the distance between the main home and the small hut that was holding anvil, tongs, the flame of the furnace itself, and a great number of hammers. One of which was being wielded with firm efficiency by the sweat-stained hands of Johnny—being brought down again and again to the molten form of what would be a fine sword.

Clothed in a rolled-back white tunic, like the one from yesterday, and brown breaches, there was a leather apron tied ‘round his waist cinched tight. Lips parting, you watch with a guilty conscious for the frailness of your resolve; gaping at the sight.

Johnny works like the dead might rise, not faltering or slowing in the abuse of the metal—twisting the rough shape of the blade and flipping it with one hand while the other hammers. How he doesn’t overheat you’d never know; letting out a slow breath as the sweat slips down his strong jaw and drips from his chin, mouth open with a far-off pant of air.

Electricity of the same breed as last night sizzles down your spine like a finger caressing the knobs of bone, hairs standing on end as you quickly clear your throat against the burn of your face. You shift your body away, fearfully aware of the scent of Johnny’s clothes and the very bed you had slept in last night.

“My parents will never allow me back into their home,” you utter, picking at your bandages. “I shall never even be seen in the very air near them.”

But the true question was whether or not that was a good thing. While this freedom of yours was what you wanted, you were a woman of relative standing—having no family, no husband, and no money to your name was not ideal. In fact, it could very well be the death of you.

You stand and lightly lick your fingers of crumbs. “At the very least,” the wood under your feet is warm from an only recently dead hearth, “this Blacksmith is quite good with meals. Such a peculiar man, hm?”

Smiling to yourself, you chuckle and push back the heat in your blood; this odd attraction to a working man. So different from Lord Wilkin.

Not wanting to sink back into that hole quite yet, you remember Johnny’s hands slipping over yours as you take a final glance back out the window before heading back over to the table. Cobalt eyes meet yours in an instant of wide shyness through the glass.

Staring at each other, the Blacksmith's legs shift from where they dig into the packed ground, large biceps tight as they hold the hammer and the dulling metal.

Blinking quickly, you feel your heart skip beats at the soft contact.

Smiling awkwardly, you raise the empty plate in display, chuckling as a wide, pleased, grin builds on Johnny’s face. He mocks a small bow, hammer going across his abdomen as his dirty cheeks peel back at his glee—you see his chest move with a deep laugh. Like the scent of lavender in your nose, you can call the sound of it to your ears as if he was in the house all this time.

Quickly skittering away, you feel giddy, placing down your plate and taking a sip of milk before looking at the parcel. While your mind may be mingling with the blacksmith and the sweat of his body, curiosity was getting to you. And, mayhaps, a shyness at being caught.

It was covered in dark cloth, and when you touch it, the fabric immediately reminds you of a cloak—an expensive and finely spun wool dyed green. Lips parting, your hands pick it up and place it on the table; turning it over as you pull at the twine tie.

Your heart seems to grow like a flower, the pedals opening and the stem becoming strong with a rush of admiration.

“When did you do this, Blacksmith?” Your voice hits off the walls in a breathy gasp as the hammering picks back up outside.

Smiling delicately, you pick up the fine linen of a chemise and the paired kirtle dyed deep blue. It wasn’t the most extravagant thing you’d worn by a long shot but as you step back and size it to your body, you decide that it was the most meaningful.

When had he gotten up to ride into town and buy this for you? How much did it cost?

How could this blacksmith be as chivalrous as a Knight? Not wanting you to be forced to wear his own clothes in a way unflattering to your status even if you didn’t truly care about all of that.

You had no answer, body vibrating with warmth as you slipped out of Johnny’s sleep clothes and slid the gifted items over your skin. They were slightly oversized for ease of the man’s mind, not knowing your measurements. With a small bronze clip, you situate the cloak before the boots at the door add to the already bursting emotions in your veins.

Tears burned the back of your eyes, putting your fingers to your lips to hide the shaky inhale. All of this care after such horror was nearly unthinkable; by a complete stranger no less.

Your own family had never been so generous.

Taking up your now empty cup, you look to the water basin and let your ears twitch to the sound of physical labor; thinking, wanting to give even just a sliver of thanks back for this debt. As you lace your new boots, leather, you keep the memory of his calloused hands in the front of your skull with honied sanctity.

You fill the cup and that’s that.

Cheeks heating, you bring the water with you as you exit the home, breathing down the scent of rain and pulling your cloak tighter to your neck at the slight chill. Closing the door, you make your way to Johnny who continues to work away, now a small distance from the anvil and setting the iron back into the fire to heat.

His large back flexes and rolls with the movement.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” the cup stays steady in your two hands as you see Johnny’s muscles momentarily tense, blue eyes turning to look over his shoulders. There’s a moment where something swirls in his eyes as he stares down at your new clothes, standing up to his full height quickly. You blink. “...I’m sorry, but besides an offer of fresh water I’m unable to repay you for the gifts.”

“Ah,” Johnny clears his throat, looking back to his forge before turning back to you with a bashful look. “Please, none of that. I needed to go off and grab more grain for my horse, see.” He chuckles. “But I’m glad they fit, Dearie, was a bit worried I’d asked the wrong size.”

“They’re perfect,” you shake your head. “It was…far more than I deserve.”

Brows furrow. For such a presence, he slips the cup out of your hands with more care than your husband-to-be had ever thought to handle you, nodding a deep thank you.

“Now why would you say something like that?” Your head tilts, lips thinning. You suppose it was right to make good on the deal you’d struck last night.

Johnny takes a sip from the cup, waiting for your answer as one hand hangs from the neck of his apron, fast lungs steadily slowing. As you frown and gather your thoughts, you don’t notice his eyes narrowing, concerned.

“Well, anyways,” he clears his throat, itching at his stubble to change the subject as you startle back to reality before you can form a sentence. “I suppose I’d better take a look at that cut of yours, then, eh? Wouldn’t want it to get infected, do we?”

“That’s not…” He has already darted to a small chest in the corner of the open hut, cup placed on the anvil top before he opens the thing with a scratch of rusty hinges. “...necessary.”

The blacksmith laughs, taking out fresh badges.

“I don’t think gettin’ bedridden is in your plans, now is it? C’mon…I’ll be gentle.” Johnny winks with a smirk and your pulse flares; stuttering as he grasps your elbow—leading you out of the forge and to a small break in the trees.

A stump and a dead firepit take form, and you’re plopped down to the wood with a small huff, a stiff look sent to the man who only smiles and raises an eyebrow.

“Is my kindness wearin’ ya down, Little Lady?”

“You’ll make me lose my head and I’ve only known you for, at most,” you emphasize as he kneels down and takes your bloody hand, “half a day.”

“Being generous,” Johnny hums, unwrapping your hand and once again looking you over. Bloody, but still alright. His fingers move to pick up dew from the grass and wipe away some of the crimson pigment as if an artist. “When one goes and nearly makes a man’s house crumble from the force of ‘er fists, it’s only customary for him to respect her.” Blue eyes gaze up to you and twinkle. “I’m just savin’ my own hide.”

“How honorable,” you shake your head and turn to hide the full-face grin, moments later laughs slip your tongue. “They weren’t that loud,” your vise insists, “...were they?”

“Thought the world was ending,” Johnny says it was a fake expression of seriousness, re-wrapping your hand in clean cloth. “Damn near got to my knees and prayed.”

You find great amusement in that, placing a hand over your mouth as your spine shakes with loud laughs. The scene is similar to the one from last night—the blacksmith offering jokes and merriment to get you to laugh. It's as if every time he succeeds he smiles just a smidge wider. Realizing this, you feel your lips twitch and you look away, embarrassed.

“...I promised you answers, did I not?” You decide to ask, deciding that getting this over soon was the best course of action; also the more courteous one. After so much giving, you had to share at least the reason for all of this. “I’m sorry.” Johnny frowns at you, tying another loose knot atop your palm before sitting back on the ground.

On his bent knee, he rests his arm, hanging off loosely, while the other hand rests behind his back as a way to keep him upward. With all of this, with him, you'd entirely forgotten to mention the stained sheets.

“There’s no need to apologize to me, Dearie, I won’t do anythin’. I promised you,” he smiles, “remember?” You blink softly at his strong face, those eyes studying you as your hands rest in your lap; curled over each other.

“There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.”

Johnny huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. “Take your time, eh? I won’t be needin’ to travel back into town again until late evening.” Your hands curl slightly tighter, touched.

The blacksmith watches you as you gather your thoughts, your face going stiff and new boots shuffling over the grass. Blue slides to your hand and his lips turn down.

He’d be lying if he didn’t say he’d been up most of the night and working before the sun had risen—mind occupied by the woman that had been in his bed and the little information he had. Obviously, Lord Wilkin was looking for you; adamantly.

Relentlessly.

When he’d been in town there had been guards everywhere, checking every shop and house like beasts of metal and sharp words. You were the Lord’s bride, of course. As the tailor had asked him, a bit dejected, if he’d taken a wife as he’d bought you your chemise and kirtle, the woman had mentioned the wedding.

“Little thing darted off during the Handfasting ceremony, I ‘erd. The Lord had only just put the knife to her palm before she yelled and fled. Oh, ya should have seen it, Mr. MacTavish. Like a bat from Hell, Lord help me. He’ll not stop till he’s found ‘er.”

Johnny’s stomach rolls, abdomen tightening as he shifts to release tension. Along the ground, his hand momentarily clenches. You hum under your breath, whispering out an easy, “Are we sure we should be outside for this?”

The man blinks in confusion.

“Well, would…you prefer being inside?” You look nervous, fingers flinching over themselves and Johnny sits up straighter, letting his large hand carefully grasp your knee. Your innocently wide eyes lock with his own. He offers a comforting look. “It’s no difference to me—you decide. Whichever’s easier, eh?”

“It’s just,” you begin, the skin below your kirtle burning you in the best possible way. What was happening to you? “Well…My family rarely let me out.” Johnny’s body stills to a near stone carving. “Said I was to stay inside. I suppose I’m not overly used to it, you see.”

It’s not impossible to understand the role that was placed on you. Arranged marriage, sold off to be a housewife for a large dowry paid up by the Lord. You’d been brought up to be tossed away at a moment's notice. The blacksmith’s jaw tightens, bone sharp through the flesh.

“...Well,” his voice is a bit ragged—scratchy. You listen with nervousness in your chest, a slow infection of unease. “I’m not your family, am I? It’ll be good to get some sun, I think—let’s stay here for a little longer and then we can go back in when you’re ready. There’s no rush to things.”

Letting you calm down, his thumb rubs a small circle before he pulls it away, perhaps realizing what he was doing before clearing his throat, cheeks alight.

A small breeze pushes through the pines, a wind filled with the scent of fire and earth—dirt and dew. It was peaceful here, among the old spirits and the hidden trails. So different in the light than it was in the pouring rain.

“I imagine you knew about the wedding?” You sigh, staring at your lap. “Lord Wilkin?”

“Aye,” Johnny nods, speaking quietly. He doesn’t want to force you. “I did.”

“I was placed into the marriage two months ago by my parents, an agreement of land and money was traded for my hand.” Watching, the man’s eyes go sad, lids tilting. He stops the grunt in the back of his throat as you continue. “I had resigned myself to it, truly. Being of enough standing all I was needed for was marriage—”

“That’s utter shite.” Johnny growls, angry at the sentence. “They would just toss you away like that? To a bastard ten times your age?”

You stare, brows tight. “I…I’m a daughter, am I not?”

Johnny’s jaw goes slack, eyes sharp with horror as his gaze looks deeply into your vision, biceps tense with cooling sweat and dirt. Such a sight it was, two beings as different as a mountain and a valley; so near but starkly contrasted in the harsh strength of rock and the gentle sway of grassy low-land. Bears and deer, barn swallows that sit on rafters and golden eagles that soar tempests.

The dark-haired man could never imagine raising a girl for nothing else than to be a man’s property—to sell as if a good and nothing more. Johnny turns his head away before he snaps at nothing, a low sound trapped in his chest. You never had a single choice.

Confused by his approach to this, you watch the side of his face as the man’s expression of anger slowly shifts back to a hidden seriousness. Eyes dark and his hand tightened into a fist.

“I’m sorry, Dearie. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Johnny blinks, shaking his head. “Hope I didn’t scare ya.”

“No,” you motion a hand. “No, not at all.”

“Good.” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his head. “Ah, please, keep going. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, promise.” You smile tinily.

“At the wedding, when it was near the end, they brought out the cloth and the knife for the Handfasting ceremony,” Johnny leans forward, and you look down at him on the ground. He lent a sort of silent vigor, you think to yourself. A comfort. “He dragged it along my skin and then he gripped my hand and forced the base of my palm harder into it.”

Your words get smaller and hushed, flexing your damaged hand. “...I think…that he wanted it to leave a scar. I bolted off before they could tie the cloth.”

Johnny stands and brings you into a hug, a hand coming to the back of your head and pressing your skull gently to his chest.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus.” He breathes, and you slowly wind your own hands around his waist; melting into him without even knowing it. Johnny’s scent encompasses you like a blanket, and your very bones seem to sprout flowers from the marrow as your eyes get watery, held in such a way that most people only dream about.

When the first silent tears fall he doesn’t make a big deal out of it—only holds you more firm and sighs into your scalp.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, honest and truthful. Could you run? Go to another fiefdom? How far would you even be able to make it? No food, no horse, no supplies.

You’d be found out in no time.

Johnny moves back, tilting his head down to you and grasping your face with a single hand. “We’ll figure it out, Little Lady. By my word, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’ll never go back to that bastard of a Lord again.” A hard thumb pushes back your tears and blue eyes soften on you. “Can you trust me?”

Can and not do.

Even the simple alleviation of pressure from a word makes you care for this man even more than you should. The simmering attraction to not only his appearance but his steadfast heart; indomitable morals.

“You, Johnny?” You sniffle, a grin twitching your lips up as the blacksmith’s face goes hot. “Yes, I can trust you.” Actions enough from last night had proven that.

Johnny huffs and lets the blush on his face spread along his neck, suddenly unable to look you in the eyes for too long before he has to clear his throat and gaze to the side. Not knowing what overtakes you, you lightly press your lips to his cheek—feeling the heat and the slight gasp that escapes his lips.

You giggle as he grunts a thanks, awkwardly shuffling on his feet as you both continue to hold one another. His grip travels down to your back as he raises a brow, trying to push past his beginning stutter as he speaks. “I’d tell ya that if you do that again, I might just have a fainting spell, Miss.”

“A fainting spell,” you tease, “from a kiss, Blacksmith?”

“Aye—especially if it’s from such a Bonnie woman like you, see.” You both laugh, faces burning up, as serious topics and tears fade into the past.

As you had said, where any other man would have been different, Johnny Mactavish had proven himself to be right and true. Even if you’d been impossibly tired last night, the small sliver of fear had still remained that something might happen to you here; in the presence of one man in the middle of the woods. No such fear remains.

Like a great Lord of old, Johnny had offered sanctuary from a man of cruel and horrible intentions. But perhaps he’d offered far more than that, with how he’s staring at you.

Your laughs steadily die down to a pulsing silence, hands around one another and faces only a few inches away. It’s bizarre how fast this had happened—these feelings brimming in the cup of your heart. A bowl overflowing with care and affection; of something else that cannot be named for fear it’s only a simple infatuation. A twin flame of red-hot fire that could rival Johnny’s forge.

“I…don’t want to overstep,” the man says, and your eyes are drawn to his lips as they move—a small scar you’d yet to notice living on his chin, a stain of lighter flesh. You swallow stiffly and dart your gaze back to his as you feel his heart pounding in his ribcage. It wasn’t a mystery to wonder if your own is doing the same. “Y’should tell me to stop, Dearie.”

“To stop what,” you pull the words from the depths of your throat. “What are you planning on doing, Johnny?” He shivers as you say his name as if put under a spell.

“Are you sure you’re not a witch, now?” You stifle a confused laugh, furrowing your brows with amusement.

“What?”

“One half-day is all it took for you to chain me to your will,” he grasps the bottom of your chin and angles your head up; you go willingly. His eyes search yours for any hesitation or flighty emotions. All he finds is wide awe. “Most would call that witchery, Little Lady.”

“Then it seems your will is easily broken, Blacksmith.”

“Perhaps it is,” Johnny smirks, his breath puffing out along your parted lips. Your body vibrates with anticipation of what was to come, hearing his voice lower to a deep rasp. “Haven’t ya heard…? Blacksmiths have a weakness for runaway brides.”

“Is that so? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Suppose I’ll just have to show you.” His lips are firm and his body runs hot.

Eyes fluttering shut, you sigh into him as his hands dig into your gifted cloak, meeting him with every pass. Low purrs of satisfaction echo from his chest and make you shiver, nose pressing into his lower cheek. Playfully, his teeth nip at your flesh and you gasp; eyes pulling back to stare half-lidded as blue sparks with mischief.

You should stop this—but you were starved for honest affection. Companionship, even. Johnny by far wasn’t the worst to throw your lott in with and he might just be the best possible to fill that role. Life in this era is fast and harsh; it’s unfair. You had to make quick decisions without thinking of the possible consequences.

So as you blink up at the man who watches you closely, you place your fingers on the side of his face and tilt his lips back to yours with a small smile. His hand at the curve of your spine twitches, sliding along the cloak in minute increments as Johnny’s heart hammers like his tools.

It’s as if the forge was still around the two of you—air hot and the feeling sticking to your skin like a brand of sin and forbidden magnetism. He shouldn’t have kissed you, but the hypnosis of the hammer was in his head; its rhythm and striking slam. You drew him in as the anvil does the iron.

In this moment of contentment, there is a fast sound of something in the air, something that rattles the two of you out of your tender embrace to gaze with contorted faces through the thin line of trees. Panting and open.

Through the foliage back to the homestead is the rapid movement of hooves and the baying of hounds.

It strikes you like a knife, eyelids moving far back as Johnny’s head snaps to the noise with something growing in the back of his expression. Calls; shouts. You know who it is, who’s found you out. You’d never heard it until it was too late.

“Johnny,” your voice says, fearful with wild eyes.

“Stay behind me,” he says, monotone with red lips. Shadows of horses and guards are near the house. You stare up at him in shock. A kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Nothin’ll happen to you.” His eyes dig past layers.

There was no running from this.

“Okay,” you whisper.

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mooshywrites · 2 months

Text

Echoes of Love and Loss

Fem!Reader x Halsin

Masterlist

Art commissions

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

A/N - A massive thank you to @thoughts-of-bear for working with me on this prompt. Im really excited about making a series out of this and hope it’s everything you envisioned <3

Word count - 4K

Warnings - Angst, Jealousy, Smut next chapter

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“You’re mine”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The party in your camp tonight was going to be like no other.

You could feel the energy vibrating through the air, a palpable buzz of excitement and relief after the long and grueling battle against Kethric Thorm and his cursed Shadowlands. Your group of companions were exhausted but excited as they made their way back to camp, already envisioning the celebration that waited for them. Wyll and Shadowheart were laughing and joking about needing a case or two of wine, Astarion was whining good-naturedly about how the outdoors were no place for a proper party, Lae'zel was grumbling impatiently about the need to make haste to Baldur's Gate, and Gale was eagerly discussing his latest theories on Elder Brain behavior with anyone who would listen

As you approached the Last Light Inn, you couldn't help but notice the change in atmosphere. Before the fight at moonrise towers, the mood was grim. Voices were hushed and nervous, weary of how much loss everyone had endured in the shadow curse.

But now, inside the tavern, the mood was lively. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, eagerly recounting tales from the recent battle and celebrating the lifting of the curse. Jahiera and her Harpers, along with the gnomes and tiefling, had already set off for Baldur's Gate, taking advantage of the newfound freedom from darkness and danger. You hoped the road wouldn’t be too hard on the. Almost everyone in the group had gone through enough to deserve a little bit of relaxed travel.

You scanned the small crowd, searching for Halsin's familiar figure among the faces. He had gone ahead of the group and you knew he was probably deep in thought. Since the fight at Moonrise Towers, he had been unusually quiet, a stark contrast to his normally talkative nature. Though you had noticed he was a bit standoffish before the fight, his usually guarded demeanor now seemed impenetrable. It was clear that something was troubling him deeply.

As you approached him, you couldn't help but notice the uncertainty in his eyes. They flickered with conflicting emotions, giving away his inner turmoil. He avoided your gaze, barely acknowledging your presence as he continued to walk forward. It was as if he didn't know how to face you anymore, or perhaps he was struggling with something that he couldn't share with anyone else. The air between you felt heavy with unspoken words and the tension was palpable.

The sting of disappointment was undeniable, a sharp ache in your heart. You hadn’t even been able to say anything to him before he had stalked off into the tavern.

Despite knowing better, you couldn't help but feel drawn to Halsin above all the others. When he let his guard down, he was an enchanting storyteller and a great listener. His skill with a knife was mesmerizing, transforming any simple piece of wood you brought him into a work of art. He’d sit with you and discuss the day, giving you advice on the various issues you came across on the journey thus far. And on rare occasions, when the night was still and the stars twinkled above, he would share songs he knew with you, his voice laced with a subtle hint of sorrow.

You both knew that he carried the weight of guilt for the curse in the shadowlands. He blamed himself, as if he had shirked his duties as a Druid and failed to protect the gifts given to the world by Silvanus.

The shadowland curse was a dark stain on his heart. A stone wall separating the two of you. You were hoping with the curse gone, perhaps that wall would’ve crumbled.

Of course, it seemed that hope would’ve been far too easy.

You took in a deep breath and steeled yourself. It wasn’t fair to expect the Druid to have deeper feelings for you if he simply didn’t. Halsin owed you nothing. Besides that, the connection you craved from him would probably bring more harm than good.

You couldn’t save the whole of Baldur’s Gate if you were falling over yourself to get approval from someone.

You tried to shake the thoughts from your head, slightly annoyed that the insecurities had dug deep enough into your mind that they threatened your mood. No, tonight you were going to have fun, no strings attached. You needed to ignore the ache in your chest so it wouldn’t ruin what you and your companions had accomplished.

What you really needed was a strong drink.

It didn’t take long to find a source of alcohol. Shadowheart and Wyll had lined up a few glasses and broken open a wine barrel, chatting casually as they sipped.

As you joined Shadowheart and Wyll at the makeshift bar, pouring yourself a glass of wine, you tried to push Halsin to the back of your mind. You listened half-heartedly to their banter, letting the sound of their laughter fill the space between your own troubled thoughts. The wine was sweet on your tongue, a welcome distraction from the inner turmoil that threatened to consume you. With each sip, you felt a little bit lighter, a little less burdened by the weight of your unrequited feelings.

But just as you were beginning to relax into the warmth of the alcohol, a familiar voice cut through the haze of noise in the tavern. "You look troubled, my friend," Wyll said softly, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, trying to compose yourself as you met his gaze. “I... I'm fine,” you replied, willing yourself to sound convincing. But Wyll just gave you a pitying smile.

“You know, a case of wine and a good dance always lightens my night when I feel how you look.” He grinned.

Shadowheart scoffed, “I hope that wasn’t your attempt at flattering her.”

You gave Shadowheart a small smile, tucking your hair behind your ears. You knew Wyll had meant no harm by the comment, you probably did look disheveled by both your drinking and feelings.

“I was simply saying that we can’t let our companion stand here and drink looking this sad. Not after we literally just fought and survived a battle with the God of Death.” Wyll protested.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that dance, then.” You giggled, your tipsiness making words difficult to form, “I’m quite good you know, at dancing, I mean.”

“You are?” Shadowheart raised her eyebrows.

“Mhm” You shrugged, “I started learning to dance to help with agility. It turns out, I’m a better dancer than I am a fighter.”

“I should’ve guessed.” Wyll teased before holding out his hands, “Well then, show me how good of a dancer you are, o’ savior of the shadowlands?”

A small giggle escaped your lips as you took his hand, letting him guide you in a gentle spin. The warmth of his touch against your skin was comforting, filling the void in your chest with a sense of contentment.

Whether it was the wine or just pure exhaustion, being held by someone felt like a relief. Wyll's hand rested securely on your waist, his lips humming a simple waltz as he twirled you around the open floor. Despite the buzz of voices and laughter around you, it seemed like no one paid much attention to your dancing. Your feet moved effortlessly in sync with Wyll's rhythm, following his lead without hesitation. As he pulled you closer during the next spin, you found yourself leaning into him, seeking more of that closeness that eased your heartache.

But then, as your gaze wandered around the room, you caught sight of Halsin standing in the corner with his arms tightly crossed over his chest, his eyes locked onto where Wyll's hand rested on your waist. A tension filled the air between the three of you, making your once carefree thoughts feel heavy.

Halsin's gaze was like a thunderstorm, dark and brooding as it bore into your intertwined figures on the dance floor. The lively atmosphere of the tavern seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the weight of his stare pressing down on you. You felt rooted to the spot, unable to tear your eyes away from his piercing look. The unspoken words hung heavy between you, suffocating any semblance of joy that had filled your heart just moments ago.

As Wyll led you in another twirl, you could sense the tension in Halsin growing palpable. His jaw clenched tightly, his stance rigid as if he were battling some internal conflict. The music that had once filled your ears now seemed distant and muffled, drowned out by the deafening silence that enveloped you and Halsin.

Before you could even process what was happening, Halsin abruptly turned on his heels and strode out of the tavern, disappearing into the night without a word.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched him leave. What on earth could that have been about? Your tipsy mind wondered if you had done something to offend him. If something you said or did at moonrise towers had made him hate you. Why else would he have been looking at you with such intensity?

Wyll clearing his throat brought you back into the moment, it was as if you had forgotten for a moment that you were dancing with him. Wyll gave you a knowing look and a soft smile as he let you go.

“You should go after him.” He prodded gently.

“What do you mean?” You asked, looking back at the doorway.

“I mean, you only look at someone the way Halsin looked at you for one reason.” Wyll muttered

“What reason is that?” You stuttered, still not grasping the situation.

“Just go talk to him.” Wyll sighed, giving you a gentle nudge towards the door.

Then he walked back to Shadowheart, leaving you to make the decision to follow Halsin or not on your own. You stared back at the doorway, silently contemplating before you took a breath and walked out.

The crisp night air enveloped your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. The full moon glowed brightly in the sky, casting a silvery light over the landscape. The stars twinkled like scattered gemstones, creating a peaceful and serene atmosphere. The whole scene made you feel a little calmer as you made your way further from the tavern, trying to see where the Druid may have gone.

The soft rustling of leaves caught your attention, and you followed the sound into the dense thicket on the outskirts of the camp. The moonlight filtered through the canopy of trees, casting intricate patterns on the forest floor as you ventured deeper into the shadows.

You called out Halsin's name, the sound of your voice swallowed by the silent embrace of the night. A lone owl hooted in response, its haunting call echoing through the stillness of the woods.

As you nervously pushed past a tangle of branches, you finally caught sight of Halsin standing at the edge of a moonlit clearing. His back was turned to you, his silhouette outlined by the ethereal glow of the moon. He seemed lost in thought, his shoulders drooping with an air of resignation.

You approached him slowly, unsure of what to say or how to break the heavy silence that hung between you. The distance between you felt like an insurmountable chasm, filled with unspoken words and unvoiced emotions that threatened to suffocate you both. Halsin didn't turn as you drew nearer, his gaze fixed on the moonlit clearing ahead.

“Halsin,” you called out softly, your voice barely above a whisper in the stillness of the night.

He stiffened at the sound of your voice, but still didn't face you. The tension in the air was thick, almost tangible as you stood just a few feet away from him. You could feel the weight of his emotions hanging heavy in the air, and it made your heart ache with a mixture of guilt and longing.

“I... I didn't mean to upset you,” you began, your words hesitant as you struggled to find the right thing to say. “I don't know what I did, but if I hurt you in any way, I'm truly sorry.”

Finally, Halsin turned to look at you, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. His eyes held a storm of emotions, swirling with a mix of anger, hurt, and something else that you couldn't quite place. The lines on his face seemed deeper, as if the weight of the world had settled there. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like an unbridgeable gap.

“You didn't upset me,” he finally said, his voice rough with emotion. “It's not about what you did. It's about what you make me feel.”

Confusion clouded your foggy mind as you tried to decipher his words. What did he mean by that? What feelings were stirring within him because of you?

Halsin sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I've tried to deny it, to bury it deep inside me. Try to ignore it outright, even. But seeing you with him...” He trailed off, unable to voice the turmoil raging inside him.

“With him?” You repeated softly, feeling a flicker of understanding dawn within you.

Halsin nodded, his gaze falling to the ground below as he spoke. "Yes, with him. Wyll. When I saw you with him, a part of me... a part of me wishes it were me dancing with you. A part of me wishes I could hold you close without being afraid."

His words hung heavy in the air, the weight of his confession settling over you like a shroud. You stood there, stunned by his revelation, your mind racing with a mix of emotions. The image of Halsin, always so composed and stoic, baring his soul to you was both heartbreaking and yet intoxicating.

“I... I didn't know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the silence of the night. “I thought you didn’t see me as anything other than an ally against The Absolute.”

Halsin finally turned to face you fully, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your arms. “I know,” he said softly, his voice raw with emotion. “I've kept my feelings hidden for so long. I thought I didn’t deserve to start falling in love with someone after how I had let the curse fester here. I thought I didn’t deserve you.” He grimaced.

“But seeing you tonight, seeing the way you laughed and danced with Wyll, it broke something inside me. It made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I do deserve a chance at happiness.” Halsin's voice was filled with a vulnerability you had never seen in him before. The moonlight bathed his face in a soft glow, highlighting the raw honesty etched in his features.

Your heart swelled with a myriad of emotions, the weight of his words echoing in your chest. You reached out tentatively, closing the distance between you and placing a hand on his arm. “Halsin, I... I don't know what to say.” Your voice wavered as you struggled to find the right words to convey the whirlwind of feelings swirling within you.

He gazed down at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of rejection or acceptance. “Please, just tell me the truth, my heart. Tell me if there's any chance for us, if there's any hope for a future where we can be more than just allies. Say the word and I’ll never bring this up again. We can be friends in the very least.” His voice was filled with a plea, a silent prayer that hung in the air between you like an unspoken promise. You felt the weight of his gaze on you, his vulnerability laid bare before you, and it stirred something deep within your heart.

As you looked into his eyes, searching for your own truths, a rush of memories flooded your mind. The moments shared together, the laughter, the quiet conversations under the moonlight. You realized that the connection you felt with Halsin ran far far deeper than mere friendship. It was an unspoken bond that had been quietly growing, nurtured by shared experiences and unspoken understanding.

Taking a deep breath, you met his gaze with hesitence. “Halsin,” you began, your voice unsteady from the tumult of emotions swirling within you. “I... I don't know what the future holds for us. But I do know that what I feel for you goes beyond friendship.”

You looked away, the sobering reality of your situation filling your mind again.

“But the cult… saving Baldur’s Gate. If it came to a moment’s decision, could you choose the fate of thousands over my own? Could we really save the people we need to save if we’re too focused on each other?”

Halsin's expression softened at your words, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes even at your hesitance. He reached out to gently lift your chin, guiding your gaze back to meet his.

“Love has a way of giving us the strength we never knew we had. Together, we can face whatever challenges come our way, even if one of us is lost.” He said, his voice filled with conviction

The moonlight seemed to dance around the two of you as you stood there, caught in a moment suspended in time. The weight of the world and the responsibilities pressing down on you felt distant, overshadowed by the warmth of Halsin's touch and the affection that was beginning to bloom between you.

“It won't be easy,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you gazed into his eyes, seeing a reflection of your own fears and hopes mirrored back at you. “But I want to try. I want to see where this could lead us.”

Halsin smiled, a smile that reached his eyes and filled your chest with warmth.

The two of you stood for a moment, locked in each other’s gaze, a mere breath from each other before Halsin let out a soft chuckle.

“It can’t be any harder than seeing you in Wyll’s arms.” He teased, pulling you gently into his arms.

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the moment breaking as a wave of relief washed over you. The weight that had settled on your shoulders seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of lightness and freedom.

"Who knew a old bear like you could be so jealous," you replied with a playful grin, the warmth of his touch still lingering on your skin.

“Jealous?” Halsin murmured thoughtfully. “I would not call it jealousness, my heart. Merely possessiveness.”

His tone was half an octave lower and your breath caught slightly. You could feel how Halsin’s arms ever so slightly tightened around you. You wondered how far you you could push the Druid’s buttons, the wine making you bolder than you might’ve been.

“I guess I'll have to test just how possessive you can get,” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eye as you playfully pushed against his chest, reveling in the way his grip tightened around you in response. The air between you crackled with a newfound tension, the unspoken desire that simmered beneath the surface now palpable in the moonlit clearing.

Halsin's gaze darkened slightly, a mixture of amusement and something more primal flickering in his eyes. “Careful, my heart,” he warned in a low voice, the rumble sending a shiver down your spine. “You might just awaken a side of me you're not quite ready for.”

A thrill shot through you at his words, the prospect of unraveling the composed facade he wore so effortlessly enticing.

The intensity of his earlier confession still hung thick in the air, your chest pressed tightly against his own. You couldn’t find the words for a smart retort as you looked up into his eyes, lost in his expression.

Your eyes flicked to his lips, absentmindedly wondering about how the little scar there would feel against your tongue.

As if sensing your thoughts, Halsin’s eyes darkened.

The air between you crackled with anticipation, the tension thick and charged with unspoken desire. With a sudden surge of courage, you closed the distance between your lips and his, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. The world around you seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in the taste of him, the feel of his arms around you pulling you closer.

Halsin responded eagerly, his restraint crumbling under the weight of the moment. The warmth of his body pressed against yours ignited a fire within you that blazed fiercely, consuming every doubt and fear in its path. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched your own, a silent exchange of passion and longing that spoke volumes more than any words ever could.

As the kiss deepened, time seemed to stand still. When you finally pulled away for a moment, you were breathless.

Halsin’s eyes stayed locked on yours, his face still close enough for you to see the flecks of gold in his iris.

“You’re mine.” He murmured.

You blinked in surprise, trying to ignore the way his words sent a flurry of goosebumps across your skin.

His gaze was possessive and heated, the feelings he had while seeing you with Wyll obviously still nagging at his thoughts.

You paused, searching his eyes as the anticipation rose in your chest. As the heat pooled in your stomach.

“Prove it then.” you whispered.

He didn’t need further encouragement. With a fierce determination in his eyes, Halsin lifted you effortlessly off the forest floor and carried you deeper into the heart of sparse woods. The moonlight guided your path as you clung to him, your heart racing with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

As he found a secluded wrapped in a blanket of new and soft grass, he gently set you down, his gaze never leaving yours. The air around you was thick with desire, tension swirling between you like a tempest waiting to break free.

Without a word, Halsin captured your lips in another searing kiss, his hands tangling in your hair as he deepened the connection between you. Every touch felt electric, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins.

The world around you faded away as you lost yourself in the intensity of the moment. The rustling leaves and distant calls of nocturnal creatures formed a haunting symphony to accompany the unbridled passion that burned between you.

Halsin leaned further against you, settling between your legs. Your mind began to cloud with need, everything about the Druid enveloping you completely.

Halsin pulled back for just a moment, staring down at you hungrily.

“I promise you, when tonight is over, you will have no doubts of who you belong to.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Pt 2

#halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin x you #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #halsin fluff #halsin smut #baldurs gate 3 halsin #bg3 halsin #halsin series #halsin spoilers #halsin romance #halsin fic #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 x you #bg3 x you #bg3 x tav #bg3 x reader

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cordeliawhohung · 2 months

Note

i was wondering if i might be able to put in a request, if possible? simon riley mafia/guard dog vibes? i can absolutely expand with more ideas on that too if you’d like but just overall those vibes are amazing and your mafia works are immaculate ♡ ♡ ♡

sorry this took forever work was killing me lmao. but vibes are perfect! gives me a bit more freedom in writing. hope you enjoy (and thanks for getting me to write more mafia!au stuff lmfao) (:

mafia!141 masterlist

cw: violence, simon beats the fuck outta someone, crude comments, slight in limbo spoilers/foreshadowing but only if you squint? terrible cliches but oh well

It wasn't your first time seeing the glint of a knife in dark light, but it was your first time having a blade brandished at you in a threat.

Really, this was all your fault. Innocent intentions of wanting to bring your boyfriend some takeout from work was what got you caught in that mess, and had you been better at following instructions you would have been inside. Instead, you botched the directions to the VIP section the bouncer up front had given you, leading you into a trap straight out of a horror movie.

You had hardly gotten the chance to round the corner before this man, some wanna-be mugger, slapped your to-go box out of your hand. Still warm and fresh steak, along with a ridiculous amount of chips, flopped out of the container and onto the ground just as you felt your back collide with the wall next to you. Brick wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing to have shoved against your spine, but it certainly beat the wicked curve of the knife that was used to threaten you.

Everything in you urged you to run away, to scream, to fight, to do something, and yet all you could do was stand there like a deer in headlights. The only thing you could focus on was the man's eyes, and how he glared at you so sharply you were certain he could kill you with his gaze alone. He pointed the knife closer to you with his other hand outstretched, waiting for it to be filled.

"Are you fucking deaf?" the man snarled. "I told you to hand over your shit."

Those were the first words that fully registered in your brain, and you couldn't get your voice to cooperate. Your hands raised in an attempt to put some more distance between you and your assailant, yet that seemed to do nothing but only aggravate him further.

"Do you think I'm fucking around? I'll kill you and take it off your damn body if that's what you want," he urged further.

"I don't... I don't have anything."

Those were the first words you were able to stutter out, and you hated that it was the truth. There was nothing on you worth taking; no cash or card, not even any expensive jewelry. Worst of all, you didn't feel scared. A terrible numbness settled over you as your eyes stayed locked onto the blade that threatened to embed itself into your body, and all you could think about was that you hoped it didn't hurt when you died.

"You bitch, don't fucking lie to me. I don't have time to-"

That wretched man never got the chance to finish his words before a metal clinking cut him off, followed quickly by a crunch. The pure silence that followed was then interrupted by a piercing, guttural scream, and it was only then that your mind was able to make sense of the events that took place in front of you.

Simon, your big, beautiful bastard of a boyfriend, found you. How, you weren't quite sure, but you were thankful nonetheless. Most of what took place happened too fast for your brain to fully comprehend it, but you were able to figure out that the knife was no longer in the mans hands, and in fact, his hand no long seemed fit to hold anything at all. Several of his fingers twisted inhumanly, sitting at awkward angles that you knew no fingers could naturally position themselves. He gripped his wrist with his uninjured hand as if he could choke off the pain, but all he could do was sniffle and grovel.

"Watch your choice of words when you're talkin' to her, yeah?" Simon warned.

His huge frame slipped behind the man as he grabbed a hold of the back of his neck where he pushed him to the ground. His knees collided with the cement ground with a sound so sickening you could nearly feel the pain he felt. Even then, Simon didn't let the mugger off easy. His hand slipped into the mans short hair where he yanked his head back, forcing him to look up at you.

"Apologize," Simon demanded.

For a moment, the man couldn't get any words out. It was as if your positions had switched too violently for him to get his brain to work properly, but after a not-so-gentle nudge from Simon, his thoughts seemed to sort themselves. He sniffled as pained tears welled in his eyes, and you hated yourself for almost feeling bad for him.

"I'm sorry," the man sputtered out.

Despite the pain in his voice, it wasn't enough for Simon.

"Sorry for what?" he urged, grip in his hair only growing more forceful.

"Sorry for... for hurting you, I'm sorry," he winced.

"Yeah, I'm sure you are," Simon grumbled.

With a final shove, the man fell forward onto his good hand, nearly missing the now ruined steak and chips that was supposed to be Simon's dinner that night.

"C'mon, sweetheart," Simon urged, bringing your attention away from the crumpled mess of a man in front of you. "Let's clean up."

You didn't start crying until you realized Simon had been hurt. With clothes darker than night itself, his blood had blended all too well into his shirt, obscuring the cut he had gotten on his side. The only thing that had calmed you down was him bringing you into a private bathroom and letting you sit on the counter as he cleaned himself up. Seeing him hurt wasn't something you ever wanted to witness. Really, you never thought a man like Simon Riley could get hurt. Yet seeing the minor cut he had gotten compared to the major wound you would have endured was enough to quell your worries and halt your tears.

"How did you know where I was?" you asked.

Your legs didn't quite reach the floor as the counter was higher than most average bathrooms. You swung your feet as you watched Simon clean his cut with careful eyes. It wasn't deep, thank goodness, though it took him more gauze than imagined to stop the blood flow.

"One of the guys called up saying you were headed through the VIP entrance, and I came down to meet you. When I realized you weren't there, I knew somethin' was wrong. Besides, the cunt's demands weren't quiet," he explained.

Any other time, you would have been flustered being in such a situation with Simon. Behind closed doors in a bathroom of a club together would have already been nerve wracking enough, and the fact he had shredded his shirt was cause for you to be more abashed. But in that moment, you couldn't help but be eternally grateful he had been there, even if he had shattered a man's hand over it.

"I see why John has you hired as a bouncer," you admitted humorously. "I've never seen anyone... dispatch another person like that."

Simon's dark eyes flickered up to you as he finished bandaging his wound, and he moved to the sink to quickly clean his hands of the blood. Once he was clean, he moved in front of you where he stood between your legs, though not at all sexually. His hands came to rest against your side where he gave you a gentle and reassuring squeeze.

"I'd do anythin' for you," he said.

You wanted to explode into monologue. Wanted to tell him that he shouldn't be so willing to do things for you, even if he was capable of it. There were a million reasons why you didn't deserve him, why he shouldn't try and protect someone already damned, yet you couldn't get yourself to speak them.

Noting your silence, Simon pressed a caring kiss against your forehead before pulling away and snatching his ruined shirt off the counter.

"C'mon," Simon urged as he put the soiled clothing on.

Intrigued, you hopped off the counter. "Where are we going."

"To get dinner," he replied. "Bastard ruined my meal, and your night. Figured we could make somthin' back at my place."

The smallest of smiles graced your lips as Simon straightened himself out in the mirror, and when he looked at you again, he nearly smiled, too. You quickly wiped at your eyes as you silently prayed they weren't too swollen, and then with some sort of bravery you didn't know you had, you reached for the sleeve of his shirt with a quiet chuckle.

"I'd like that."

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!simon #f!reader

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iamnotoriginalphil · 2 months

Text

She Said What (Melissa Schemmenti x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Seeing Gary get down on one knee shattered you. Tasting Melissa on your lips put you back together again.

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: none

It was like taking a knife to the gut, twisting in your intestines, leaving you gasping for breath. You weren’t meant to be there. Eyes darting around the room, you were desperate for escape. You couldn’t breathe. One step back, then another, you fled down the hall before you could hear the answer.

Gary had asked Melissa to marry him. And you, like an idiot, had fallen completely in love with her.

When it had been nothing but a relationship, kept on the outskirts, it was easier. Avoiding the break room on Tuesdays, not asking about weekend plans or prying to much into her relationship, you could keep your friendship with her devoid of any details. It was easier that way. You couldn’t be plagued of thoughts of the two of them together. If you didn’t think about it, your jealousy couldn’t run rampant, ruining your friendship with her.

Now though…

You’d be seeing the ring on her finger. You might be invited to the wedding. She might change her last name. It would be everywhere, in your face, reminding you how the woman you love was not yours to love. That your chance with her had slipped away.

Career day was a bust and you needed escape and yet you were trapped in your classroom with the kids, praying the clock would speed up and you would have your freedom. Right now, Melissa was somewhere in the building, a new sparkly ring on her finger, joy in her heart, desperate to go home and celebrate with her new fiancé.

You felt sick at the thought.

The bell rung and you thanked the mechanic who had come to speak to your class, shaking his oil stained hand. Sinking down onto your chair, you buried your head in your hands, letting out a long breath. You would have groaned if not for being in a place anyone walking past could hear. All you wanted was to pack up your stuff and go home, curling up in your bed and letting yourself give in to the pressure building behind your eyes.

“You look like you’ve had a day about as good as mine.”

You startled, looking up from the hands your head was resting in. Melissa was walking into your classroom, hands thrust into the pockets of her leather jacket. You blinked, trying to rearrange your face into something celebratory, not the despair you’d been feeling all afternoon. Stretching your lips into a smile, you felt it stiffen as you looked at her.

“Hey,” you said, “congratulations. I saw the feed. It was a beautiful proposal.”

“It was,” she agreed, resting against the edge of one of the student’s desks, much as she had at the front of her classroom when Gary got down on one knee.

“You must be so happy,” you said.

“Not really,” she replied with a small shrug.

“Well, not when you’re here with me but I bet Gary is waiting at home for you to celebrate,” you said, offering her a sheepish smile.

“He better not be. I don’t need another restraining order,” she said.

“Ha, yeah,” you said, “wait, what?”

She quirked an eyebrow up at you. You had no ides what was going on, on the back foot of the conversation so quickly. When her lips quirked up, you lost any words to try and fix whatever situation you’d found yourself in.

“Hon, did you see my answer?” she asked.

“Of course I did,” you replied, laughing uncomfortably.

She sighed, shoulders relaxing, “I said no.”

“What?” That was not what you were expecting.

“I said no. You know I have no interest in being married again. He didn’t listen no matter how many times I told him. We want different things,” she said.

‘So you…?” You didn’t want to assume after your last assumption had gone so badly.

“We broke up,” she said.

“Oh, Mel, I’m so sorry.”

You made your way around your desk, perching beside her. You found her leaning against your shoulder, soft hair brushing against you as you curled an arm around her waist. Her head rested against you, shifting closer.

“It’s better we realised. No resentment, no cheating, no attempted murder. A clean break before anyone could get really hurt,” she said.

“Still, it sucks,” you said.

“Yeah, it does,” she sighed.

“I really am sorry,” you said.

“Really? I always got the impression you didn’t really like him,” she said.

You stiffened. She drew away from you, turning those beautiful green eyes onto you. You tried to stutter out an answer, to refute her claim, to lie right to her face. But there was nothing. No words came out and you were left staring at her, anxiety swooping in your stomach.

“You were never comfortable when I talked about him so I stopped but I always wondered what was wrong with him,” she said.

“Is that why you said no?” Guilt curled in your stomach.

“Of course not. I really don’t want to get married again. Once was enough. I guess I’m just curious what you saw in him,” she said.

“I didn’t really know him,” you said, offering her a non-committal shrug.

“But you didn’t like him,” she said, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“It was nothing about him. I’m sure he was fine. Nice even. And you loved him. He wasn’t a bad guy as far as I could tell,” you said.

“He’s not. But I thought we were good enough friends that you’d be honest with me,” she said.

Guilt again, washing over you, wave after wave. She was still looking at you, a small lopsided smile both sad and hopeful. You sighed, leaning into her again, not wanting those eyes assessing you anymore.

“It wasn’t about him. I mean sure, I thought you could do better but it was more to do with me. I didn’t want that to get between us and ruin our friendship,” you said.

“Can’t you just tell me what the issue was?” she asked.

“I don’t think that will make you feel better,” you said.

She hopped off the desk, moving to stand in front of you. You swallowed past a lump in your throat, averting your eyes down to your hands clasped between your thighs. With a forefinger, she tilted your chin up until you were looking back in her eyes.

“I can handle it, hon,” she said.

“Mel,” you sighed, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“It can’t be that bad,” she said, “unless he was the man who mugged your nanna.”

“I don’t think he was,” you said, giving her a weak smile.

“So what is it?”

The finger on your chin was practically burning your skin. You took a deep breath, anxiety making your fingertips tingle and your stomach roil. She was still watching you and you couldn’t tell what emotion it was swimming in her eyes.

“I didn’t want to hear about your relationship because… because…” You squeezed your eyes shut, “because I was jealous.”

“Aw, hon, you’ll find your guy one day,” she said, gently nudging you in the shoulder.

That was not the answer you were expecting. You peeked over to her, her smile softened as she looked at you. You shook your head.

“Not of your relationship,” you said, shoulders slumping, not wanting to keep the secret after coming so close to telling her, “of him.”

“What?” she asked, her smile slipping for a moment.

“Mel,” you sighed, “I’ve been half in love with you for a while now. And I’m sorry that it didn’t work out with Gary because I don’t like you hurting. I don’t want you think this is me trying to swoop in the second you’re single. I’m not that unfeeling.”

The smile had completely left her face, eyes widening and the shock evident. You could only stare at her, waiting for some kind of reaction. Mostly you were waiting to be told to get the hell away from her and never speak to her again. Her hands landed on your knees, fingers digging in as she gripped you hard.

“Hon,” she said, voice catching and you squeezed your eyes closed again, waiting for the slap, “can you look at me?”

You opened your eyes again. She was peering into your face, eyes swimming with an emotion you couldn’t name. Her lips were quirked at the corners, just enough for your heart to begin beating double time. Hands slid further up your legs as she lent towards you. You didn’t know what was going on and you were scared to move. Frozen under her touch, all you could do was stare back at her.

“I wish I’d known. I wish you’d told me,” she said.

“Would it have made a difference?” you asked.

“Of course, hon. If I’d known…” She shook her head.

“It’s fine. I won’t make it weird. We can still be friends. It’ll be like you never knew,” you said, panic beginning to set in. You were desperate not to lose her in all of this. This was like your worst nightmare coming to life before your very eyes.

“I didn’t just break up with Gary because he wanted to get married,” she said, interrupting you before you could continue rambling your reassurances, “there was a part of me that knew I had feelings for you. He couldn’t be my miracle when there was someone else.”

“What?” You couldn’t comprehend what she was saying.

“I wish you’d said something earlier, hon. If I’d known then Gary and I would have never gotten to this point,” she said. Her hands were still moving further up your legs until they were holding your hips.

“I don’t understand,” you said.

“Hon, I’m saying I have feelings for you too,” she said, a smile breaking over her face, bright and heartbreaking and everything you’d wanted to see for so long, “I know this probably isn’t the right time to say it but you’re hot and I like you.”

“You just broke up with Gary,” you said.

“I did. Doesn’t change how I feel about you,” she said, shrugging.

“This is an emotional rollercoaster.” Your lips stretched into a smile, small and soft and the way she seemed to melt at the sight of it only had you reeling again, “isn’t this too soon?”

“Yeah, probably, so we’ll take it slow,” she said.

“Slow?”

“Look, I dunno how this is gonna go but I do know that I like you enough that I want to give this a go. I’ve been single for a few hours and I’m probably going to have to deal with stuff from ending my relationship with Gary so we’ll take it slow and figure it out together. Sound good?”

You thought about it, turning it over in your mind. You’d thought, in your wildest dreams, that if you were offered the chance to be with Melissa you’d grab it with both hands but coming right off the back of her break up it felt… tenuous. But giving it a chance might be the best thing you could do, if only to not have to think about the what if on your death bed.

“Slow sounds good,” you said.

She relaxed, as if she’d been bracing herself for rejection. The smile on her face grew more sure of itself, more playful as she lent in. You shivered when her breath hit your skin, and you looked up into sparkling green eyes. You felt your cheeks heat up under her gaze and blinked, trying to take in her beauty. Trapping your bottom lip between your teeth, you worried at it, breath frozen, watching her with wide eyes and racing heart.

“Must say, hon, you’re pretty cute when you’re nervous,” she said.

“Nervous?” you managed to squeak out, “I’m not nervous.”

“No?” she asked, drawing closer again, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she whispered, “are you sure?”

“Mel,” came out as a strangled noise, “this doesn’t feel slow.”

“Feels like I’m moving pretty slowly to me,” she replied, lips slow to press to your cheek.

A small noise came from your parted lips. She chuckled, drawing back far enough for you to see the way her eyes were smouldering as they focused in on your lips. You found yourself leaning toward her, drawn into her orbit, the gravity of her dragging you closer.

“I suppose one kiss isn’t so fast,” you murmured.

“I’m glad you agree,” she said.

Her lips pressed to yours, muffling a gasp. Arms wound around her neck, fingers burying themselves in red curls. Her fingers dug into your hips, hauling you closer until you were on the edge of the desk, her body caught between your thighs. Her tongue ran along your lower lip, teeth nipping when you moaned into her mouth.

If this was slow, you could get on board with it.

She drew back, making you whimper, fingers tightening on her hair. She placed one last chaste kiss to your lips before disentangling your fingers. The step she took back made you feel bereft before you reminded yourself that today wasn’t about you. You couldn’t imagine the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on that day. Your’s had been bad enough.

“Can we renegotiate this going slow thing?” she asked.

“No,” you laughed, no matter how much you wished you could, “we should go slow. I mean, what are your plans tonight?”

“Drinking wine until I don’t feel embarrassed that I turned down a proposal in front of Jalen Hurts,” she replied.

“Exactly,” you said, giving her an indulgent smile even as your heart raced.

She chuckled, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets, taking another step back from you. Your teeth sunk into your lip, swollen from her kisses, as you considered her.

“You might be onto something,” she said.

“But maybe, when the embarrassment has dimmed a bit, we can go out,” you said.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she said.

“Great, well…” A smile was taking over your face, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I suppose you will,” she said.

Watching her back out of the room, all you wanted to do was reach out and pull her back to you. She paused in the doorway before she strode back to you, both hands cupping your cheeks and kissing you so thoroughly you lost any train of thought you might have been having. Nodding to herself, she turned her back on you, striding out. You watched her, dumbstruck, wondering how you’d somehow managed to get so lucky.

From the absolute travesty of seeing Gary propose to her to ending with the promise of a date and the taste of her still on your lips. You had no idea how you’d gotten so lucky.

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti imagine

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ellitx · 2 months

Text

Entrapment | Alastor x Reader

Okay, hear me out. Alastor being a darling husband he is with his darling wifey is cute and all, but what about a darling wanting to escape from Alastor himself?

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alastor is enough to be a warning already, depictions of blood and gore, toxic and unhealthy dynamic

When you were still alive, he always had his eyes on you and controlled you like his little puppet. You hated it, you hated being commanded and controlled for every little thing you did and if you even dared run away from him, he’d always manage to find you. You hate every atomic part of his existence so much that you’d be willing to kill yourself just so you could escape and get that taste of freedom.

But you can’t and he won’t let you.

Alastor would never allow the tip of the knife nor even a simple piece of office equipment reach your hands. And if someone has the audacity to touch his play toy, it’s time to say goodbye.

You know he’s a malicious murderer, and he knows that you know about it. If you’re feeling brave enough to tell it to the police then go ahead, because by the time you report this to them and leave the station, the next day you find yourself throwing up yesterday’s dinner upon hearing the cops were all dead.

No one will ever believe you that the infamous radio host of your city is a murderer. For a puny citizen like you, what power do you hold to convince everyone? They’ll laugh it off and say you’re crazy.

But it’s crazier how they are all deceived by the facade he puts on. His knife plunged into the chest of your coworker, their blood spluttering on his cheek.

Alastor’s wide smile was strained and wicked, the image of the blood dripping from your head and lips when he entered the broadcasting booth was as clear as his collection of polished knives.

The audacity to lay a hand on you and push you down the stairs. Do they have the right to push you off? Of course not! He’s the only one who could torment you until you break!

He’s the only one who could tarnish your being and leave a wounded mark on your soul and heart, a reminder for you there’s no one but himself who could make you so powerless and helpless.

Do they have the right to make you so confused? To put all the blame on you, as if you were the worst person in the world? To try their best to tear you apart piece by piece? Because, after all, it’s always the fault of someone else, right? The audacity to hurt you more than any human has ever hurt another human being before… The nerve to be sure you will never find true happiness again because you're now scarred for life.

He thrust the blade again, the rains of scarlet droplets continued to pour until his face and glasses were doused.

But he didn’t let it hinder him from making sure they were as good as dead. He lifted his head and took a glimpse at the sky above. It was gloomy, gray, and dark. Not much sunshine.

Alastor smiled, stabbing the knife at the corpse's chest before wiping off his glasses with his clean napkin. Then an idea clicked onto him.

It's the perfect time to give you a little visit.

He laughed under his breath and stood up straight.

He knew his outfit was not in good condition, but oh well... Perhaps, he’d instead leave a gift for you on your porch. Oh, how he wished he could make an unexpected appearance, just to witness the shock and horror on your face as Alastor comes to the hospital drenched in a coat of glistening crimson.

The anticipation of your reaction fueled his excitement, the more he thought about it, the bigger his grin became. If this would truly happen, it will surely be a sight to behold.

Still fragile from your time in the hospital, you stepped through the threshold of your home.

You missed the sight of its familiar structure, the only space you feel safe and protected, away from Alastor and your colleagues.

A sense of relief washed over you. The familiar sights and comforting aura of your own space enveloped you like a warm embrace. But something was different, something unexpected awaited you.

There on the polished surface of your entryway sat an elegantly wrapped box, its rich paper adorned with intricate patterns and tied with a luxurious ribbon. Your fingers traced the smooth edges of the packaging and you checked for any signs who sent it. Alas, no name was found.

Who could have left this for you? And why now, upon your return from the hospital?

You had a bad feeling about it.

As you carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the layers of paper, you stared wide-eyed at the contents hidden within.

Severed limbs, skin deathly pale and stiff.

Your stomach turned violently and you threw the box away from you, the gift spilling across the floor.

"Oh god, oh my god, what the fuck?!"

You were shaking. What was this? Was this a threat? A sick joke? Your heart thudded heavily in your chest, each beat pounding like thunder. You took a step back and stumbled, falling hard to the floor.

It didn't stop there.

Wounds inflicted on every part of your body, the scars on you began to open, rendering the healing done by doctors and nurses useless.

Wounds made by knives, claws, scissors, guns. Every imaginable instrument of torture. You cried out loud. Your voice pierced the quiet of the night, disturbing the tranquility of the neighborhood.

It was a perpetual and horrid nightmare. Just closing your eyes for even a millisecond, the image of his wide creepy smile flashed before you. You could hear his dark cackles, enjoying the sight of your vulnerable form as he tormented you in and out of your work.

“Run as far as you want, dear. In the end, I’ll always be ahead of you.”

The worst part was not knowing when he would strike next. He could appear anywhere at any time.

And it was all because of his sick game.

You didn't know what to do anymore. How long did you have to keep running from him? How many more days did you have to hide from the world? You were so tired of this, tired of having to live in fear of the monster that hunted you.

But God had finally heard your pleas and granted the wish you’ve been wanting for so long. So when the news came to you that the notorious radio host was dead, relief and happiness flooded every vein in your body.

You rejoiced, celebrating the death of the one who had terrorized you for a long time.

The nightmare was finally over.

The radio station was sullen by the news of their popular host, but you didn’t care. Your work became more efficient. You didn’t feel the need to be so wary and anxious by every move you made in the station. You have finally gained your freedom and the chain that was tied to him has shattered.

This was the best thing you could ever ask for.

Even on your deathbed, it was the best dream. Years without Alastor torturing and tormenting you was bliss. A man’s greatest wealth of freedom.

But then, the dream quickly turned into a nightmare, for it was never over. The demon who you thought was dead rose once again. It was only then you realized that he was never human in the first place. He was a monster.

And now, it was you who were caught in his web.

"My, what a wonderful reunion. Did you miss me, darling?”

The demon before you was mysterious.

Unfamiliar.

But his aura and voice screamed for you, the alarms in your body ringing, to run away from him as far as you possibly can.

The wide smile plastered on his face was all too familiar. Too familiar to be hated in the living and the dead. You’d be a fool if you didn’t recognize it.

You knew who he was. You just kept on denying what was the truth, brushing all the facts laid before you beneath the rag, and keeping your pretty little head away from the politics of Hell.

A demon who is powerful, dangerous, and cruel.

A demon who was feared by the other demons in Hell. A demon who is not to be messed with.

Alastor. The Radio Demon.

It was a miracle, or rather a curse, that you were brought back to life. But now you are a prisoner to this Hell. Trapped inside an inescapable cage with a dangerous beast, you could only hope that your second death would come quickly and peacefully.

But it seemed that fate was not on your side, and Alastor was the ever cruel demon. He did not scar you easily and instead prolonged your suffering, making your life a living torture.

Beads of sweat rolled from your temple. Your hands began to tremble and you felt yourself slowly succumbing to your fear. You had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

You were cornered, trapped.

Alastor had you where he wanted.

You watched him closely, eyes locked on him and every single movement. If he did something, you would see it.

"Are you frightened, dear?" he asked. His eyes met yours and he smiled. "There is no need to be afraid."

"Stay back! Don't touch me!" you shouted at him. The corners of his lips curled up, his smile turning sinister.

"Now, now, let's not act too hastily."

His gloved hand reached out and caressed your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. His red eyes bore into your soul, burning with hunger.

You couldn't bear to look at him. You didn't want him touching you.

"Don't," you whimpered.

"Don't be afraid. You have no reason to be afraid."

Rivers of tears streamed down your cheeks as the fear overwhelmed you. You didn't want him touching you. This man... He was the same one who hurt you, who ruined you.

"Why? Why are you doing this? Why are you here?"

The smile on his face grew wider.

"Do I need a reason? It’s obvious why we’re here," he replied, cocking his head to the side, eyes piercing through your eyes and consuming every little bit of your reactions in his head.

You gulped and stepped back, trying to create some distance between you and him.

"What are you going to do with me?"

He chuckled. "What a silly question! Would a little reacquaintance hurt?"

Reacquaintance? He was talking like this was a casual meeting. Like you were old friends reuniting. But this was the man who hurt you.

"What's the meaning of this?” You sobbed, shaking your head.

Alastor laughed loudly, his grin never faltering, and it makes you sick he finds everything amusing. An entertainment for his delight.

"You never fail to amuse me, dear. Aren’t you the one who killed me?” His antlers grew, his pupils changed to radio dials and his shadow stretched out of him, becoming more demonic in appearance.

You trembled. Your heart beat faster, your legs felt weak, and your mouth was dry.

"I... I…."

He stepped closer, and you stepped back.

Nothing came out of your lips. The words you wanted to say were stuck in your throat. You didn't want to look him in the eyes but his gaze held your chin up high, forcing you to face him. He smiled, and his eyes turned back to normal.

The knees that kept you upright gave in, unable to stabilize you any longer as your body slumped onto the rough pavement.

"Oh, darling," he sighed, the radio static in his voice disappeared as he crouched down.

Your gaze remained fixed on the ground, avoiding any chance encounter with Alastor's piercing stare. Instead, your eyes trailed to his cane, a silent witness to the tense atmosphere between you.

You dared not meet those fiery red optics that seemed to delve into the depths of your very being, dissecting every nuance of your expression. Fingers clenched tightly, you seek some form of solace in the texture of the barren earth beneath you, as though it could take you amidst the storm brewing within.

Alastor took your chin between his fingers and delighted your vulnerable form. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy and cheeks stained with tears.

"Fate has intertwined us together, dear. Run from me, I’ll always find you."

You didn't know what was more cruel—being brought to hell when you only wished for peace or being toyed around with him after death.

The nightmare you once thought had finally ceased returned to resume its cycle in the afterlife.

"I'll never get away from you..." You said, voice low and wavering. All hope was lost and so was your faith to continue living in this fiery pit of Hell.

"That's right. Good girl," He patted your head, taking a few strands of your hair and twirling it between his fingers. You fought the impulse to recoil, suppressing the urge to swat his hand away.

The consequence of such defiance weighed heavily on your mind; after all, provoking one of hell's overlords was a gamble you weren't willing to take. So you held your ground, masking your inner turmoil beneath a facade of obedience, unsure of what consequences awaited should you dare to challenge the infernal authority before you.

In the dim light, his hand tenderly brushed away the tear tracing its path down your cheek. But as your eyes met his, a glint of something primal flickered in the darkness, casting an eerie glow upon his sharp, yellowed teeth.

Upon the moonlight, his crimson irises blazed like embers, drawing you into their hypnotic depths with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

"But fear not, darling. I can promise you a good time. And now that I found you again, we can pick up from where we left off. It will be just like old times."

#hmm i love me toxic dynamic pairings #im quite surprised most of the fics i found were wholesome #which i admit are very cute #but the toxicity of alastor tormenting his darling??#mwah chefs kiss #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #yandere alastor x reader #yandere hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel alastor #elliwrites

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ticktokrobotsnot · 4 months

Text

Recreational

Pairing: Carmen Berzatto x fem!reader

Summary: Two chefs, one needs a distraction and the other needs anything but.

Word Count: ~11k

Notes: This one has been stuck in my drafts for almost 6 months, google docs was my editor so if you mention any grammar/spelling mistakes I'm gonna blame Google lol.

Y/n always had the idea that life never let her be too happy. And not to be unnecessarily pessimistic or ungrateful for the good things that happened in her life, but it was really only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. To be completely honest, if she was remotely better at anything else or something else paid more, she wouldn’t have been a chef. She thought her career as a chef was the universe having a good laugh at her, making her a part of a culture so deeply rooted in making connections which she couldn't reciprocate.

“They aren’t your friends.” The lesson was so deeply ingrained into y/n’s psyche that it was impossible for her to even spare a simple congratulatory smile after finding out her co-worker had won a James Beard award a few years prior or give that same co-worker a nod of approval when he retained a star. They were at best two instruments in the same tool kit, easily replaceable to the other, and y/n wasn’t going to offer an olive branch.

The French Laundry’s kitchen had perfected the skill to make even the best chefs throw their thousand dollar knife in a huff and quit on the spot. The head chef was a maestro of pushing buttons, ensuring a constant undercurrent of tension that never reached extreme highs because, in that kitchen, there was never a low.

That was before y/n was hired. There were chefs with better referrals, more experience, were more likable but there was something in her that put her above the rest, she didn’t crack.

She didn’t flinch when the head chef lowered himself to her level, still towering over her, and told her that she didn’t deserve to be there in the middle of a dinner rush on her first week.

Carmen kept his head down, anticipating the impending sobs and sniffles. However, as moments of silence stretched on, he resisted the unseen force compelling him to remain bowed. Slowly lifting his gaze, he noticed her studying the head chef as if extracting more from his irises than his words. Her eyes then swept over the rest of the staff before locking onto Carmen's. There, in that shared glance, he sensed her silent inquiry, a question of whether he, the second in command with a James Beard award and a Michelin star, was a coward.

He bowed down, focusing on the plate in front of him and pretending to wipe a nonexistent splatter.

The silence echoed while the rest of the chefs continued to slice, dice, and stir not sparing a glance, this was nothing new. When the head chef figured that she wouldn’t say anything back, he sauntered over to his next victim. Carmen lifted his head one more time, there was nothing he could do to comfort her if she was a mess but he already knew which chef would have to take over for her while she sobbed in the freezer. He was met with her side profile, she was smirking.

For a brief moment it felt like Carmen finally got a good look at her since she had been hired a week ago. It took a few moments for Carmen to decipher her expression. She was unimpressed with him, the head chef, and the kitchen. It wasn’t possible to be unimpressed and here she was looking at everyone like she was a parent listening to the squabbles of an irritable child, it was different.

She was a dangerous person because her small stunt inspired him to do something he had never done in the French Laundry, roll his eyes when the head chef left after his criticism. It was a small taste of delicious, slippery, freedom that was bound to kill him later. The day ended and Carmen didn’t even notice that he was walking up to her until he was right in front of her.

Y/n was expecting an apology and Carmen was expecting an opening to start talking, something had to give but it was too raw to do that here. After one more glance, Carmen started parting his lips but y/n slipped right past him and walked out.

They aren’t your friends.

Y/n had many aspirations growing up: pop-star, astronaut, scientist, and ice-cream vendor. As she got older the list matured, and consequently shortened. It didn't take much for her to enroll in culinary school, a decision made almost impulsively.

In the busy kitchen, amid clattering pots and the aromatic dance of ingredients, she watched chefs passionately invest themselves in each dish. She had heard stories from her colleagues, the heartfelt narratives that bound them to their culinary journey, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of shame that she couldn’t reciprocate. Her presence in the kitchen wasn't driven by sentimental attachments to food; she was here for a paycheck, a stark contrast to the fervor surrounding her. As she navigated the world of flavors and aromas, she grappled with the solitude of her own motivations, wondering if there was space for her in a profession driven by love, memories, and a deep connection to the culinary craft.

Unable to reciprocate the profound connections others sought, a sense of bitterness and unrest festered within her. Her internal conflict wasn't born out of disdain for those more accomplished; instead, it stemmed from a profound inability to fathom the emotional intricacies that seemed to drive others but couldn’t seem to reach her.

Y/n didn’t allow herself to confront a nuanced flaw—projecting her perception of routine loneliness onto the world, all while unconsciously imposing a self-isolation rooted in a complex interplay of guardedness and yearning for genuine connection. She kept herself busy by watching, judging, others in the hopes that eventually she would see something that clicked.

Y/n spent the next few years in relative ease even if every single soul in the French Laundry were a bunch of battered devotees, who regularly got verbally and emotionally beaten black and blue, but still came crawling back. It was almost humorous to watch all the chefs line up to leave and look like they just had their soul siphoned out from their puckered assholes.

Carmen felt like a cautionary tale to her, never getting too involved. He had crafted his own prison cell, a second in command with no real power, no life outside of work, and y/n bet he told himself that this was his peak. His self created pathetic life was so intensely interesting to y/n that she resisted asking about his life so she never made the same mistakes. But the way his focus scattered across the kitchen told her that he didn’t know why he was like this either.

He didn’t come to work on a Friday, which was a bit of a shock, and it rippled when she walked in on some janitor emptying his locker a few days later, and just like that, Carmen was gone from her life.

Months went by and by then y/n had completely forgotten about the chef that wasn’t strong enough until she saw browsing a food blog, and she found a name that she thought she would never see again. A post about a restaurant in Chicago that had served yet another "dish to die for". She refreshed the page a few more times, wondering if this was someone with a similar name but after a bit of sleuthing, a slightly blurry google review photo, it was undeniable, Carmen was indeed in Chicago.

They shared certain similarities—they had comparable resumes, education, and paychecks. Given the exorbitant rents in New York, it was likely that their living expenses were almost identical. They were both engulfed in the demanding world of cooking, leaving little time for anything else. Yet, despite these parallels, a puzzling question lingered: why did Carmen have the financial freedom to make a spontaneous departure, a luxury y/n had yearned for but couldn't grasp for years?

Y/n wished that she felt that pulling force, like seeing a familiar face after a long time bloomed an ache in her heart. She spent a few moments trying to will her heart string to pull but she was unsuccessful. She was looking for a reason to leave the French Laundry and she was hoping that Carmen’s scribble tattoos, wavy hair, nauseatingly blue eyes would make a path for her to escape, or at least reveal what gave him that final push.

She liked the restaurant that she used to work at, a local hotspot that was known for its penne alla vodka and other vaguely Italian dishes. Over there she was the hotshot young chef freshly graduating from the CIA and was leagues above anyone else. No one towered over her asking if she knew what she was doing, no one ever asked her if she remembered to stir the roux, or if she was an assistant. The only reason she left was because her student debt was closing in and she was exhausted from constantly debating if she should buy a replacement for her shitty knife or groceries for the month. Being poor was so tiring that y/n caved when someone came in with a job offer. As much as she hated the French Laundry it graced her with a different type of freedom, the freedom to not worry about if she could afford to survive.

She waited till The Beef closed to give them a call, and unsurprisingly someone picked up with a heavy sigh, “ We are closed.” and then hung up. Y/n dialed again, “I need to speak to Berzatto.”

“Yo Cousin, some chick is looking for you.” A muffled, we’re closed, was heard but y/n insisted.

“We worked together in the French L-.”

“She says she’s French or something.” And before y/n could correct, Carmen was handed the phone.

“The fuck do you mean French?” Still arguing with the guy with a gruff voice.

“Maybe it's a "pro" you sobbed in front of in France, you virgin. I don’t know your fucking life.”

“French Laundry.” Y/n interrupted and just like that Carmen was glued to the phone.

“Y/n?” Y/n ignored that he was able to recognize her voice even after all this time and how that made her almost soften her voice.

“I’m in Chicago for a few days, when can I stop by.”

“You want to come?" Carmen hastily recovered, "You can come when you can but we are doing some renovations and it's a mess-''

“I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.” And with that y/n hung up and emailed HR that she would be out for the week because she was sick.

The Chicago air was unbearably similar to New York's and y/n was glad she didn’t have to spend too many miles on the same shitty city. And Carmen understated the “renovations”, it was a gut. The door scraped open dragging the paint cans that were leaning it. The door isn’t the working issue, it's the fact that the whole restaurant looked like it was on the verge of being classified as a collection of bare load bearing pillars and plastic tarp. Y/n was glad that she settled for sneakers because heels were begging for her to eat shit.

“Ms. New York!” The man with a gruff voice yells with laced hostility, alerting everyone.

The echoing music was promptly shot off as curious onlookers tried to decipher why an unknown woman was waddling through a battlefield of loose nails and scattered sawdust.

Y/n didn’t have to look long before Carmen came tumbling out the kitchen door, looking at her like she was glowing. Y/n wordlessly walked over to him and extended her hand and much to her shock the shake was firm, eager even, the last time they shook hands was when y/n had to take a photo with him 3 years ago for Gastronomica. Y/n was the first to slip her hand away, not remarking on his softened calluses, it seems like he hadn’t done much cooking lately.

Carmen ushered them towards the kitchen and held the door open for her, the room was empty and oddly quiet. They were holding the work outside so they could hear what they assumed would be confessions and passionate love making.

Carmen probably sensed it too because he took them to what looked like the skeletons of an office.

They both stood against the wall on completely opposite ends, their words would have to fill the gap. Carmen parted his lips a few times trying to formulate what he practiced last night but all the words seemed to die in his throat. His staggered inhale was followed by a soft, “What brings you here? I mean I’m glad you're here-”

“I wanted to know what you were up to.” Y/n twirled a strand of hair, looking into his eyes trying to relearn him again.

Carmen’s breath stalled as he fiddled with his apron to avoid eye contact. “I’m running this place now so-” Carmen’s eyebrows furrowed, “How did you know where I was?”

“I saw the restaurant in a blog and thought I would….” Y/n noticed him deflate, trying to figure out from disappointment or finally relaxing.

“I thought I would get something to eat but it seems like…” Y/n waved her hands at the bare walls, “That's not gonna happen.” She let out a soft chuckle but was a bit peeved that Carmen wasn’t doing anything but staring at her.

Y/n crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, Carmen sighed and thumped his head softly on the wall behind him. Being across from him, gave y/n a familiar view of Carmen at the end of shift, pitiful and enervated. Y/n didn’t fail to notice that his arms had gotten bigger.

“Manual labor suits you.” Carmen let out an embarrassed but bemused “ha” as he failed to stop his lips from curling up.

“Yeah, I have to do a lot by myself. Don’t exactly have the funds to be hiring a million contractors to do shit.”

“How do you afford all this?” Y/n lifted her gaze and tried to not look too eager.

"A ton of loans. We're barely holding it together," he admitted with a soft chuckle, passing some papers to y/n. As he continued, Carmen listed the financial burdens on his shoulders, payroll for the chefs, government permits, contractors, vendors, appliance suppliers,each itemized until it culminated in a big, fat, red zero that highlighted the crushing reality of y/n's shattered dreams. There was no money left; they couldn't afford to keep her. The devastating truth settled in, she couldn't afford to work here, and Carmen couldn't afford to save her.

Carmen walked over to the desk between them before plopping on his chair and balanced his head on his right fist as he looked up to y/n.

“What are you doing right now?” Carmen asked, the new view let him see more of y/n, which she didn’t know if she liked.

“I'm still at the French Laundry, it pays the bills, Carmen.” The air stilled and all the oxygen in his lungs contracted in his lungs as his name echoed in the otherwise silent room. He wasn’t Berzatto anymore. Y/n’s small smirk was enough of a reaction for Carmen to solidify that he had no clue about the women in front of him.

As she basked in the lull, she extended her leg to stretch them out to, noticing that it wouldn’t take much effort for her to put her foot on one of the legs of his chair and roll him closer. Y/n wasn’t without decency so she resisted messing with Carmen anymore. She was being stupid and immature, it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t help her, but a part of her still yearned to inflict some measure of discomfort on him.

“Enough about me…what have you been up to?” He was finally worth talking to, y/n thought. He would finally have something of value that she couldn’t get out of any other seasoned chef, a spark behind his eyes. Maybe there was something else that gave him the power to come here, something that could move her too.

“I'm taking over the restaurant from my brother and we are remodeling and shit to make it…a spot.” He realized how stupid he sounded when he said it outloud.

Y/n’s lips quivered downward, he was taking over a family obligation. He didn’t unlock any of the universe’s secrets that he could share with her, that would make the road ahead clear. He really couldn’t help her. The crushing feeling in her chest was worsened when he carelessly tossed out, “You could work here, ya know?”

A pile of bills at home dared her to throw caution to the wind and fail spectacularly. Y/n shut down any part of her that could have been swayed and diverted instead.

“What are you serving?”

“You would be head chef, y/n.” Carmen's intense gaze made her look at him in bewilderment.

“It’s not a good fit.” Y/n pressed with a self-assured chuckle.

“Syd would be number 2 and I can focus on the business shit-”

Y/n wasn’t going to justify his ridiculous proposition with a response, so she gave him a pointed look before asking a final time, “What are you serving?”

“Whatever I want.” His eyes focused on y/n’s, almost daring her to be enticed by the freedom.

Y/n's stomach somersaulted. The room around them seemed to close in as the weight of the unknown pressed against her. Y/n grappled with the question of what she had truly come for. The initial curiosity about his past now collided with the reality that the person standing before her was somehow a deity that had broken free from the shackles of depriving the self from freedom but also a mortal with dangerous arrogance that she couldn’t replicate.

“You finished the menu?”

Carmen nodded as his eyes wrinkled.

“Show me the menu.”

“You’ll see it on opening night.” Carmen leaned back in self-assurance.

“I won’t be back.” Y/n briskly asserted as she went back to twirling her hair and crossing her arms.

Y/n heard a chuckle and a soft, “Doubtful”. Just as she lifted her head to argue, the words were gone and so was Carmen, who was at the door now, holding it open for her.

“You're the worst, you know that?” She presented him with a vicious side eye. “I came all the way to the menu, you know.” That wasn’t remotely true.

“You can see the kitchen.” His hand hovered over the small of her back before catching himself and slipping his hand back down.

Carmen gave a run down on where the stove would go in relation with the expo, being mindful of speed but also spatial restriction. Y/n walked with him wondering if she would care enough about the minutia to organize a restaurant from the ground up like this. Her fingertips grazed the silver gas stove, teh cool metal brought back memories of working in LA. His expo covered in plastic wrap was the exact one she saw in her first internship. And most damning of all, Carmen specially picked out everything; so just like y/n, he had a story to tell with each piece.

His eyes shimmered as he talked about not beating his time around the kitchen yet, and y/n felt her stomach roll over as a wave of… something rolled over her.

Eventually, Carmen led her out to the front where she talked about table choices and the lighting to match, her eye’s glazed in wonderment wondering if the version of Carmen that cared about interior design was always a part of him or if it was a new development. Just as she was about to ask, Richie interrupted her.

“We’ve held it long enough, I think we would ALL love to know who you are.” He spread out his arms and nodded like a politician who was, “asking the real questions”. Y/n went from floating around the kitchen to being slammed shut in a bird cage.

“Ms. New York didn’t give it away?” Y/n replied, doing her best to ignore the nagging whispers in her head telling her she wasn't wanted here.

“Then why are you here?” He challenged right back, pointing an accusatory finger at her before migrating it to Carmen, “Why is she here?” The urge to run away tugged at her, to a place where it didn't matter if people liked her.

Carmen squinted his eyes before letting out an exasperated sigh, y/n could tell he was used to Richie’s machinations. Looks like the three of them didn’t know why y/n was here.

“Just ignore him, that's Tina..” pointing at an older woman who looked like she was just about to leave.

“..Nat” was buried in a binder but her head still shot up and smiled which y/n politely reciprocated.

“.. and Syd '', who looked pissed that y/n was here, y/n looked at her hands clasping a notebook. Recipes…a menu…y/n tucked her lips to hide her laugh, they didn’t have a menu to show and she had interrupted their brainstorming session. Y/n made a mental note that Carmen wrinkled his eyes when he lied.

“I was just in the neighborhood, and I'm just about to leave.” She walked towards the exit, not failing to notice that Carmen was in hot pursuit.

It didn’t take a genius to know he was going to offer her a ride so she beat him to it, “I’ve taken enough of your time.”

And just as Carmen was about to say something, Y/n hid her disappointment with a smirk, “I’ll let you get back to making that menu.” Y/n caught a quick glimpse of shock before the door swung open and she walked the Chicago streets wondering if she got what she was looking for.

This place wasn’t for her at all, and no amount of small town romance novels could convince her to leave her cushy job with a bunch of pompous clowns for a DIY restaurant. Her heart quickened as she allowed herself to be momentarily seduced by the idea, only to shatter any hopeful illusions with the harsh reality that Carmen couldn't rescue her from her financial nightmare. She needed a paycheck, a big one, and Carmen couldn't give it to her; he could barely afford the stove he wanted. It was almost cruel to give her a taste, let her acquire it, and then realize that she couldn’t have it.

Y/n went back to her hotel and had the difficult choice between watching Pawnshop or Diners, Drivers and Dives when she got a text message from an unknown number.

I’m off tomorrow, let me take you somewhere other than a construction site.

Y/n let herself have one last taste of freedom and dialed the number, “Who’s this?” she asked to tease Carmen.

She could hear Carmen’s grin loud and clear as he gave her a soft, “The worst person ever.”

Y/n laid flat on her bed and made herself forget that he didn’t have a backbone, that he ran away without a word like a coward, and (most damning to her) he couldn’t save her. She pushed the part of her that screamed that she should run away before they realized they didn’t fit because right now, she wasn’t talking to Berzatto. He was Carmen. He had dreams and aspirations that were bigger than him or maybe just as big as him. He was working hard and confident; everything else he wasn't in New York.

As she confirmed a good time for tomorrow, she sat up on her bed as she said her goodbye.

“Have a good night, Carmen.”

Y/n had trouble falling asleep that night.

The week had reached its end a lot quicker than y/n thought it would. Before she knew it she had repacked her life back into her suitcase and was sitting at her gate waiting for boarding to start.

Y/n had her legs propped up on her carry-on, balancing an egregiously priced coffee in one hand and a book in the other. It’s not like the book was any good, it was an autobiography about a famous chef who had died of cancer. She recalled her outing with Carmen a few days prior.

The pans that y/n had to use in her shitty old apartment were non-stick because she couldn’t afford the non-cancer kind till after she graduated from the CIA. She remembered joking with her classmates about it while they were learning how to take apart a chicken, and everyone gasped in disgust. Y/n gave a careless grin while hiding her warming cheeks and mentally punching herself for even saying that out loud.

Her birthday came around and all of her classmates pitched in for a set of pans, non-stick pans. She laughed with her friends, went home and invited them for dinner made entirely from the pans and watched as they ate their dishes, nodding in pretentious considerment, not knowing it was made on Teflon and wondered if this is how that guy who served his customers human meat felt.

Y/n told the story to Carmen during their lunch at a Korean restaurant and felt a surge run through her as he met her eyes and instead of laughing at what was meant to be a humorous story and mumbled, “That was shitty.”

Y/n’s lips parted as her eyebrows furrowed in anger and, more embarrassingly, shame.

Before she could defend herself, Carmen added, “I wouldn’t call those friends.”

He played with the condensation on his glass, y/n knew better to look down at him playing with the wetness with his pointer and thumb.

“That’s how it is there. How was your first week here?” Y/n sipped her soup.

“I lost my knife, found it beat up on the floor. I would have quit if I could.” Carmen gave a soft chuckle and y/n hated that she wanted to know more about him.

“Which knife?”

“It was the Yoshimi.”

Y/n quirked her lips up, “I remember when you first got it.” Carmen looked up quizzically.

“It was a shit show.” The head chef was not in a good mood and Carmen pulled up, with a pep in his step and a new knife, begging to be shot down. Honestly, y/n was surprised that Carmen didn’t kill anyone that day.

Y/n’s flight had started boarding so she threw all of her stuff in her bag while fishing for her passport. In her hustle she missed her phone vibrating till she was in her seat trying to catch her breath from shoving her overloaded carry-on in the ever shrinking compartment.

You got on yet?

Just sat down, TSA sucks ass, might have to start working out bc im winded rn.

Have a safe flight.

Y/n finally made it home and just as she was about to pass out, she quickly texted a picture of her exhausted face with a cringy thumbs up, she would regret that in the morning.

Y/n fell right back into her regular rhythm, with two new additions. She had started running in the morning. The other thing was a new pen pal, of sorts.

They tried texting more regularly for the first few weeks but their schedules were too different so they had simplified it to a photo every few days.

The Bear

Y/n got the photo on her train ride home after months of “talking”, a picture of a decal on the restaurant window, y/n didn’t miss Carmen’s furrowed eyebrows and grimace from having to be out in the sun to take the picture. His reflection exposed his paint stained t-shirt and y/n rubbed her eyes to check that his arms had in fact gotten bigger.

Y/n sent out the first actual text message in months, Why The Bear?

She saw the bubbles disappear and reappear a few time before settling on,

Come and find out

Y/n snickered and the women sitting next to her gave her a side eye as she got up to leave.

I don’t want to install appliances or check the plumbing for free.

Carmen texted back uncharacteristically fast, maybe they had shot down texting too soon.

“Don't want to” or “don’t know how to”?

Y/n squinted her eyes, he should believe her even if she was lying. She texted a middle finger back. You should be so lucky to see my trade skills in action, I could have been your contractor and it's sexist that you think otherwise.

I’ll settle with you coming by as a guest.

Y/n called him, it was a split second decision that she didn’t have time to regret. He picked up just as quickly as she called.

“I’m not coming back if you guys are still building shit.” Y/n asserted as she unlocked her front door.

“We finished that a while ago, now it's real shit this time.” There was faint rustling in the background and what y/n could decipher as yelling.

“Yeah?”

“We're missing some stuff, repair guys to call, and we still have some vendors to deal with but doors open in a few weeks.”

Y/n giggled, “Sounds like you're cutting it close, Carmen.” There was rustling heard on the other end, “You can probably get all that shit done with time to spare if you don’t get distracted.”

A laugh erupted from the other end, Richie’s.

“He’s plenty distracted, got himself a girlfriend.” Y/n stomach fell to her ass as she stood in her kitchen with her work bag still slung on her shoulders.

“Really?” she croaked out. Richie must have slapped Carmen on the back because she heard him slap Richie back.

“Ignore him. Doors open on the 1st.” The line stayed quiet for a second.

“I’ll see if I can make it, but you know it gets.” Y/n wasn’t going to make it, she was taking it out of the calendar right now.

A door closed on his end and the line was disconnected.

Before y/n could chuck her phone at her couch and sleep off her day, it rang again. Facetime.

Y/n picked up and was met with a new setting. Carmen noticed her slight confusion.

“New office, what do you think?” He propped his phone up and angled his body so she would see his fully stocked bookshelf. If y/n didn’t know any better she would have assumed that he was trying to impress her.

“Dewey Decimal?”

“Alphabetical.” He pulled out a book and showed her the self-made label on the bottom that proved that it was in fact in alphabetical order.

Y/n let herself be a bit difficult, “Your handwriting leaves something to be desired.”

Carmen covered his smirk with his tattooed hand before locking into her eyes,”Why don’t you come over and help me out?”

Y/n almost let herself fold before recollecting herself, “Unless you plan on working part time for our HR department, I don’t see that PTO being approved.”

“Sick days?”

“Why don’t you come back to New York. Wanna slice oranges for our tarte á l’orange? Maggie misses you.” Y/n was referring to the kitchen’s pastry chef who didn’t miss Carmen in the slightest.

“Are you opening a restaurant?” Y/n was a bit floored that she was getting sass from a man who put his jeans in an oven and shirts in kitchen cupboards.

“Are you? Looks like your team thinks you're distracted? If I didn’t know any better I would say you're calling me to distract yourself from calling the repair guy.”

“He can wait… tell me what I have to do to make this happen.”

“I took a week off, and we live in a capitalist hellscape so I already used up my PTO for the year. Don’t worry, I’ll make it to the next one.”

“You think I'm good enough to franchise.” Carmen ran his hands through his hair as he laughed and y/n cheeks warmed as his shirt slightly lifted as he leaned back.

“No, when this one fails and you have to make it another Mcdonalds.” Carmen gave her an adoring smile that made her wonder if he heard something else.

He put his right leg on his knee and spun in his chair, thinking.

“It’s better if I don’t come, what if your team hates me or worse they love me, force me to be their leader, and kick you to the sidelines.”

“I can be on the sidelines for you.” Y/n ignored the fluttering in her stomach.

“I’ll see…”She offered.

Carmen let out a sigh and y/n almost felt bad but the distance was good. They didn’t work together anymore, they texted irregularly, they barely were face to face, and it was working for them.

She was forgetting the man who froze like a battered dog when she was being shredded in the kitchen, and she could forgive him for being selfish because now he was too far away for it to affect her. Closing the gap risked her relearning why she didn’t get close to him in the first place.

His lips parted like he was constructing the words.

“What?” Y/n was just about ready to hang up and get ready for bed.

“I just…I don’t know. I thought that I could…you would see something different.”

“It’s a restaurant, I've seen plenty of those.”

“It’s different, I swear. I worked hard on shit and it's new and different. It's …better.” A chef analogizing his restaurant to represent himself was so unoriginal y/n would have laughed in their faces if it wasn’t Carmen.

“I’ll save you a table.” He offered.

“Looks like you’ve got a lot of tables to save.” Carmen quirked up his eyebrows.

“Your sister s, Sydney’s dad, Richie’s friends, me. Are there going to be any tables left for customers?”

“I need them all there, y/n.” He didn’t need to say her name but it still reverberated inside of her sending a shiver down her spine. In response, y/n felt a warm wave of relief wash over her, knowing that she couldn’t quite explain why that felt good to hear.

“I'm nobody.” Y/n squinted her eyebrows in doubt.

There's a hint of desperation in his voice, as if he's been searching for something that y/n couldn’t figure out, “You saw me in New York and here so you're the only person who can compare the two. I don’t have anyone like that left.” Carmen rounded his eyes in closeted adoration and y/n’s throat closed up.

“I’ll see what I can do but no promises. I have to go… don’t forget to call the fridge guy.”

Y/n was a strong independent woman who built her own furniture, threw out her own trash, and even back out by putting an arm around the passage seat headrest so when she got an email the next day with tickets to Chicago, her head began to swim.

Her phone buzzed, Meet me halfway.

Y/n left him on read and gave herself the freedom that Carmen had unknowingly denied her.

–

Birthdays were never y/n’s favorite holiday, she didn’t bother taking the day off and she stopped telling people since her CIA days, so she felt a little disgusted when grown adults would make a whole situation about this day. Celebrating birthdays in a restaurant was annoying for the kitchen but celebrating management’s family birthdays made y/n nearly quit every year.

It came around like clock work, just as she forgot about it, her boss's friend's (or whoever) birthday would roll around and she had to remind herself that the only reason she still had a job here was because she didn’t break down in hysterics and the only reason she stayed was because the bill wouldn’t stop just because she disliked her job.

It had already been a month since she and Carmen last spoke, they went back to curt messages. Y/n couldn’t help herself from texting back even though she knew better. The last message was a picture of Carmen in front of a finished kitchen, he puckered his lips to hide the full grin and seeing such joy, even if it was from a photo, was infecting every corner of her mind.

The week was just as difficult as it always was, and the last thing y/n wanted to do was a large dinner like this but it was like the universe wanted to beat her numb.

Y/n forgot to mention that the HVAC system had gone down for the afternoon and it was still over 100 degrees in the kitchen. As she chopped some chives, she ignored the expo coughing, and she walked over her collapsed body when expo inevitably passed out, to grab some more butter from the walk-in.

Y/n stole a glance from the corner of her eyes, they had no expo and a full house. Y/n puckered her lips in hidden contentment when the head chef practically roared and the unconscious women to get up and y/n swallowed a laugh when he had enough and started to manage the expo.

Y/n’s eyes darted to her left and finally felt that Carmen wasn’t working there. He had long been replaced, twice over, and y/n went back to her foie gras terrines trying to figure out why it even mattered now.

As orders were being barked and a rehearsed chorus of, “Chef” played back, y/n stalled her knife noticing that the pitch was off. It was missing the bass of a chef that had left just about everything to run away and was trying to convince her to do the same.

“WHERE THE HELL IS THE CONSOMME FOR 14?”

For the first time in years, y/n flinched. It wasn’t noticeable barring the fact that her little jump made her slice her finger. Her breath picked up as the blood pooled over the chives, she grabbed her cutting board and dumped the herbs in the trash and grabbed another board. She pressed the kitchen towel deeper into her finger, trying to remember where the first aid kit was from her orientation week.

Just as y/n was about to run to the stove to cauterize the wound herself so she could keep working, someone grabbed her arm and handed her a bandaid. She looked up to give them a silent thank you but they were gone. She hastily wrapped herself up and tried to lean inconspicuously on the counter because heat was getting to her too.

A few minutes later when by and y/n had fallen back to her usual rhythm even as a waiter walked in, she had learned to ignore waitstaff when they entered the kitchen because they never brought good news. Y/n could feel a piercing glare on her back.

“You sent out a Coq au Vin, chef?” Y/n didn’t have to look up to know he was talking to her but she still met his searing glare.

“15 minutes ago, chef.” Y/n resisted wiping the bead of sweat that was torturously grazing down her face.

He stared her down like he was waiting for her to admit that she had actually eaten it, she kept her nose high and bit her tongue to stifle the grimace that was forming.

“It's missing.” An ugly pause passed throughout the kitchen, she had almost convinced herself that she hadn’t actually finished it but the shift in his gaze brought her back to reality, he remembered her bringing it to him.

In the smelting kitchen, in her cramped corner, with her chef whites sticking to her, she almost let this pathetic man think he knew more than her.

The command echoed out of her before she could contain herself, “Refiring the coq au vin.”

A familiar chorus of, “Chef” was missing its usual thoughtlessness, y/n wasn’t supposed to do anything till the head chef told her, she had given herself a command, it was sacrilege.

Y/n was never a target, she watched as others were shot down time and time again, and moved on when she saw them break down crying in the middle of a dinner rush. The most she could give them was aloofness but as she stood in her corner, drowning in orders, and having every single one sent back from expo to redo, or having to wait longer for plates then everyone else and getting reamed for her dishes coming in late, she felt the weight of the kitchen’s gaze on her shoulders and wished someone one was there for her.

She kept her face composed as she finished up the last of her orders, her vision swaying from dehydration. Just as she was about to give into the weightlessness, the clock struck midnight and the kitchen was officially closed.

She did her best to walk to her locker, and sat on a chair with her head in her hands wondering how she was getting out the door, let alone go home. Her phone buzzed in her lap and knew that it was Carmen. His restaurant was opening tomorrow and she didn’t want to hear about it right now.

The rest of the chefs filed out, each giving her a glance that told her that she had finally been properly assimilated, just five years too late.

Carmen was giving her a taste of freedom in Chicago and that fleeting freedom was too seductive to ignore. The job offer echoed in y/n head, she wasn’t a good fit with them, she didn’t want a “work family”, but the temptation was poisoning her.

She opened the text, it was a simple picture of Carmen in his chef whites, he was practicing the “look” the day before the restaurant opened. He had even slicked his hair back with pomade like he used to in New York, and for the first time in months she laughed.

The sips of warm gatorade had sobered her up enough to walk out, just barely missing the head chef on her way out the door. She performed a blasphemous act in the back of the uber, she opened the email that Carmen had sent a month ago and checked the tickets date and time. Tomorrow morning, and like the universe was giving back after being shitty today, the French Laundry was closed for the next few days.

Y/n got home, ate two day old Thai food, sat on her couch astounded by her sheer audacity as she checked in for her flight. She was sure that Carmen would have gotten the confirmation email by now but he did her the service of not mentioning it.

Y/n packed a carry-on early in the morning and got to the airport, each checkpoint moving much faster than usual. The TSA didn’t make her take off her shoes, her gate was super close, and they had upgraded her to first class because a couple wanted to sit together. All the stars were pointing to Chicago…to Carmen and she tried not to think about how she was running away from her problems just like he did.

As she reached her hotel room, she hesitated to text Carmen. Nothing felt right to say, so she gave him the best thing right now, some space. She busied herself with getting ready and watching the shopping network.

As y/n approached the restaurant, she was a bit taken aback that the line was still so long. She stood next to an elderly couple who were talking about mortgage rates going down which meant that another housing bubble was bound to burst and the economy would be in shambles. Y/n tried not to think about how she couldn’t afford to lose her job right now because she had nowhere else to go.

No special treatment tonight, Carmen wouldn’t know when she got here so he could focus on his own work. She entered the restaurant and was relieved that the host and the waitstaff were new. She was led to her table and hesitated to pick up the menu. This was a long time coming and opening it felt so empty. It was like when she submitted her last assignment for highschool, alone on a Thursday night wondering why something so big wasn’t registering.

As she digested the menu, she let her fingers trace over the faux leather and the brown stitching. She wanted to know why he chose brown stitching, or why he stuck with Seven Fishes despite the fact that he must have made it a million times in the French Laundry? Why did he choose certain wines, or why was there a donut on the menu?

It's not like she hated the menu but a horrible thought dawned on her that all she wanted right now was for Carmen to sit across from her and talk about everything that she had missed. Every detail of this restaurant that reflected a better him, and how she had so much more to learn.

Her phone burned on her lap but she didn’t text him. Instead, she watched the people murmur about work and the food and y/n couldn’t help but hate herself for her self imposed loneliness.

Y/n did herself a disservice by coming towards the end of the shift so the crowd was thinning and her cover was close to being blown. Her dish arrived and she didn’t need to walk into the kitchen to know that Carmen made this, after years of taste testing his food, his flavor was ingrained in her DNA. Y/n finished her bucatini and felt compelled to order another despite being stuffed, just to swirl the flavor around her tongue for a bit longer. She ordered the aforementioned donut, paid and left.

She stood in the crisp Chicago air, a few steps from the restaurant, grappling with the audacity that led Carmen to abruptly leave the French Laundry. Immaturely, she couldn't help but wonder why he got to leave and she couldn’t. She knew why, but she let herself fester in the pain, it kept her alive.

She was used to being alone but for the first time in her life she yearned for someone to be there for her. She had isolated herself to such an extent that she knew that right now no one knew where she was or what she was doing, even Carmen couldn’t be sure that she actually went on the flight.

She could hear the last of the customers file out and the bussers clearing tables. She felt her phone vibrate and took a few breaths before she picked it up.

How was the bucatini?

Y/n lips waivered and a pit dug itself in her chest as she tried to compose herself, but she felt her eyes watering. This wasn’t fair, he wasn’t playing fair.

She hid her face in her hands, and tried to regain some of her dignity.

She stood there for what felt like a few seconds and felt someone stand next to her followed by the familiar sound of a lighter.

Y/n bit her lips shut and stared ahead, knowing that she was stronger than this.

“I didn’t take you for the donut type.” Carmen said in between puffs, he had changed into more casual clothes.

Y/n inhaled deeply through her nose and put her arms down, the night has hidden any trace of her vulnerability. “I wanted to try something different.” Y/n tried to put more power behind her voice but it came out too soft for her liking.

Carmen studied her profile and y/n knew better than to turn away, so she faced him. Her moist eyes turned his eyes into a kaleidoscope of silvers, blues and gold.

“How did you know I was in the restaurant?” Y/n was relieved that she was able to get it all out before her voice cracked.

A silence passed through them and y/n wished they were doing this somewhere more private.

He gave her a look, I know you.

The air hung heavy with tension as Y/n responded to Carmen's humored dismissive look. "You don't know shit,", a sardonic smile playing on her lips. She nonchalantly extended her hands toward Carmen's cigarette, a move that seemed almost too casual for the charged atmosphere. She was reaching out for the small remnants of warmth that she knew she would lose in a few hours, because right now and right here, he was there for her.

Their fingers brushed in the exchange, a subtle yet palpable connection that lingered in the air. It was a moment that could have easily been avoided, but neither of them seemed willing to retreat.

As the smoke curled around Y/n, she maintained a facade of cool composure, seemingly unfazed by the intimacy of the shared smoke. It was as if the brief touch and the exchange of breath and saliva meant nothing more to her than the inhale and exhale of the smoke itself. The proding sense of sadness thumping in the back of her head telling her that this couldn’t last, they couldn’t last.

“I liked the food.” Y/n returned the cigarette. “It's different…better.”

Carmen looked at her like he had a million questions that he wanted to ask and y/n wondered if she was giving him the same look.

She leaned back, “Don’t you have an alley or something? Smoking out front is so highschool.”

“Syd threw up in the alley.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow and wondered if this is how far they would go, she would have savored him for a moment longer if she knew it was going to end so soon.

Carmen stood straight and tilted his head so she would follow him.

“They cleaned up fast.” Y/n marveled at the vacant restaurant, the lights were dimmed and Carmen led her to the office.

“I think they wanted to get out of here before the last train left.” Carmen held the door open for her and the familiar heat of his hand hovering over the small of her back was a welcomed surprise.

Despite the practicality of the situation, the impending departure and the need for a clean, cold goodbye, there was a lingering question of whether she could maintain that distance. Carmen's proximity, the heat of his touch, and the shared space was going to make it challenging to stick with a clinical farewell.

The door clicked shut and y/n let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Do your worst. I can take it, y/n.” Carmen sighed, y/n’s stomach fluttered and she dug her nails into her palms to compose herself.

“Service was good, the waiter filled up my cup when it was halfway. The silverware was clean and rolled tight. Points off because my fork was from a different manufacturer from the rest of the dinnerware.” Y/n saw Carmen clench up for a second before nodding in concentration. It felt as if each syllable was being burned into his memory and the intensity of his gaze was making her sweat.

She gave herself the satisfaction of sitting because her feet were killing her and Carmen sat on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“The saltiness of the guanciale harmonizes with the richness of the eggs and the sharpness of the Pecorino Romano. The dish was velvety but delicate. The guanciale provides a necessary contrast in texture. Simple but precise. I think…I know that it was the best thing I’ve had in a while, chef.”

Yn was met with a humming silence.

“We can do this tomorrow, I know you had a long day.” Y/n offered.

“No…” He shook his head and his eyes were distant before landing on her’s, the severity behind them had made her sit back, “I want to hear what you have to say.”

She extended her legs towards Carmen, “You see these, chef?” Carmen hesitated to look forward like he was in the middle century and ankles were scandalous before gazing at her soft legs.

“They hurt like a motherfucker.” She flexed the back of her heel to show the blisters that had formed. “I gotta take care of this back in the hotel.”

Carmen slowly shifted his gaze from her legs to her face before wordlessly getting up and walking out. Y/n rubbed her temple and allowed herself to be selfish once more by downing Carmen’s abandoned sugar free Redbull left on the desk.

As she collected her stuff to get back to the hotel, Carmen returned with ice and first aid.

He placed everything on the floor so slowly that y/n could only assume that he was stalling.

Carmen looked up at her with his bright, almost silver, eyes and his eyes asked, Can I help you? Can I be there for you like you were here for me today?

It was like time had stopped as y/n struggled to bring oxygen to her lungs. She mindlessly nodded yes and the first touch made her heart thump against her chest. His hands were scorching against her skin and every lingering touch imprinted its memory on to her. As he iced the swelling and followed it by placing his warm hand to ease the shock in temperature, it became hard for y/n to focus.

Carmen did her the courtesy of abandoning the ice pack. She took a hollow and staggered breath, “Ask me anything.”

Carmen looked up from her, she hadn’t noticed that he had removed her heels, and asked her about every minor detail about her experience. He wasn’t aware that he was softly rubbing his thumb across her ankle, and y/n couldn't seem to move on from it.

When y/n finished her summary, Carmen’s fingers seized dancing across her skin and she regretted not talking for longer.

He didn’t let his hand leave her even as he asked, “How is work?”

Y/n grunted out in dismay and she leaned back and would have fallen backwards if Carmen hadn’t grabbed the seat between her legs. They both stared at his hand before Carmen quickly pulled back, y/n mumbled a quick thanks.

“It’s great.” Y/n sarcastically pushed.

Carmen quirked up his eyebrows in a sarcastic manner and y/n ignored him.

“It was Henry’s birthday.” Carmen hummed in understanding, birthdays were always a mess.

“You wouldn’t guess who was doing the expo yesterday.”

“I have an idea.” Y/n couldn’t deny that his smirk sent her spinning. He understood the fiber of that world so well even though he was hundreds of miles away, and she was barely hanging on to a tread.

Carmen continued, “Feel bad for the poor bastard who was his punching bag for the night.”

Y/n swallowed the burning lump in the back of her throat and kept her gaze relaxed and gave him a soft, “Yeah.”

The silence was making y/n uncomfortable so she mustered her remaining energy to give him a relaxed smile.

Carmen’s face didn’t give anything away, “How bad was he?”

“I'm here, aren’t I?” Y/n chuckled humorlessly.

“I know you're strong but I was being serious, y'know…about the job.” Carmen asserted.

Y/n softened her eyes, he was making this so much harder for her. “Noted, chef. Why Chicago?” Y/n diverted.

“Inherited the restaurant from my brother and I had to deal with it. He killed himself.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up-”

“It’s fine, I was going to have to tell you anyway.” Y/n didn’t have to know anything, she was no one and she didn’t deserve his trust. “It was a sandwich place before we renovated it.”

Y/n laughed in disbelief, “You made sandwiches? They sell truffles in Chicago?”

Carmen smirked as he went back to mindlessly rubbing her ankle again. “Regular sandwiches.”

Y/n widened her eyes and couldn’t hold her laughter in, “Pictures or it didn’t happen.”

Carmen fished out his phone and showed her pictures of a messier restaurant.

“I get why you had to gut the place.”

“It's not that bad.” He asked humorously.

“What you have right now is more your style, I like this version better.” Y/n heart skipped a beat when his hand shifted a bit higher up her leg.

“I love the look though,” Y/n squinted at a picture of Carmen standing behind a counter at what looked like a bachelor party.

“What look?”

“You know, the rugged, tired look.” Carmen rolled his eyes. “No seriously, I didn’t even know you had so much ink.” Y/n zoomed in on a tattoo of some numbers on his biceps.

“I'll show you all of them later.” Y/n let out a laugh as she handed back the phone. She wondered if she was hiding her nerves well.

"You spend all your time at work, when do you find the time to sit in a tattoo shop?"

"Prioritizing important shit, I guess."

"If you can prioritize getting tattoos and running a restaurant, when do you have time for your girlfriend?" Subtle, passive, non-probing was what y/n was going for. She forced herself to watch his reaction.

Carmen gave a puzzled look, his scrunched up eyebrows and distant look was accompanied with a quiet, "Don't have one."

Y/n gave a casual "Hmm…you sure? Seems like you got time to kill, always so relaxed." Carmen curled his lips up and bit his lips to stifle his smile. His lips turned pale pink before returning to rose red and y/n wanted to reach down and run her pointer finger along his lips to feel his heat.

"When I have the time. The restaurant is new and I need-"

"I thought you said you knew how to prioritize?" Y/n leaned back and rested her cheek on her fist.

"Maybe if she's really special."

"And not distracting." Y/n added.

"Then I can prioritize." Carmen adjusted his posture before asking y/n.

"What about you?"

"I am a realistic romantic, so love is real but just not for me. I don't have it in me to text everyday or go to family dinners. But who knows, Mr. Right might make me less shitty and more sunshine and rainbows. "

"Your personality is fine right now." Carmen offered.

Y/n jokingly scoffed before adding, "Then maybe I just need someone to distract from my own problems."

They sat in comfortable silence, but y/n’s eyes widened as she checked the clock, “It’s late.”

“It’s only one.” Y/n gave him a look of disapproval before nudging her foot against his stomach, where it had been resting for the past hour.

“Go home, Carmen.” Carmen wordlessly picked up her heels and slipped them back on to her feet. He stood up and offered his hand.

They walked out the restaurant and y/n pulled out her phone to call a taxi.

“I can drive you.”

Y/n looked over her shoulder at Carmen checking the locks.

“If you drive me, you won't be getting any sleep.” A pause passed through them.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Y/n rushed out.

Carmen cleared his throat, preserved her dignity by not saying anything else and led her to the car.

“You know these things will kill you.” Y/n lifted a Red Bull from the cup holder and cracked it open and took a few healthy sips.

Carmen wordlessly slipped the can out of her hands at a red light, “I need it more than you.” He looked down at the lipstick mark and took a few savored sips. At the next light, y/n could see the remnants of red lipstick on his bottom lip.

They reached y/n’s hotel too fast for each other's liking. Y/n swiveled her head, Carmen was already looking at her. She was fighting heavy lids a few minutes ago but now she was sprung with energy.

Y/n looked up in feinted innocence before casually offering, “You want to come up for some tea?” The kettle in her room didn’t work, she checked this morning.

Carmen blinked a few times, wondering if he heard her right, before slowly nodding his head like he wasn’t sure it was a joke.

She unlocked her room door for the both of them and Carmen shut it behind him. With a cautious gesture, y/n extended her hand, placing it close to Carmen's body. The darkness clung to Carmen's form as y/n's fingers grazed his side, a brief but intimate contact that went unnoticed in the dimly lit corridor, to check if the door was locked.

Carmen walked over to the office chair in the corner. Y/n room was so cramped that she was still within arms distance of him as she sat on the foot of her bed.

“The Bear?” Y/n’s inquisitive gaze and playful smile made Carmen’s heart stutter as he nearly forgot what The Bear was, or what his name was.

He cleared his throat, “Berzatto…Bear. It was a nick-name my brother gave me.”

Y/n leaned in a bit closer as she scoffed, “Even the name is good. I kinda hate you a bit more.” She bit her bottom lip to stifle the laugh but was pleasantly surprised that he was bouncing from her eyes to her lips.

He parted his lips to formulate a coherent sentence but y/n extended her heels to the legs of Carmen’s chair and pulled him closer. The look of his thoughts scrambling right in front of her was making it difficult for her to be restrained and poised. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

His grip on the arms of the chair was telling her that she was headed in the right direction. She kept her hold on Carmen’s chair, as she softly assured, “I have to go back soon, so I’m trying to soak it all in right now.”

“You're leaving?” Carmen mumbled, sharing his attention between her eyes, lips, and her leg. He let his legs relax, which made them meet with y/n’s legs.

“I hate Chicago.” Y/n leaned back. “And I don’t really belong here. My whole life is in New York, and I don’t want to change everything just for-.”

“Come work for me-”

A swift pang of anger rippled through her, he didn’t need her. “You’ve got your plate full, you don't need a distraction.”

“But you do.” Carmen placed a warm hand on her thigh and the heat made her breath heavy, y/n knew where this was going but she wanted it to last as long as it could because she knew that once the sun rose, they were done.

“It’s going to be messy.”

“It won't be.”

The room held its breath as they teetered on the edge of something undefined. The impending dawn loomed, casting a shadow on the delicate illusion they had woven. “I don’t want something serious.” Y/n argued.

“And I dont have the time for something serious.” As Carmen leaned forward, pushing his hands high up her thigh.

As y/n searched for any other reason no to do this, Carmen’s cerulean eye’s hazed with lust seemed to have the opposite effect. Any reservations, logic, or inhibitions that could have prompted her to stop were forcefully pushed away amidst the intoxicating allure of Carmen.

Y/n didn’t know who leaned in first but it didn’t take much time for both of them to topple in the bed. In between huffs and shirts flying off each other Carmen whispered into her lips, “Just pretend it’s real tonight.”

Y/n reeled her head back a second, but Carmen's intense gaze and his trailing hand convinced her otherwise. She leaned back in, hooking her legs around his waist pulling him closer.

Carmen stalled his kisses down the column of her throat, “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” Y/n twisted her hips and in a flash she was straddling him.

She sensed the subtle shiver that ran through him, his unsteady hands finding a resting place on her hips, torn between the desire to reciprocate from below and allowing her to continue her torture. Taking charge, she decided for both of them, lowering herself down to grind against his jeans.

Carmen’s mind went blank and the last thing he saw before he lost all sense of restraint and reason, was y/n’s eyes sparkling.

You can read more of my stuff here

End Notes:

I love reading your comments, and that's what motivated me to finish, so share your thoughts bc I want to hear them.

I currently have like 10 half baked drafts and they all suck so this was the sole survivor. This one is kinda self indulgent because I hate my job so much but sometimes no matter how much something makes you miserable, there isn’t a way out, so you have to find something to distract yourself from the dull pain.

I tried to keep it as realistically healthy as a relationship with Carmen can be because that man just needs some space to grow. Honestly, I'm not sure if they'll ever meet again, or maybe they might meet up more now. Im really not sure.

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niqhtlord01 · 4 months

Text

Humans are weird: The illusion of Pain

“The monastery is secured.”

“Excellent.” Vil said over his shoulder. “What of the survivors?”

“We’ve gathered them in the main hall.”

With that Vil waved away his underling and returned his gaze to the outside. Situated atop the tallest mountain range on the planet Vil had to give the humans credit for a truly majestic location to build a temple. He was also grateful that it was so isolated which made raiding it even easier. The nearest terran league outpost was a system away and since his pirate crew disabled the temple’s transmitter in the opening volley no distress signal had been sent out.

Turning from the view the pirate captain began walking the corridors to the main hall. He strode past several of his men ripping tapestries from the walls or carrying several large golden artifacts under their arms. Vil was not concerned with gathering loot himself. Once all the loot had been gathered aboard his ship he would get first pick of the treasure, and if any of his crew had kept loot for themselves before he had his pick they would find themselves the guest of the airlock chamber.

A short walk later and Vil had reached the main hall. Gathered at the center were a dozen or so human monks. They had offered no resistance to his crew when they attacked and as such none had been killed during the attack; though some bore a few new bruises from his crew’s “encouragement” to comply with their orders.

“You have all complied with my orders and as such I will give you a chance to earn your freedom.”

The gathered humans looked amongst themselves in confusion at Vil’s statement. “We are going to play a game.”

Vil entered several keys on his wristband and an energy barrier appeared around his person. It was capable of stopping level three plasma energy shots as well as the occasional thrown knife. He had known a few pirates who had neglected that last feature and had paid the price for their carelessness.

“If any of you can reach through this shield and touch my person, I will set you all free and return your possessions to you.”

Several of the humans looked up at this but Vil raised a taloned finger to forestall them.

“However,” Vil continued, “should none of you be able to complete this task you will be sold into slavery for profit.”

The sudden jubilation at potential freedom was just as quickly quashed by this statement and Vil grinned. He may not be a vindictive pirate, but that didn’t mean he had other ways to enjoy a bit of sadism now and then.

“I will give you until the final setting of the sun to win; you may begin when ready.”

His crew watched the humans whisper between each other before one of them finally stepped forward. Like the rest he wore a simple orange robe and had his head shaved to the skin.

Vil stood silently and watched the human approach him. He stopped just outside of the barriers range and reached out with a hand cautiously. The moment his finger touched the barrier a shower of sparks erupted from the point of contact and the human withdrew their hand immediately.

The surrounding crew guarding the humans laughed at the foolishness of the human monk. Looking down at his singed finger the human was horrified to see the top layer of skin for his entire digit was missing. The red pulsating muscle surrounding his bones was now clearly visible and the monk wept from the pain.

Vil looked down at the monk and shook his head. “If this was an easy game it would be no fun.”

The first monk retreated back into the group nursing his wound as a second monk approached. He walked as close as the first monk and stopped, taking several deep breaths and closing his eyes. Reaching out with his right hand the monk touched the barrier but unlike the first monk continued moving his hand forward as the energy barrier began to spark. He had made it all the way to his wrist before he finally gave out and screamed in pain; retracting his now flayed hand and collapsing to the ground.

Vil grinned and turned to his crew. “Anyone want to start a side wager?” he chuckled. “I bet fifty credits not one of them will get past their shoulder.”

His crew laughed and joined in on the side wager, placing all sorts of bets from which one will be the first to die to which would piss themselves from pain.

On and on this went as the sun slowly set in the distance and the room grew darker save for the light generated by the energy barrier. Vil watched as every monk stepped forward and tried their best to reach him. Many could not handle the pain after mere inches; while others tried repeatedly each of their limbs had been flayed in some manner by the barrier. One had even gone so far as to sprint at Vil in an attempt to use his forward momentum to reach Vil. That human had lost their footing just as they leapt at Vil and had merely grazed the barrier, and in the process flay half his body as he flew by the pirate captain.

“If there are no more contestants,” Vil finally declared as the sun was just about to set, “I think we can end this game.”

Vil was just about to deactivate the barrier when a voice gave him pause.

“I believe it is my turn.”

Vil looked up from his wristband to see an elderly monk slowly make his way through the crowd of humans. His pace was slow yet precise as the old man finally stood before Vil.

“You are the leader of these humans?” Vil asked the elderly human.

“Yes, I am the master of this temple.” They replied in a throaty voice dimmed by age.

Vil tilted his head to the human in recognition. “A pleasure to meet you,” Vil began as he waved a hand at the injured monks, “but I must ponder the nature of a master who allows his students to come to harm before he intervenes.”

To his surprise the elderly human shook his head. “A true master will let their students test what they have learned, rather than deny them the chance of enlightenment.”

This was not the response he had expected. “Then tell me, wise one, what have your students learned?”

“They have learned the meaning of pain,” the human replied, “but have yet to master the means of overcoming it.”

Without saying another word the elderly human walked forward. He did not outstretch his hand or leg as his students had but simply approached Vil with his back upright and his breathing calm.

The energy barrier sparked to life as the master stepped through it with his entire body as if it was nothing more than a gentle stream of a waterfall. Vil’s eyes went wide as he watched the skin from the human be peeled away by the barrier from his head to his toes in an instant. Yet what was more astonishing was that the human made not a single sound aside from his deep breathing, even as his clothes burst into flames and fell from him in clumps of ash.

His crew stood silent as the elderly human reached out with a now shriveled hand and touched the forehead of Vil with a single finger. They had never seen any being perform such a feat before and watched with baited breath for their captain’s next words.

“How…..” was all Vil could manage as he watched the flayed man standing before him.

Through lidless eyes the master looked up at Vil.

“Pain is a great unifier amongst the many peoples of the star ways; yet only when you realize that it is an illusion can you truly begin to experience the universe.”

He motioned to his gathered pupils who were still nursing their wounds. “Our order has been persecuted long before we reached the stars and in doing so has taught us much of pain.”

“And yet you appear to be the only one who has overcome it.” Vil remarked.

The flayed old man looked at him and smiled. “That is why I am the master.”

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #tw

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justauthoring · 11 months

Text

Running, Freedom, Salvation (Alternate Ending)

Prompt: “Run, run, run. That’s all we ever do. All we’ve ever done.” You paused, feeling the wind brush through your hair. Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself and met his eyes. “Do you think it’ll finally stop?”

Maze Runner: one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight

Scorch Trials: one - two - three - four - five - six

Death Cure: one - two - three - four - five

A/N: I honestly cannot believe i'm adding another part to RFS... but i'm finally giving people the ending they deserve lol. I honestly had so much fun writing this and I just... ahhh I wish we could go back to when I first wrote this series.

Please don’t plagiarize my work - I spend a lot of my time writing, copying and pasting destroys that. If you want to repost my work. please ask first - but even then I might say no.

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Tag List: @blackbrokerosey - @some-fantasy-thoughts - @ilovemymoose - @alienadvocate - @itsfangirlmendes - @thatproffessionalfangirl - @nightingalethewriter - @143amberrose - @joycewrites - @floweryukheii - @hey-margot - @hippieballs - @wearegoldeninthenight - @betcoop - @crystalshines2909 - @darthweasley7 - @desired-love- - @honeymoonavenue - @legit-fandom-trash - @musicandbeat - @thespeedofwind - @sellinxhs - @sumlariss - @togetherlikepeanutbutterandjelly - @sarcasmdunbar - @strangerthingsluv - @mythicalamphitrite - @thisishowieroll - @independentgirl - @heathernsweets - @illumminated - @highly-uncomfortable-titles - @ktminn01 - @awkwardlyarts - @j-marvel-memester - @mdgrdians - @writingandhotcocoa - @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven - @verkyun - @luvelyxp - @minninugget

You don't think you've ever ran so fast.

The burn in your lungs was a familiar sensation, one you hadn't felt since you'd left the maze -- and that sense of fear? The one coursing through your veins, striking your heart and making it hard to think straight, eyes blurring with unshed tears... It was unlike anything you'd ever felt.

Please. Please make it in time.

You had... You had to make it in time. If you didn't, you didn't know what you'd do. The mere thought of losing Newt was enough to make your heart feel like it was ripping apart. He was your whole world, and you'd never once doubted that fact.

There was no time to think. No time to look back. The clock was ticking towards his inevitable death, and you refused to let the time run out.

You're gripping the serum so tightly in your hands that you're surprised it doesn't crack from the sheer pressure. But you were afraid of letting it go, of dropping it, of breaking it and every little chance of saving Newt disappearing within seconds right before your eyes. The serum in your hand was his last hope.

You can't breathe, but you continue to run. And you don't stop. Until you see Newt and Thomas, the both of them and there's a split second of relief, your feet slowing beneath you, before you blink and properly process what's happening in front of you. Newt's crouched over Thomas, a knife in his hands, inching closer and closer to piercing Thomas' chest.

And his name leaves your lips without thought, a deep guttural cry breaking past your lips that sounds so unlike you you barely register it as you screaming for him.

"Newt!"

Thomas looks at you at the sound of your voice, a sense of relief flooding his gaze, before a cry leaves his lips. The one second of him looking away had allowed Newt to gain the advantage, piercing Thomas in the chest and sinking the knife deeper and deeper in his chest.

You move without thinking, breaking out into a run once again as Newt's name leaves your lips in a shrieking cry.

This time, Newt hears you as well, head snapping to the right and eyes falling on you. You don't realize that it isn't Newt staring back at you, and rather the virus taking control of his body and so when he lunges at you, you're completely unprepared. He slams into you, you just barely managing to dodge the knife still held tightly in his hands, swiping across your face before you lose your footing, falling to the ground with a loud thud.

"Y/N!"

It's Thomas calling for you, but can't see him. Newt is on you, pressing on you enough that you can't breathe, unable to catch your breath as he moves to stab you; just like he'd tried to with Thomas.

Your hands come before you in a panic, the serum slipping from your hands and rolling away from you.

"Thomas!" You cry, using all your strength to hold Newt back; "the serum! Thomas, get the serum!"

You can't see him but you distantly hear him call out in response, before your attention is stolen back by Newt. He's too strong for you, you realize with a panic, the knife growing closer and closer, and you don't have the strength to hold him back anymore; your arms are shaking and you can't breathe properly with the weight of him on top of you.

You see a shadow fall behind Newt, hope flooding you, just as your strength gives out and you just manage to shift in time, the knife lodging itself in your upper left arm instead of your chest. A cry leaves your lips in response, pain erupting up your arm, but as you blink, you realize the weight on top of you has lifted.

"Y/N! Y/N, are you okay?"

Thomas is suddenly in front of you. hands flittering from your cheeks to your arm, now profusely bleeding, helping you sit up as your eyes dance around, confused, until they finally settle on Newt beside you, slumped over.

"It's okay, it's okay," Thomas' breathes, pulling your gaze back on him, "I got the serum, look." He holds the empty vile in front of your face, you blinking at the sight of it before falling back on Newt. "You did it, Y/N. You saved him."

Lips parting, you turn to Thomas, feeling the tears in your eyes finally fall as you let out a sob.

"It's okay," Thomas soothes.

Your eyes fall back on Newt once again, eyes flickering across him, slumped over to his side; but you see the soft rise and fall of his body and it's enough to assure you he's okay.

Hot pain erupts from your arm, causing you to hiss, looking down only to see blood bleeding into your shirt, soaking it.

"Here," Thomas calls, moving to rip off a strip of his shirt, wrapping it around your arm, pulling it tight. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to let him go after you like that."

Smiling softly, you turn to meet Thomas' eyes. "It's not your fault, Thomas. I'm sorry it took me so long to get here with the serum. If he'd hurt you..."

Thomas shakes his head; "all that matters is you did, yeah? Newt's okay."

You nod, letting your hand fall over your injured arm. Distantly, you see Thomas glance over his shoulder and you're reminded of Teresa's message. Smiling gently, you set your hand on Thomas' shoulder, pulling his gaze on you as you nod; "go," you assure. "I'll be okay."

"No, Y/N, I'm not gonna--"

"Go."

One more look at you, and then frowning, Thomas nods, moving to stand up. You send him one last smile before he turns, rushing off, and watch his figure disappear, you slowly shift, being careful not to put any pressure on your injured arm. You move until you're right next to Newt, pulling him back and towards you, right into your lap, until his face is staring up at your own.

With only silence surrounding you, you brush back the strands of hair that had fallen into his face, biting your lip.

The tears build up before you can stop them, a slight shake to your shoulders as you stare down at him, his peaceful expression staring back up at your own. The only trace of what had just happened being the sweat and grime stuck to his face, and the light traces of his veins popping over his pale skin.

"Thank God..." you breathe out, unable to stop the shake of your voice as you curl into yourself, letting your head fall on his chest as you sob. "Thank God you're okay..."

Rolling over, your hand instinctively reaches out, expecting to feel the familiar warmth of another body beside you, only to fall on the mildly cold, empty sheet.

Eyes peeling open, you sigh.

Pushing yourself up, you rub at your face, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes as you let yourself slowly wake up, taking in your surroundings. It's quiet, telling you that it's still early and nobody else is awake.

Eyes falling back on the empty spot next to you, you shake your head.

Except for one.

You move to a stand, relishing in the way the cool sand feels against your bare feet, before you push yourself up. You grab a sweater on your way out, wrapping it around you to protect yourself from the cool morning wind, pushing the flap of your tent open, eyeing both ways, before your gaze falls on a familiar figure off to the side, by the far end of the ocean.

Swallowing thickly, you make your way over, footsteps quiet so as not to wake anyone else up, silently sitting down right next to Newt.

He glances at you briefly, before looking back ahead of himself.

"You weren't in bed this morning."

"Couldn't sleep."

Frowning at his short reply, you bring your knees to your chest, hugging them. "I... I missed you."

Newt glances over at you, finally meeting your gaze, before he sighs; "YN..."

"No, Newt," you argue, shaking your head. "You've been so distant ever since we got here... and you won't tell me why. You wake up early, you go to bed late. You're always busy during the day that I never see you. You... You won't even look at me."

You can't help the way your voice chokes up, the distress of everything building as you bite your lip. "It's like you don't even love me anymore."

Newt starts at that, body straightening as he turns to look at you. His eyes are wide and his lips part, as if to argue, before his gaze flickers past your face, lower, and all the fight leaves his eyes as his shoulders slump.

Your lips part, to say something, most of all to ignore the hurt that burns deep inside of you at his complete dismissal of your words. But he's pushing himself to a stand before you can, avoiding your gaze and refusing to look at you as he walks off, without a single word.

Lips left parted, the hurt bubbles up enough to pull a sob from your lips, chest burning at the fact that he'd just walked away from you like that. Without a word.

It had been on your mind for weeks since you'd all arrived here... the second all of you had made it to the safe haven, Newt had been distant. What had started from just being quiet and avoiding your touches occassionally, had turned into him refusing to talk to you, avoiding you at all costs and all together ignoring you.

You hadn't wanted to believe it, but it really was starting to feel like he'd... just fallen out of love with you.

You sit there for a while, holding yourself as you let yourself cry, listening to your own raggid breathing and the sounds of the ocean waves, before the distinct sound of chatter reached your ears and you realized everyone else was getting up. Getting started with their day.

Sniffling, you hastily wipe at your tears, brushing your fingers along your cheeks and ignoring the heavy weight in your chest as you move to stand.

You promised you'd help Brenda with breakfast this morning, so there was no time for tears.

Brenda can tell there's something wrong but any time she tries to ask you, you just brush her off.

She liked to think the two of you were close, that being the only two girls of your group had helped the both of you bond. And if she asked you, you would of course say the same -- but, she didn't know you like the rest. And if you weren't going to tell her, she figured the next best bet was them.

It wasn't hard for anyone with eyes to tell that you and Newt had been distant, estranged and Brenda had a pretty big suspicion that that was the source of your problems. She'd known enough not to talk to Newt, but the boy had been pretty isolated recently, so it wasn't hard to reach Thomas and Minho alone.

"I need your guys' help."

The two boys glance at each other, before turning back to Brenda. "Yeah?"

"There's something wrong with Newt and Y/N."

Minho's eyes instantly light up in recognition, and his shoulders slump; "you noticed too, huh?"

Thomas, ever so oblivious, blinks; "noticed what?"

Both Brenda and Minho turn to him with deadpanned expressions. "They've been weird with each other. Newt has been distant with all of us, but it's like he's avoiding Y/N. He ignores her whenever she tries to talk to him, and I can tell it's hurting Y/N."

"She barely spoke this morning while we were making breakfast. She also looked like she'd been crying," Brenda explains with a frown. "And she wouldn't tell me what's wrong. But I could've sworn I saw Newt and her at the beach when I woke up this morning."

Thomas frowns; "I didn't see them."

Brenda rolls her eyes; "that's because you were half asleep."

"I'll talk to Newt," Minho offers, frowning. "Neither of you were there, but this is just like after Y/N had her accident in the maze."

Brenda's brows furrow; "the maze?"

Thomas nods; "back in the glade."

"She'd just been promoted to runner," Minho explains, "and we got separated. She said she saw a griever, but it hadn't attacked her, just stared. And then when she moved, it did, knocking her off a high pillar. I'd found her, passed out, with a broken arm and leg. I thought she was dead..." Sighing, Minho shook his head; "when I brought her back to the glade, Newt was a mess. Nobody could calm him down until we knew she was alright and then..."

"And then?"

"And then he just stopped talking to her," Minho shrugs, "he would avoid her, like he was scared of hurting her or--" Pausing, Minho's eyes widen.

Thomas shakes his head; "what?"

"He's afraid of hurting her," Minho repeats, "when he was infected, before he got the serum, Thomas, didn't he hurt Y/N?"

Blinking, Thomas nods; "yeah. He lunged at her before I could stop him, trying to kill her. Then, just as I stabbed him with the serum, he stabbed Y/N in the arm. She still has the scar." Then, pausing, Thomas adds; "but it's not like he did it on purpose. It was the flare."

"Yeah, but Newt would still feel guilty."

Brenda nods, "that's gotta be it. Minho, Thomas, you talked to Newt, i'll find Y/N. Get him to talk to her, okay?"

They both nod.

"Brenda--"

"Y/N."

Huffing, you roll your eyes; "I promised Aris I'd help him with dinner, I can't just--"

"I'll help him," Brenda cuts you off once again. "You looked tired this morning. You've been working so hard, you deserve a break. Me and the guys decided it."

"No more then everyone else," you sigh, "and besides, Minho and Thomas don't know what they're talking about. I'm pretty sure i've not seen Thomas stop moving all day, so really--" You pause your own rambling as you reach your tent, blinking in confusion as both Thomas and Minho make their way out of said tent. They look briefly panicked at the sight of you, you missing the glare that Brenda sends them, before they offer a smile and a wave, rushing off.

"What were--"

"No worries," Brenda cuts you off, again, "just get some rest, okay?"

With a simple slap to the back, she all but shoves you inside, not giving you any time to argue before she flips the flap of your tent shut behind you. "What the...--" Pausing at the sound of someone else, your head turns, panicked, before falling on; "Newt..."

Thomas and Minho...

It all makes sense then.

"They forced you in here, didn't they?"

Meeting your gaze, Newt nods, but doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," you sigh, not sure what else to say. You haven't spoken to him since this morning, and even then it hadn't been much of a conversation. Not to mention, anything before that had been short and brief as well.

You didn't know how to talk to Newt anymore.

"I don't know what they were thinking or Brenda for that--"

"I still love you."

Lips snapping shut, your body tenses at his words.

"I do love you," Newt continues, voice soft. "I'll always love you."

Shoulders falling, you glance at your feet; "then..." and you trail off, but you know Newt knows what you're talking about.

He stands then, crossing the short distance of your tent over to you. Your eyes fall on him as he stands in front of you, oddly feeling nervous, choosing to say silent as he simply reaches forward, taking your hand in his and pulling your arm up. His free hand pushes up the sleeve of your shirt, before his fingers trace across the scar there.

"I hurt you."

Confused, you shake your head; "but you weren't in control... it was the flare, Newt."

"I still hurt you," he argues, "something I promised I'd never do."

"Newt..."

"I can't be around you because I hurt you... I can't forgive myself and... i'm better off de--"

"Don't," you cut in, eyes falling shut as you shake your head. "Don't you dare say that."

"But it's true."

"It's not," you cry, unable to stop the way your voice rises, desperation sinking in. "It will never be true." Reaching forward, you push Newt's hand away from your arm, moving to cup his cheeks. "I thought I was going to lose you, Newt and if I had, I don't think I would've been able to live. You are... everything to me. There is no one I trust more, no one I would rather be with. You are my whole world."

Eyes shining with unshed tears, Newt shakes his head. "Y/N..."

"Please, Newt," you cry, "please..."

Breath shaky, Newt finally allows himself to lean into your touch. "I didn't mean to hurt you...."

"I know," you whisper, "I've never once blamed you."

"I love you so much."

The relief that coarses through you at that is undeniable. Just to hear those words, the words you've been so desperate to hear, is enough to make everything better.

"I love you too," you whisper, glancing up at Newt. "And nothing will ever change that."

"Well, that was a success."

Smiling, Minho nods at Brenda; "a complete success."

"He's getting a little handsy, though, so--"

"Dude," Minho huffs, grabbing Thomas' shoulder and tugging him back before he can go stomping into your tent. "Leave them alone."

"That's my sister--"

"Yeah, yeah."

#the maze runner #maze runner #the maze runner x reader #maze runner x reader #tmr #tmr x reader #tmr imagines #newt #newt x reader #tmr newt x reader #tmr newt #thomas brodie sangster

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squichymochi · 2 months

Text

Another piece I wrote this week, inspired by a Facebook post where Alastor and Lucifer mistakenly exchange their cups. Unfortunately, I can’t recall who posted it, so if anyone knows, please let me know so I can give proper credit.

Disclaimer: In this oneshot, the reader is pregnant and in an established relationship with Lucifer.

Warning: This story contains swear words, mentions of blood, and other typical elements found in Hazbin Hotel.

Lucifer x (pregnant) Reader

Word Count: 1.348

“Welcome back, Y/N!” Charlie's voice rang out with genuine excitement as you entered the Hazbin Hotel, your husband Lucifer following closely. Her embrace was careful yet warm, mindful of your growing belly. Standing beside her, Alastor, ever the gentleman, gracefully took your hand and pressed a kiss to its back, his voice tinged with light static, “Welcome back, my queen.”

A protective growl from Lucifer, now guiding his hand to the small of your back, broke the moment. “Excuse us, Alastor. Perhaps you can assist with our luggage?” Lucifer's tone was edged with possessiveness, the nickname ‘red hot chili pepper’ tumbling from his lips hinting at Alastors appearance.

You noticed the discomfort in Charlie's eyes and the twitch in Alastor's smile – a sign of his annoyance. Taking Lucifer's hand, you tried to ease the tension, “Sweetheart, there's no need for this. Everything’s fine.”

Just as the atmosphere thickened with unspoken rivalry, Angel Dust breezed through the door, his arrival a welcome distraction. “Is this my favorite bitch I see right there?!” His words, were a relief.

Laughing, you rushed into Angel's embrace, grateful for the break in tension. “Freedom looks good on you, hun,” you said with a smile on your lips. Husk joined, wrapping an arm around Angel and a wing around your group. Angel blushed at the affection. “I owe it all to you guys,” Angel replied, hugging both of you with a big smile on his face.

As you indulged in the warmth of friendship, a slight rumble could be heard coming from your belly. Alastor’s voice suddenly intruded, “Are you hungry, my dear?” He was close, his concern evident while he was patting your head with a big smile. “Sorry, the little one’s always starving,” you chuckled.

Lucifer, ever protective, was quick to draw you away, his eyes sparkling with a mix of love and competitive spirit. “How about pancakes, sweetheart?” he suggested, just as your stomach rumbled again in agreement.

The mention of pancakes brightened your mood, but Alastor's offer of jambalaya caught your attention too, stirring a craving for something more.

With your best puppy dog eyes, you proposed, “Why not both?”

Lucifer’s laughter filled the room, his demeanor softening at your request. “Anything for you, darling.”

he murmured, his voice a tender caress. Gently, he cupped your cheek, his touch a whisper against your skin. Then, bending down, he planted a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead.

Straightening up, he turned towards Alastor, his demeanor shifted, the warmth in his eyes replaced by something darker. “Bring it on, bitch,” he declared, his voice now laced with determination and a slight growl and his middle fingers raised.

The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably as Lucifer rolled up his sleeves. His gaze locked with Alastor’s in a silent standoff, electricity crackling in the air between them. “Mhhh, if you reach the ingredients that is”, Alastor chuckled, while Lucifer bristled. They moved in unison towards the kitchen.

"Uhm, should we intervene?" Charlie inquired, a hint of nervous amusement in her voice as she absentmindedly scratched her head.

"Nope, let's just enjoy the culinary showdown and the feast that follows," you responded with a huge grin, gently caressing your growing belly.

The group migrated to the kitchen, where both Lucifer and Alastor were already in full swing. Alastor manifested a knife, making it dance in the air with a showman's flair before diving into his cooking. On the other side, Lucifer confidently whisked pancake batter, his gaze occasionally drifting to you with a loving grin and gentle eyes.

"This will be quite the spectacle," Angel Dust remarked, casually handing you a cup. Before you could take a sip, Lucifer swiftly exchanged it for another drink. "Hey! It wasn't alcoholic, short king my ass" Angel protested and flipped the king of hell off, playfully showing his annoyance at Lucifer with a gentle smile.

You chuckled, appreciating Lucifer's overprotective nature, and took a sip. Watching Lucifer, a sense of warmth filled you. He was everything you could have hoped for: loving, nurturing, and profoundly understanding. Your journey together, from your unexpected meeting to the miraculous pregnancy, felt like a surreal dream.

When you first arrived in Hell, you were a mere sinner, carrying the weight of your earthly transgressions. Your closest companion, Angel Dust, who had succumbed to an overdose, was the first familiar face you encountered. Your shared past in the living world was full of highs and lows, but he has always been your best friend. When he died it was only natural for you to find and kill his drug dealer. This however sealed your fate in hell as a mere sinner. Despite this, you remained by Angel Dust’s side even in the depths of Hell.

One crucial day however your paths diverged when he tragically sold his soul to Valentino, blinded by the promise of love. It was a painful parting, marked by hurt and misunderstanding. Both of you hurting yourselves with words which teared your souls and hearts apart.

Years passed until Charlie and Vaggie’s intervention led to your reconciliation. You were the first hotel guest, which wasn’t too surprising as you were more interested in art then what hell could offer you and the girls gave you an art room as well as infinite amounts of supplies. So no, this was no hard decision for you.

Meeting Lucifer was an unexpected turn in your infernal journey. Initially, you were unimpressed by the King of Hell. Yet, it was in the art room of the hotel, your sanctuary of creativity, where Lucifer showed you his true nature, his heart. Conversations about dreams and the wonders of the living world ignited a spark between you. You showed him that Hell, for all its despair, held beauty and marvels. Gradually, he began to see the world, and eventually, you, in a new light. Which reminded you of the day he was talking with one of his own creations. It was a cute little duckling he was cradling when mumbling “depression did not only take it but indeed got fucked by me!” At this sight you knew that this man, was the one and only for you.

The day he proposed, Hell itself seemed to shift on its axis. His love granted you freedoms previously unimagined, including the ability to leave the Pride Ring. More astonishing was the revelation of your pregnancy, a miracle in a realm where such a blessing seemed impossible.

As you thought about your past — from your days as a sinner to your surprising romance with Lucifer — the kitchen's atmosphere shifted. The two engrossed in their cooking battle, began to sing and hence fight for dominance, eliciting a giggle from you and the others.

Soon, both jambalaya and pancakes were served before you, with Lucifer and Alastor eagerly awaiting your judgement. You decided to combine the two, much to their shock, creating a unique taco-like creation. The room erupted in laughter at their stunned expressions.

As you sighed happily chewing on your newly invented dish, Lucifer and Alastor simultaneously reached for their cup, only to spit them out in shock. "What in the heavens?" Alastor exclaimed, his usual grin faltering just a bit as he inspected his drink. "Are these... boba ducks?" he asked, bewildered, his eye twitching, the static completely missing within his voice. Your husband on the other hand had his whole head under the running faucet, spitting out Alastor’s drink. “Why the hell are you drinking blood?!”, he screamed with dread in his voice and wet hair.

Your laughter was uncontrollable, watching them grapple with the unexpected drink mix-up. The earlier tension dissolved, replaced by a warm, communal atmosphere as everyone joined in the meal. With your husband's arm wrapped lovingly around you and his gentle caresses, you leaned against him, overwhelmed with gratitude for this second chance at family and love.

As you looked into Angel’s eyes who was in Husk’s arms you could see it too. The love you had with your husband slowly growing between them and nothing could have made you happier.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin fanfic #oneshot #drabble #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #lucifer x you #lucifer x y/n #hazbin lucifer #hazbin alastor

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babydollmarauders · 6 months

Text

SAY DON’T GO — LUKE HUGHES

luke hughes x fem!reader

summary: in which y/n is in love with her fwb but he doesn’t reciprocate the feelings

warnings: slightly nsfw scenes (?), angst, betrayal

notes: based on ‘Say Don’t Go’ by Taylor Swift. i feel like this is a lot less angsty than i had originally wanted it to be, but i basically just wrote this to try and get over writers block, so it’s probably shitty but it’s at least something.

*not my gif*

“fuck.”

his one word is stuttered out in a shaky breath, the rise and fall of his chest steady under my lingering touch.

the faint aching of my legs is nothing compared to the overwhelming dread that settles in my chest, awaiting my impending dismissal.

i climb off of him, a hiss leaving my lips at the sensitivity of him sliding out of me, and drape myself beside him instead. my eyelids flutter, exhaustion creeping up on me as his arms encircle my waist.

these are the worst parts. these are the parts that ruined me. these are the parts that threw me into the inevitable mess of love that drags me through each of our nights together.

“do you need anything?” his lips press against my neck, his hands sprawling across the small of my back, pulling me deeper against him. “a water? a snack? do you want me to clean you up?”

at the shake of my head, he cuddles deeper into me, my hands raising to thread into the mess of curls atop of his head as he continues to kiss down my neck.

after a few moments, he stops, pulling away to lay beside me.

the silence is killer, only filled by our slow breaths and the occasional brush of his fingers against my bare stomach.

“well, i guess i should get going.”

i roll over, rising from the bed as i speak, my volume barely that of a whisper. i peel my discarded clothes from the floor, my breath held in my throat, yearning that tonight might be the night he disagrees. that tonight he’ll tell me not to go; to stay with him.

“yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Jack should be home soon.” his breathlessly spoken words are like a knife to my heart, pushed deeper and deeper by his nonchalance.

gone are the days that he walked me to my apartment; replaced now by an idle wave and his eyes following me out of his bedroom door.

“bye, Luke.”

i stand in the doorway, my clothing messily adorned and my hair pulled into a quick and sloppy bun on my head. it doesn’t take a mirror for me to know that my makeup is smudged, black mascara surely circling my eyes.

the door is half closed, but i linger just a little longer, holding out hope for him to say ‘don’t go.’ for him to tell me to stay; but he doesn’t, and i don’t.

“bye, y/n.” he waves me off, his focus turning to the tv in his bedroom. “see you soon, yeah?”

my head falls, looking down at my light blue toenails; his favorite color. there he went, twisting the knife.

“yeah, see ya.”

i’m slipping my sandals back on my feet by the front door when Jack walks in, stopping in his tracks at my presence.

his eyes scan my disheveled appearance, his smile dropping.

“hey, y/n/n.” Dawson enters the apartment behind him, bumping him out of the way and taking his turn to study my figure. “you okay? you look sad.”

ever the subtle man; Jack is.

“yeah, i’m fine.” i plaster on a watery smile, attempting to round him in order to leave, but his hand wraps around my forearm, pulling me back.

“you sure?” Jack questions, his eyes full of pity. “i didn’t know you were coming over tonight. wanna watch a game with Merc and i?”

i just need to be alone.

“thanks for the offer, but i’m just gonna go back to my apartment. i’m not feeling well.”

“okay, well if you change your mind, just let yourself in.” i nod at his statement and he finally lets his hand drop, giving me the freedom i need in order to slip out the still open door.

i don’t think i can get away fast enough; nearly tripping over my feet to get down the hall and back to my own apartment.

it isn’t until i’m safe and secure inside my own place, my back pressed against my door, that i finally let my emotions out with a guttural sob.

i didn’t think it would turn into this.

when Luke moved in with his brother down the hall, i was just excited to have someone my exact age. someone else who had gone to college, so we could talk about our experiences together.

that acquaintanceship quickly blossomed into a proper friendship, one that meant the world to me. albeit, it had some tension of a foreign variety, i loved it.

then one drunken night turned into a hookup, which turned into two, until Luke proposed a friends-with-benefits situation.

i’ve never been the casual hookup girl, but i really like Luke. it was a shot in the darkest dark, but i thought maybe, if i agreed, we could turn into something more.

but now we’re eight months in and i’m fading into madness, waiting for him to turn us into something more. it’s slowly developed into sadness. more hurt coming from this arrangement than love.

***

Luke drapes a blanket over top of me, head-to-toe, and although i roll my eyes, a smile breaks out across my lips.

“i’m calling it. time of death-” he cuts himself off and i can hear footsteps entering his living room before he’s stage-whispering. “Jack, what time is it?”

“uhh.” Jack drags out, and in my head i can picture him checking his phone. “9:06pm”

“9:06pm.” Luke repeats in confidence, finally finishing his previous sentence. “may y/n rest in peace. loving best friend, caring soul, and horrible baker.”

“hey!” i pull the blanket off my face, glaring up at my friend as i lift my head. “last week, you said my cookies were good!”

“shhh.” he pushes his fingers against my forehead, shoving my head back down onto the cushion of the couch. “you’re dead and i lied.”

“do i even wanna know what i walked into?” Jack asks from his spot at the other side of the living room.

“y/n is dead, may her soul rest easy now.” Luke’s faux solemn tone sends me into a fit of giggles, earning myself a snapped playful glare and a shush from him.

“yeah, i’ve gathered that.” Jack’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes flicking between his brother and i. “how did she die?”

“a broken heart.” i half joke as Luke simultaneously states ‘the plague.’

“and how did she get the plague?” Jack feeds into his younger siblings joke while throwing me a concerned glance.

“she kissed a rat.” my friend determines.

“i did not!” i gasp, “i’ve only kissed one thing in the past eight months!”

Luke gapes at me, and i realize where i’ve gone wrong.

we never determined we were exclusive. he must assume i’ve been dating or seeing other people during our arrangement.

does this mean he has?

my heart twists in my chest at the thought and i have to swallow down rising bile at the image that plays in my mind of him with another girl.

oh Luke, why’d you have to make me love you?

“my cat.” i lie in attempt to cover my tracks, and it appears to work for the most part, as Luke’s expression goes back to his casual dry humored look.

“well, then, that settles it.” he nods his head in determination and Jack chuckles.

“i’m gonna need clarification.” i mutter and Luke takes the moment to sit on top of me on the couch, his weight sinking down on my thighs.

“Yoda kissed the rat and then you kissed Yoda.” he replies and my head falls back against the couch cushions, my abdomen beginning to cramp as i laugh.

“nobody kissed a rat!”

***

“shit, Luke— i love you.” it slips past my lips like a fallen prayer; spewing out in a whimper amongst my blissed haze.

my eyes widen, my hips faltering in their pace to meet Luke’s, the currents of pleasure that wrack my body taking a back seat in my mind.

i study his face; the sweat that beads at his hairline as he thrusts into me, his rhythm never faltering; the scrunched eyes and thrown back head that doesn’t move even after my words.

i can’t decide if he didn’t hear my sex-drunk word vomit, or if he’s deliberately ignoring it; but i figure it’s the latter when his hand on my breast loosens, and he rips it back like i’m too hot to touch.

he heard me.

i said ‘i love you.’

he said nothing back.

suddenly, my lust is gone, and in great timing because it’s at that moment that Luke finishes, pulling out and falling down onto the mattress beside me.

it’s quiet for awhile, neither of us speaking as we catch our breath. his hand sprawls against my bare hip, pulling me closer to him in the darkness of my room.

“did you finish?” he whispers, and i don’t have the heart to tell him that my mood was dampened, so i nod.

“mhm.” i hum and he presses a kiss to my nose.

“you didn’t like, mean what you said, did you?”

another twist of the metaphorical knife that he jabbed into my heart long ago.

“i don’t know, what did i say?” i play dumb, as though i don’t remember the confession that played from my lips just moments ago.

his nose scrunches as he speaks, “that you, like, love me.”

“oh- no. i don’t even remember saying it.” i whisper back, and suddenly i’m grateful for the near pitch black of the room, hoping it masks the glistening tears that spring to my eyes.

“i must’ve said it in the heat of the moment.” i add and he nods.

“cool.”

cool.

he thinks it’s ‘cool’ if i don’t love him.

he cuddles into me, his head resting on my chest, and i’m thankful that we’re at my house, because rather than continue these whispers in the dark, i can force myself to fall asleep.

closing my eyes, tears leak from the corners, dripping down into my hairline.

why’d he have to make me want him so bad?

i focus on the grounding feeling of the weight of his head on my chest until i slip into dreams.

when i awake, it’s still dark out, and my alarm clock reads 3:27am in bold red lighting. but Luke is nowhere to be found.

i’ve been asleep for merely two hours and he’s already left me; gone back to his own apartment.

i don’t bother putting on clothes, rather pulling my blanket up to my chin and curling up on my side.

sobs wrack my body, finally able to let out the painful emotions that i held in while Luke was here.

i’m so sick of him leaving me.

***

my knock echoes through the apartment, but i wonder if it was even heard.

Luke had texted me to come over, but i’ve knocked twice now with no response, and i’m ready to give up when the door finally swings open.

i yelp in shock, jumping back in fright at the rapidly opened door. when i step inside the apartment, Luke is standing behind the door, still dressed in his game day suit, his tie long forgotten now though.

“oh, hey.” i sigh in relief, “i was about to leave, ya know? you took forever.”

i stop in the entry hall, turning back to look at him, and he kicks the door shut, stalking towards me.

“you took forever to get here.” his words are followed by the crash of his lips upon mine, time slowing to a stop as he pulls me deeper into the kiss.

i’m his.

his hands come down to the backs of my thighs, pulling one of my legs to hook around his waist, and on instinct, i jump up with the other. my legs wrap around him as he walks us backwards to his couch, his lips trailing away from mine and instead placing open mouthed kisses down my jawline and onto my neck.

“Luke.” i whimper, my hips grinding down onto his and making him groan.

“shhh.” he hushes me, taking a seat on the couch and leaving me straddling his lap. “i had a really bad game. i need you right now.”

a spark of anger and sadness ignites inside me at his words.

he’s with me because of his game.

not because of me.

i need you right now.

he doesn’t need me.

he needs a release.

something to channel his anger into.

i push him away, detaching him from the pulse point of my neck as i do so. his lips chase after mine and i lean back with a heavy sigh.

“stop.” i whimper and he looks up at me with wide eyes and an alarmed expression.

“did i do something?” he wonders aloud, his hands rubbing comfortingly up and down my thighs.

“i can’t do this.” i smack his hands away, rising to my feet to create distance between us.

“can’t do what, y/n?” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “i’m confused.”

“this!” i cry out, pointing wildly between us.

understanding settles over him, and i can tell just from the way his shoulders slump.

oh my god.

my heart sinks, my stomach twisting in knots as i shake my head, tears gathering in my eyes.

“you know.” i spit out, disgust filling my body.

disgust for him, for acting oblivious. and disgust for myself, for being oblivious.

“i know.” he confirms my suspicions, nodding slowly.

“you lead me on.” i tell him, overwhelmingly shocked at how calm it comes out. “you know how i feel. you know i love you; and yet you kept this going.”

“i’m sorry, y/n. i-”

“when?” my voice breaks, tears spilling down my cheeks.

“in October.”

four months.

he’s known i’m in love with him for four months.

yet, he continued to lead me on. to keep this arrangement going, despite how much he knows it hurts me.

“oh my god.” my knees feel weak, my body sick. “you knew the other week. when i told you i loved you, you knew i meant it!”

he gives a weak nod, slinking back into the couch cushions.

“why would you do this, Luke?”

he looks back at me, his eyes peering into mine; and i think the worst part is that i see no real remorse.

“i don’t know.” he shrugs, and out of every possible answer, i think that’s the worst one he could’ve given.

“i gave you all of me and you gave me nothing!” i feel like i could be sick.

my best friend.

the person i thought would never intentionally hurt me.

“i can barely look at you.” i mutter dejectedly, ripping my eyes away from his in order to pace to the front door. “i never wanna see you again.”

halfway out the door, i stop, peeking back to find him staring at the wall in front of him, before i continue my journey out.

my hand clasps over my mouth, in attempt to hold in my cries until i get to my own apartment, and when i finally arrive, i spare no effort.

as though i was physically weak, my body crumples to the floor as soon as i close my door. my knees hit against the hardwood, but i’m numb to everything around me; my emotional pain far outweighing any physical.

i feel betrayed and used. my heart ripped out from my chest and stomped into the ground as though it means nothing to him.

but amongst it all, i’m most mad at myself. because despite what Luke did, i still held out hope for him call out to me as i left. to say ‘don’t go.’ to ask me to stay.

but he didn’t. and he never will.

#luke hughes #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fic #luke hughes blurb #nj devils #nhl imagine #nhl fic #faithlynn’s writings <3

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