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butchcarmy · 11 months ago

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Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link, ch 2

Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets.

Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship

A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DON’T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!

You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.

The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.

You're sure you could’ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.

After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful.

You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low.

You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume.

“When would you be able to start?” Some of the workers asked.

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer.

“If all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,” was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore.

“Thanks for your time,” you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop.

Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.

That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner was…pretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger.

The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead.

“Welcome,” he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on.

“Hi. Um…” You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. “I was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.”

“We are,” he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though.

“Thank god,” you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, and—”

“I'm the owner,” he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.

“Sorry?” You repeat. “I swear it was this guy—he had short dark hair, I think—”

“Yeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.” He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing.

“Oh. Got it. Uh…” To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. “Here's my resume, then.”

He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back.

“You worked as a prep cook.” He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question.

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.”

“Right. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?”

“Uh…” They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. “They were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least it’s only half of a lie.

“How do you work under pressure?”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Well enough.”

“Willing to learn?”

“Obviously. I mean…” You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. “Yeah.”

“When'd you be able to start?” You're surprised he's already asking this.

“Tomorrow,” you say, just like you’ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign.

Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen.

“Uh,” he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in.

“I told you, you have to say behind!” A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.

“How the hell did you not hear me coming?” A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. “I was in the middle of having a conversation with Tina—”

“Great, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to waste—”

“Well, who's fault is that?”

“Who's fault is that? You did not just—”

“Guys!” The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. “I'm tryin’ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.”

Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think.

“Carmy, talk some sense into her,” the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. “All of this on the floor—”

“You didn't say behind,” the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.

“You didn't say behind,” he imitates back. “Carmy—”

“She’s right. Richie, step out,” Carmy says. “Syd, you clean this up.”

“But—” You hear her start to protest.

“You spilled it, you clean it,” he cuts through, decisive and firm.

“I know, but Richie—”

“Clean it,” he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence.

“...Yes, chef.”

“I told you to step out,” Carmy tells who you assume is Richie.

“You're just gonna let her—”

“Step the fuck outside right fucking now!” Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. “Do the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!”

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front.

“I'm sorry about that. Fucking—” He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. “What was I saying?”

“Um, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,” you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out.

“Right. Okay. Uh—” He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. “You're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.”

“What?” You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. “I mean, I'm just surprised.”

“Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. “Y-Yeah, I want the job.”

“Good.” He motions towards the sticky note again. “Come in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.” The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. “Thank you so much.” I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you.

“Thank you,” he echoes back. “We need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway.

So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them.

I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong.

You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture.

You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to.

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions.

At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.

“They’re working with us starting today,” Carmy tells everyone. “They’re gonna be on prep.”

Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.

The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide.

Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angel—everyone seems to be pretty alright. It’s obvious they’re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. You’re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that you’re particularly unsure on.

The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didn’t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that he’s not even a chef. At least you won’t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.

Tina is next. She clearly doesn’t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and she’s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, she’s close to the rest of the staff since they’ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn she’s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to you…eventually.

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.

“You’re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when it’s done, it goes on the first shelf.” Carmy’s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, but… “You should already know this, but label everything. I don’t want to see anything without a date. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” you confirm, snapping out of it. He’s been flinging new information at you like it’s a war and he’s gunning to survive. But so are you. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect as such.” He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. “It’s just a stock, so don’t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesn’t look good.” You nod. “Been a year or so since you did this, right?”

“Yeah. I cook regularly, but I’ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,” you add hastily. “I’ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?” You ask, nudging a large plastic container.

“Correct.” A brief smile flashes across his face. “You're already following quicker than I thought you would.” You’re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter.

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

“I know.” His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh. He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. “Show me a rough dice.”

The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour.

It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off.

“Not my best work,” you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.

“It'll do.” You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. “I'll be back to check in on you later.”

You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list.

Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift.

There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from it’s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

“I am trying to find this cutting board, will someone please—”

You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline.

Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice.

“Clean your station, chef.” Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself.

“Sorry, chef,” you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. “So, uh, do we get 30's here?”

When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there.

Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep.

You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge of…something.

“You finished the prep he gave you, right?” Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. “Yeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?”

“He didn't,” you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her.

“Asshole.” She makes a shooing motion at you then. “Go, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.”

You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break.

As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen.

This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” Other than everything.

“Really?” His surprise just pisses you off further. “Well, that's good.”

“...Yeah.” You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth.

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.”

You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles.

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. “I didn't even notice.”

“Let's get a bandaid on that.” He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. “I have some in my office.”

That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.

“Thought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,” Carmy comments.

“It was sharp,” you correct. “Guess I just fucked up.”

“It happens,” he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. “Let me see the cut.”

You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm.

He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you.

He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose.

“Is that too tight?” He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place.

“No, it's okay.” You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses.

“Good.” You don’t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely it’s just to secure it further…surely.

“Thank you.” He’s still holding your hand. You’re unsure if you’re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“It’s easier if another person does it.” He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. “Did you finish prepping for the stock?”

“What you gave me, yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look at it, then,” he says, like that isn’t the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve ever heard.

“R-Right now?”

“As opposed to?” He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. “Come on.”

You don’t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.

“I’ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, don’t fucking treat them like this,” Carmy shouts, trudging over to someone’s station. “You see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Don’t—“

“Stop going into my office when I’m not there,” Carmy hisses at Richie next. “You keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I can’t find anything! It’s enough of a mess as it is! No—I said—cousin, listen to me—“

“Everyone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!” Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment.

The difference in sound is eerie. You’re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.

“Is this the prep you did today?” Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, it’s the one you placed there a moment ago.

“Yeah, it is.” You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

“What?” You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. “You told me to put it on the first shelf.”

“It goes on the second shelf.” He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. “I told you—second shelf.”

“You literally said it went on the first shelf.” The ice has melted, and it's boiling.

“No, I didn't.” You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. “And you forgot to label it.”

“Shit.” That, you did forget. You’re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. “I'm sorry, I was—”

“We always need stuff like this to be labeled,” he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. “I told you.”

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

“It’s my first fucking day!” You snap, finally, and it’s like a firecracker in the dead of night. “I don’t expect to be coddled, but I’ve only been here for a couple hours, and you’re just—“

“I told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didn’t do either of those things.” This is a different type of anger. It’s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, it’s trembling at the edges.

“You literally hired me yesterday!” You’re exasperated. “You looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and you’re mad that I’m messing up?”

“You had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?”

“It is true! You just have to give me a chance first!”

“I just gave you a chance,” Carmy snaps back, “and you fucked it up.”

“Oh my god. I just—“ You take a step back. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

“Are you quitting already?”

“I wasn’t going to.” You move towards the door. “But maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.”

You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesn’t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time.

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. “Guys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?”

“Carmen?” Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. “It's not fuckin’ budging!”

“Fuck,” Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. “Call Fak!”

“I already did! He’s gonna be here in 20!”

“20 minutes?!” Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. “Don't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!”

“Why do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!”

“Tell him to hurry the fuck up,” Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends.

“Just what I needed right now,” you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. “To be locked in a room with you.”

It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.

“...I do want you, y'know.”

“You—huh?” He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination.

“We need you here.” He's still not looking at you. “This place—it's fucked. We don't have enough hands.”

“I can tell,” you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so.

“I want you here. I do.” He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. “I need you.”

“Can you at least look at me when you say it?”

You’re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you.

“I want you,” he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. “I need you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.

“Are you gonna do better?” You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?

“I’m gonna do better,” you whisper, “if you stop being such an asshole.”

“It won't happen again,” he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is.

You don't really care, though.

His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.

“Okay,” you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him.

Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important.

“I saw you staring at my hands today,” Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. “Yesterday, too.”

“What the—no you didn't,” you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, “how did you—?”

“You're right. I didn't,” he admits with a cheeky grin. You’re really gonna punch him now.

“God, you're just,” you mutter, “you're such an asshole.”

“I know.” At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is.

“What're you…?” His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away.

“Tell me you want this.” Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. “If you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.”

I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want.

“I want this,” you murmur. “Touch me. Please.”

“Good,” Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. “That's what I thought.”

His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.

“Oh,” you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.

“You're wet.” The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. “When did this happen?”

“Fuck you is when,” you bite back, but it's all bark. “I don't know.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. “All you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?”

“I—” His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. “Don't ask me a question and then touch me like that,” you hiss, horribly turned on.

“Mm, sorry.” It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. “I didn't mean to.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive.

“Then don't. I don't care what you think of me.” You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.

“You—why—do you want me to beg or something?” Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.

“It wouldn't hurt,” he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.

“Is that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?”

Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm.

You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.

“You're already begging,” he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.

That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that you’re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You can’t help the way his fingers are making you moan.

“More,” you plead, “give me another, I can take it.” Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” he says lowly when you keep moaning. “They’re gonna hear you.”

“I—I’m trying,” you whine. You’re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. “Your fingers—“

“You’re the one who asked for more.” He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. “You said you could take it, so here’s what’s gonna happen.” His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. “You’re gonna come on my fingers, and you’re gonna be quiet. Understand?”

You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmy’s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. He’s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.

To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But there’s only so much you can do when he’s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. You’re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled. Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingers—that’s what you listen to as you come.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing down tight,” Carmy hisses, and for an irrational second you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.

You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. It’s too bad your orgasm is so potent you can’t think at all.

You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. It’s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat that’s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but you’re hot, far too hot. You don’t remember the last time you’ve finished this hard.

He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.

His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You're about to complain, something along the lines of “was that really necessary”, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.

“Don't,” you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.

“Good,” Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.

You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead.

God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth.

“Let me touch you,” you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers in—anyway.

“It's fine. I don't need it.” He's oddly cagey all of a sudden.

“Let me return the favor, please,” you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.

Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head.

“Yeah, I'm still in here,” Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. “About fuckin’ time!”

“You're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!”

“It's not just me in here, Fak.” A beat of silence. “Are you opening it?”

“Am I fucking—Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!”

That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you.

“Sorry for getting us stuck in here.” The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. “Shitty first day, huh?”

“It's cool. It's not your fault.” Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. “Kinda shitty though, yeah.”

“Yeah.” He sighs again. “If you wanna leave, I don't blame you.”

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

“You're not,” he says quickly. “But I'm—this place is a shitshow.” You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. “So if you wanna take off, just…” He shrugs. “Just go.”

Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice.

But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.

Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that.

Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at.

“Almost done!” Fak shouts. “Just one more hinge!”

“Heard,” Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. “So? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?”

Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bit—that's all you would need.

“I'm staying,” you tell him. “I need to pay rent, after all.”

Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.

“Right. Of course.” There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. “After this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.”

“Okay, sounds good,” you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.

“There should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.” The door's shifting. “But before that…” He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?

“W-What?”

“Get a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.” Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. “You need to keep your apron clean, chef.”

YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.

But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door.

“Yes, chef,” you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.

@zorrasucia

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ymechi · 1 year ago

Text

Who is the real Creator?

Sorry this took so long I have so much to say but I have no idea where to start. I hope you guys are okay with how it ended and the decision I made. This is a yandere au but with Nahida it is platonic (and the rest of the underage characters).

-TW: cult au, yandere, impostor au, mentions of being hunted down, mentions of trauma, self harm (nothing major)

-Gn reader and darling (please tell me if I mess this up message me and I will fix it)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, this is part 5, part 6

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Reader began to unpack their stuff, it was mostly clothes and books, everything else like cooking utensils was unnecessary as there were attendants who would handle stuff like cooking and cleaning. Reader guessed that was the perks of being an Archon.

The room was a bit of a mess the large doors were open and the boxes littered the floor with various trinkets and Readers personal belongings.

One should not look down on how much stuff one can gather, even in a foreign world. Soon they would be able to write poems with how well their vocabulary had gotten.

Reader took out a shirt and folded it neatly putting it inside the nicely carved wardrobe. They felt a little out of place in the spacious and very fancy room. Yet there was a certain charm towards it, Reader especially loved the tall glass windows that let the sunlight in.

"I see you are already settling in."

"Oh, Nahida! I did not see you there, yeah I thought it was best to do it while I could."

"You know there are attendants if you ever need help, please don't feel too bad it's their job after all."

"Well if you put it that way. . . I guess I could use a hand with the rest of the clothes."

Reader had underestimated how many clothes they had, it was boring to fold them and sort them all. They had bought most of their clothes and personal items as both Nahida and Reader did not know the extent of the tension that Darling's reveal would cause.

They looked through the boxes and one object caught Readers eye. It shined as the sun reflected on it. Reader took it out and observed it. This was a gift Darling had given them, it was a Fanoos that was intricately carved and made out of polished gold. The lantern's glass was made out of various colors in geometrical shapes. Overall it was very beautiful something Reader would like.

Speaking of. . .

"Nahida what will happen to Darling after. . . you know?"

Nahida watched the lantern that was in their hand without saying anything and then looked at Reader with a smile.

"It was decided that they would go to an isolated temple in Inazuma for their own safety. Even if they are innocent we can't be too careful what others might do."

Well, at least Darling would be safe there was no need to worry after all they had the Raiden shogun. Inazuma would be far away though.

They looked at the Fanoos, it would be pretty to add it near the nightstand. . . There was already a lamp there, so they decided to put it on a bookshelf instead.

"It looks very nice on the shelf there," said Nahida.

"Yeah, I am glad you think so too," replied Reader.

Reader saw a familiar hat figure silhouette from the open door. It was Wanderer as they had expected, curiously he was carrying several moving boxes as well.

"That is right I forgot to tell you Wanderer decided for extra security to move in here as well, I saw no reason to turn him down."

"O-oh but is it fine for him to just move like that because of me?"

Wanderer must have heard the conversation as he turned to look directly at them. He nodded toward Reader who gave him a small wave. After the status of Readers creator-hood was revealed Wanderer had taken to being polite to Reader but after some more nagging on their part, he had mellowed down a bit. He did tease them from time to time as was normal between them.

Reader hoped with time they could go back to the usual scowling Wanderer who did not hesitate to say what was on his mind.

However, that did make Reader ponder why he turned polite while Nahida stayed the same.

Reader must have been staring at Nahida as the Archon looked at them with a tilted head.

"I see you two are talking behind my back, not very nice I must say."

"We were just talking about your new living arrangements," she looked at Wanderer with an innocent look, "you know, it made their grace feel really bad."

Reader snorted at Nahida's jab at getting into Wanderer.

Wanderer looked surprised but sighed looking at Reader with a sincere expression they did not expect to get today.

"There is no need to concern yourself with that I chose to move out of my own violation, no one forced me to."

Reader gave an awkward smile and wrung their hands together.

"Alright, but I still feel bad-," Wanderer sighed at Reader, "let me finish! I feel bad so if you need any help come to me okay?"

Wanderer looked like he was about to turn down the offer until Nahida interjected.

"Actually since you both are moving in how about we all take a shopping trip to buy decorations, you can then ask Reader for advice on what to buy, two birds in one stone."

"A shopping trip sounds nice," Reader said and looked at Wanderer with hopeful eyes.

Wanderer closed his eyes and sighed.

"It seems you won't let this go, fine then let me put these stuff down and we can go down to the market."

Nahida and Reader looked at each other with a smile. It was going to be a fun trip.

The sunset this day was a bright crimson and was fading into orange at the horizon. There was no cloud in sight. the people were gathered near the central temple in Sumeru. One of the Creator's temples. Reader grimaced.

They adjusted their hood once again feeling nervous not to get caught. Wanderer held their hand more tightly and they gave a squeeze back feeling thankful.

Soon one of the heads of the religion came out near the podium.

The people were confused and some were curious but it was clear soon everyone would find out what the gathering was for.

Nahida stepped up as well, and she began to speak. Then the priest took over and Reader watched everyone's face turn to shock and outrage.

Impostor.

Reader clenched their jaw and held Wanderer's hand tighter. He did not flinch or let go.

Nahida and the priest calmed the people down in the end but there was still much tension left.

By the end of it Reader and Wanderer left the place.

They met Nahida outside of a meeting room. She looked exhausted and Reader's heart ached. With clumsy hands, they took out a juice bottle they had.

"You look tired, please take some."

Nahida gave a small smile and nodded.

"Thank you."

Her voice was small and a bit hoarse no doubt from all the talking. Once again Reader felt awful not being able to do anything, especially since Nahida was a dear friend.

"Please don't worry about me I am fine, as an Archon this is one of the many duties I must attend to," her face turned more serious looking at Reader, "I am afraid we are not done yet this is your turn now."

Reader's shoulders squared and they nodded. Right, it was their turn now. No more running away and this time they were not alone either. Reader looked at their friends and gave a reassuring smile.

Nahida smiled and nodded at them before turning and opening the door.

It wasn't as intimidating as they had imagined when they entered the room. It was decided for Reader's sake they would ask the acolyte and Archons who would be able to attend to come and not tell anything of the importance of the meeting. Naturally since the recent announcement from the church most would be busy, only those who had time would come and it would not be a large group. It was better for Reader to start off small Nahida had recommended and they agreed.

The Archon’s that were able to attend were unsurprisingly Venti and Zhongli. Yet most people in the room would be unaware of the importance of such figures.

As they entered Nahida stepped in front of them while Wanderer walked behind them, they felt rather safe this way.

The others who had arrived were Diluc, Lisa, Cyno, Kujo Sara and Chlorinde. Quite the cast had come. Now all of their eyes were on the trio but mostly on Reader as they stood in front.

Nahida stepped up to speak but Reader beat them to it putting a hand in front of her, all while still looking at their audience.

The sky outside was just as red there was an odd silence in the wind. The shadows on the acolytes' faces deepened and their eyes became glaring embers of accusation evident on their eyes.

Impostor.

They had thought a lot about what to say, and there were many words and accusations they wanted to scream at the top of their lungs until Reader's voice became hoarse and dry. Yet what were words when actions could speak louder?

They took out the same kitchen knife from before on that day from their pocket. They did not bother to look at their reactions. Reader took out their palm and cut it and watched as it bled a brilliant gold. They were still unused to the sight themselves and took a moment to admire it.

They heard a sharp breath. Before anyone could speak they threw the knife onto the table.

Reader then left the room.

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Taglist: @resident-cryptid @probablynoposts @esthelily @mitsukashi @charming-mage @chaoticfivesworld @irisxiel @dulcedelechenginamo @yu-ulda @samohxt2-0 @pinkpainc @vianitry

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saerins · 1 year ago

Text

⋆୨ chapter five ୧˚ if not for this love of mine

⋆୨ if not for you (masterlist) ⋆୨ previous: chapter four - behind a box of reasons why <> next: chapter six - redefines in every way what love is ୧˚

⋆୨ synopsis ୧˚ neither of you want this. both you and sae reluctantly agree to this marriage, although sae’s dissatisfaction far outweighs your own. with hidden agendas and old flames, will this ever work out between the two of you, or will your forced spark be doomed to fail?

ೀ series: sae x f!reader | wc 5k | ೀ content warnings: fluff/angst, modern au, arranged marriage, rich!sae and rich!reader, jealousy/paranoia, third parties, manipulation, slightly suggestive | notes: since mirin is everyone’s favourite , i decided to give her a little more screen time ^_< hehehe

It’s a pain. It’s torture.

You’re not sure why you’re like this, but you wish you weren’t. If only you weren’t so wishy washy. If only you could confront Sae like a normal person would then maybe this would all be simpler. But sadly, you don’t do normal—you do stupid and you do idiotic because that night, after you’ve just found out that Mirin of all people had been in your house (because you’d recognise that table anywhere), you don’t ask Sae straight up.

Eggshells. You’re walking on eggshells around the topic, trying to get Sae to cough it up himself.

After all, she didn’t just post that one story apparently. She posted a few more after that, conspicuously typing some white hearts over it, or other things like days like this are the best >>> or just like the old days 🤍 which makes you want to punch her through the phone.

“So, what’d you do today?” You are always genuinely curious about his day, but having a hidden agenda for the question tonight makes you feel a little guilty.

On Sae’s part, he’s generally disinterested in talking about himself, as usual, which is now not quite working in your favour. He shrugs, wiping the countertop since he accidentally spilled some water on it beforehand.

“Nothing much, stayed home, still feel like shit.”

Right, because that morning he’d told you he seemed to have gone down with a cold. To be fair, his nose was running and he had puffy eyes. His nose is still kind of red now but then you wonder if he’d intended to invite Mirin over, then.

“Oh, so… nothing interesting happened?”

Your tone seems a little off, and Sae picks up on it, turning around with his brows furrowed. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

If you were smart, you’d cough it up yourself. But no, you aren’t because you’d been over this—you’re stupid and idiotic and dumb, so dumb. So instead, you force a smile and shake your head.

“Just curious, that’s all,” you brush it off, effectively losing your chance to ask Sae about it anymore (for now).

Nothing really escapes Sae, though, because he knows something is off, but he’s not a mind reader. And maybe it’s because despite getting so much closer recently, neither of you have actually spoken about your actual deep feelings that there’s uncertainty in the air between the two of you.

He takes a seat across from you, dinner already finished, nothing else but the sound of the television playing the news in the background. Sae doesn’t really do anything but look you in the eyes, as though he’s searching for answers to his unspoken question.

“What is it?” You ask, shirking slightly under his innocent stare.

This time, Sae’s the one shaking his head, though he’s still looking into your eyes. “You can tell me anything if you ever need to, okay?”

Sae’s given you permission. He doesn’t know what it is, for sure, but he has. So then you start wondering to yourself: why are you so scared?

“You are so dumb.”

“I know!” You have your head in your hands, groaning as you feel Reo’s deathly judgey stare upon you.

It’s been a week since you found out about Mirin being over at your house, and you still haven’t found the guts to ask Sae about it straight. And thanks to Sumi, you’ll be the first to know if Mirin ever posts about being inside your house again. (So far there’s nothing.)

Reo’s been busy the past week, but now that he’s heard your predicament, he’s cursing himself for not making time. He didn’t think it was this bad. Knowing you, you must’ve been overthinking yourself to sleep, even if Sae is right there beside you.

He sighs, pensive as he watches you spiral. You’re whining incoherently and babbling on about being stupid and hating this Mirin girl. You’re definitely head over heels for Sae by now and there’s a bittersweet feeling building up inside Reo. But he’s nothing if not the best friend ever so he shoves his personal feelings aside.

“But really, if Sae told me that, I’d ‘fess up straight away. I don’t think he’d care if you told him you stalked Mirin’s story,” Reo tells you, hoping it’ll give you the small push you need to just talk to him.

Sighing, you look up at Reo, eyes hidden behind your hair and got you looking straight out of a horror film. Reo would usually tease you for this, but considering your emotions right now, he spares you the agony of having to listen to him poke fun at you.

“I don’t know,” you groan, dragging out the last syllable.

It’s an entire mix of reasons, honestly.

One, you’re too scared to ask him because you’re afraid it’s true. It’s a stupid reason, but you’re beginning to feel like this marriage is hopeful (ironically) and you want this to work so bad that you don’t want anything to ruin this. If you could just make the problem go away silently, wouldn’t it work too? You don’t want to risk having one single argument with Sae that would lead you back to square one.

Two, every instance of communication that you’ve brought up since you were young convinces you otherwise. Nothing you’ve ever raised to your parents has given you the safety that you so sought. All you ever got in return for telling on someone who bullied you or complaining that the tea is too hot and it burns your tongue or confiding in your mum that their business partner seems shady was a tight slap on the cheek or public humiliation. Sae is neither of your parents, but that’s the interesting thing about being raised that way—it’s hard to snap out of it.

There are probably more excuses you can offer, but you’re too tired to think about them. It’s been too many sleepless nights, ending only with you waking up for work like a zombie. Sumi’s been trying her best to keep your energy up, always getting you coffee and perking you up in between tasks but it’s hard to get your mind off it.

Sensing that you’re going off the deep edge, Reo sucks in a deep breath.

“You mentioned that everything was going well with him, right?” Reo asks you, and you nod, albeit like a sad little puppy. “You said that the honeymoon ended in a rocky way, but then in the end, Sae made you feel comfortable, didn’t he? Like you could feel that it could work?”

Those are all things you mentioned to him today during the catch up, yeah.

“What are you getting at, Reo?”

He averts his gaze, hesitant. “Y/N, why’d you ask to meet at my place? Why not our usual hangout?”

You’d planned to keep your lips sealed about that, but looks like it doesn’t escape Reo’s notice. Giving up, you confess.

“Remember the last time we met? Apparently, someone snapped a pic of us in a misleading angle and, well, my parents confronted me about it—I don’t even know how they fucking got it, maybe they have a PI on me or something but urgh,” you say in one breath, sidetracking. “But yeah, anyway, Sae didn’t see the picture and I guess… I just wanted to avoid any misunderstandings.”

Reo listens to you, a full face of seriousness, before leaning back against his chair, facepalming himself. “Oh god the two of you are just two idiots.”

Straightening up, you look at your best friend, wide-eyed. “Okay you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Okay look, I don’t know what’s going on with this Mirin chick, okay? But what I do know is…” Reo trails off, knowing that he’s absolutely pushing you to Sae, losing his own chance forever. But then again, he’s already lost. “Sae really cares about you.”

You stay silent, wondering what on earth led Reo to that conclusion when he barely knows your husband.

“Remember that night you called when you were in Korea?” Reo asks, and you recall that he was too busy to pick up. Not entirely out of pocket. You nod. “Actually… I was talking to Sae.”

“Huh?”

That was not the information you’d expected, so you can only stare at Reo dumbly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“That night, he called me, saying that you had been acting weird and he thinks you’re upset and especially that night in particular.” You’re not sure why hearing that sounds surreal to you. “He was asking me how best to comfort you.”

There’s a lot of things you want Reo to elaborate on, but all you can keep thinking of is the fact that Sae made that much effort to try and console you, even when he didn’t know what was going on. It’s a far cry from the guy who initially told you you essentially meant nothing to him.

You didn’t even notice it, but Reo’s already shifted himself, sitting beside you, his hands on your shoulders.

“Listen, I don’t know if he’s over his ex or not, I really don’t,” Reo tells you honestly, but his grip is firm on you, “but I really don’t think his feelings for you are fake.”

It sounds funny hearing this from Reo, somehow.

“I just think… maybe you should try to talk to him?” Reo suggests, although you knew that. He only serves to further convince you. “Otherwise, are you sure you want to send this marriage to its end like this?”

Reo’s words sit with you the whole ride home.

The worst part is he’s right. If you don’t talk to Sae, then you’ll just end up gradually drifting apart from him. Then where would the marriage go? You doubt Sae would’ve ever thought that you saw Mirin’s story and started acting cold because of it.

Besides, if you’re letting yourself be hopeful, maybe Sae didn’t tell you about it because it was insignificant. (You know it’s a stupid excuse especially when your husband invited his ex over to the house but you’re trying to hold on to hope.)

Relenting to fate, you text Reo.

you’re right, i’ll try talking to him…

You immediately get a text back.

you can do it! lmk if you need anything ok?

You just give his message a thumbs up because you’re too nervous to form any more sentences. At the very least, there’s comfort in knowing that your best friend will always be here for you.

Judging by the time, half past eight at night, you’re sure Sae’s already home, probably flipping through the channels because there never seems to be anything that he wants to watch. It’s just the way he is; you like the intimacy of knowing that. That means you need to figure out what to say before you even get there. Preparation is key—because you don’t want to space out when it’s time to talk to him.

So that’s exactly what you do.

By the time you reach your front door, you’ve rehearsed your opening line a hundred times, and your heart’s pounding out of your chest.

But of course, none of that means anything when you open the door and still space out because now, guess what’s the only thing you can think about?

Why the fuck did you open the door to see Mirin at your bedroom entrance?

There it is—the blank. It’s creating a gaping hole in your head. Because not only is Mirin here in the flesh, dressed head to toe in designer labels and looking like a model out of a magazine, she’s noticed you too now, and she’s looking at you without an ounce of guilt. All she’s doing right now is staring back at you, her listless face forming into a smile.

That’s not the worst thing, though. You notice her lips: smudged mauve lipstick in the corners, looking heavily like she just made out with someone.

“Oh hi! You must be Y/N, right?” She greets, holding out her hand that you really just want to slap away but you don’t—best not to fuck with the iceberg, or tip the boat or whatever that phrase is because you can’t think properly at all right now. “I’m Seto Mirin,” she introduces as you shake her hand.

You can’t even say hi before you hear the familiar click open of your bathroom doors, inside the master bedroom where Mirin has just been waiting outside of.

Out comes Sae, as though he’d been rushing, his collar a mess and his hair slightly wet. Has he been washing his face? When he comes face to face with you, you nearly scoff because he’s missed a spot: on his neck. Because he’s slightly taller than her. It checks out.

His usual nonchalance is replaced with perplexity, like he’s unsure what to say to you. It’s fine though, because you’re not sure if you can take what he wants to tell you.

“Should we go, babe?” Mirin asks Sae, and all you see is red. Sae turns to her to speak but she cuts him off, turning her attention to you. “It’s nice meeting you!” Her fingers wrap around Sae’s wrist, pulling him with her to the door before either of you know it.

You’re stuck staring into your bedroom at nothing, too stunned to even speak. Is this really happening right now? Just when you resolve to speak to Sae about it, the problem shows up right underneath your nose. It sucks even more that just looking at her face makes you think back to all those photos he kept of the two of them, kept safe wherever it is now because evidently, he’s moved it away from its original hiding place since he asked you to sleep in the same room with him.

A hand on the back of your neck brings you back to the present, and you realise that he’s here, looking at you apologetically that you’re halfway expecting him to say sorry and that he’s leaving you.

He doesn’t.

What he does do is look you in the eyes, and you’re not even sure you recognise those teal hues of his anymore. Maybe you don’t want to.

“Hey it’s nothing okay, this is nothing, so wait for me to come back?” Sae is genuinely asking because for the first time since you met him, you can feel the worry and tension in his voice. As if he sort of expects you to already think of running.

When you don’t say anything, Sae’s grip on you loosens, and he asks, softly, like a whisper, “do you trust me?”

Part of you would like to scream at him, to ask him how dare he ask you that when all of this is happening right now. When he’s never once given you any sort of warning about Mirin? When, if you’d never happened to see that little black box in the first place that you’d be caught completely off guard right now?

“I don’t know, Sae. Can I?”

Sae swallows the lump in his throat. For once, you’re the one who sounds cold. But he supposes that he deserves that. “Look, I’ll explain everything when I get back later okay? Please, just- I know I haven’t earned it after today, but just trust me, okay?”

You don’t offer any assurance or answers. You don’t move at all. Not until Sae hesitantly leaves, the ding of the elevator all you hear until it closes, and their pair of footsteps disappear and that’s when you get to the closet, grab a bag full of essentials and don your leather coat, turn off your phone and then leave.

This is all way too much for one day.

You should really count your blessings that you have money handy. The amount in your joint account is untouched, because you don’t want Sae figuring out where you are. At least you have your own credit card.

What you need now is time. Some time to yourself to figure all of this out; what exactly is left for you here, whether you can circumnavigate out of the sticky situation with your parents if you do end up calling this off.

As you toss your bag onto the bed, you look out at the expensive view below you. It’s not so beautiful when you’re in a bad mood.

There’s a knock on your door, and you find a dark-haired man dressed in a tailor-made suit at your door.

“Is there anything I can offer you, ma’am? Perhaps a glass of wine or anything from our restaurant?”

He looks familiar but you see a lot of faces everyday so you don’t even bother. You shake your head. “No that’s fine, I’d just like to be left alone tonight, so.”

Seemingly understanding, he nods curtly. “Very well, have a good night, Mrs Itoshi.”

Mrs Itoshi. You’re not even sure why it’s become a habit to sign off as Mrs Itoshi. Considering the projectile at which your marriage is at danger of crumbling down from, you really need to kick the habit.

Sighing, you plop yourself down on the bed, looking around at the suite you booked for yourself. It’s petty of you, you know that, to book yourself the most expensive suite available at the last minute, at one of the most expensive hotels in all of Japan. But you’re heartbroken, so you give yourself a pass.

At the very least, you’d thought that being alone tonight would give you some peace of mind, but all it does is make your head swim with thoughts about what Sae and Mirin must be up to. Are they kissing each other right now? Because that must’ve been interrupted earlier when you waltzed back into your own home right? Or maybe they’re just like you, in an expensive suite somewhere else, getting ready to do—

You shake your head, irritated at yourself and your inability to stop thinking about Sae. Fuck, maybe a walk around the park downstairs would take your mind off it. You’ve always liked nice sceneries, especially up close—maybe that’ll work.

And it does, to a certain extent.

With the chilly air blowing in your face, the cold of the night somehow so much more inviting than the warmth of the empty hotel room. All you could think about in there was the fact that the last time you’d been to a hotel was during your little honeymoon trip.

It’s a nice park right outside the hotel, one of the most touristy areas in the city, where couples like to take pictures together against the backdrop of the giant heart in the middle of the vicinity, or where schoolgirls like to frequent after school armed with their cup noodles and their girlfriends.

An hour later, maybe two, you find yourself sitting on one of the benches facing the river, enjoying your time thinking about nothing at all. It’s the most peaceful your mind’s been in a while. In a long time, actually. Maybe comparable to before the news of having to get married was ever broken to you.

You miss it, somehow. The absence of problems. Especially ones that relate to a third party. Sure, you had your parents to deal with, but you always had that problem. Come to think of it, you don’t think you’ve ever had anyone stand up to them for you like Sae did. Not even Reo, only because he thought it would just make matters worse if he did. Still, Sae’s exceeded your expectations many times.

It all seems like such a waste now.

You stare at your lifeless phone. You can’t even switch it on even if you wanted to because it’s properly dead. Not that it’s any use anyway. You don’t want to speak to anyone. Not even Reo. But you wonder if Sae even bothers enough to check in with you while he’s out doing god knows what with you know who.

There is something you feel like you urgently need to do, though.

So you borrow a phone from a nice stranger, seems like a couple who’s on vacation from Hokkaido. You dial the number you’d been trained since a kid to remember.

“Mr Ishiro? This is Y/N.”

Mr Ishiro, your ever trusty family lawyer who would be able to get you out of any sticky situation you ever needed. God knows what went through your parents’ minds when they asked you to memorise his number. Did they think you would somehow do some illegal shit in the future that needed some bailing out of?

“I know this isn’t typically what you do, but um, I need help with some divorce papers and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my parents yet—”

“Do you mean your parents—”

“Haven’t approved of it? No, of course not,” you cut him off, just wanting his agreement to it more than anything. Everything else can be discussed once he has it drafted.

“Y/N, I don’t know—”

“Please, I just need those divorce papers drafted—”

But the phone is swiftly taken from you, and you’re about to apologise for taking too long, except you realise the one who took it from you isn’t even the owner but your husband.

Your husband. Itoshi Sae. Right in front of you, face red and panting as though he’s been running in the cold.

He hands the phone back to the kind strangers, thanking them and waiting for them to go before he turns back to you, his face utterly devoid of emotions. You’re not sure why he’s here, and you’re not sure why it seems like he’s been running all the way over here to find you.

“Divorce?” He asks, and there’s a smidget of incredulity in his tone.

It doesn’t make you back down.

“You don’t have to explain anything. I’ll get my lawyer to draft out the papers and—”

“He’s not going to draft out anything,” Sae interjects, keeping his voice down. At this time of night, there are still lots of people around, and you guess he wants to spare both of you the humiliation of being caught in a public argument.

You have to avoid looking him in the eyes; if you catch even a sliver of concern in them then you might waver and that’s the opposite of your desired effect.

“Look, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to work it out with your parents or something because I’m not cut out for this, okay?”

Sae doesn’t move, and he doesn’t speak too soon. He lets your words sink in before asking, “not cut out for what, exactly?”

You think it’s cruel how he wants to make you spell it out.

This time, you look him in the eyes. He’s inching closer to you, and his cold facade is breaking. He still looks very much like the person you fell in love with.

“I just think that…” God, it hurts to say it out. “I get that neither of us wanted this. That we both had no other options. But… I can’t just go about everyday pretending I’m fine if my on-paper husband is out everyday dating his ex that he can’t get over.”

Sae’s brows furrow for a second before he heaves a deep sigh, moving towards you, one of his hands extending to the top of your head, gently placing it there before he pulls you in for a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly, relief easing his shoulders when you don’t pull away in retaliation.

While there’s no more anger left in you, something that’s much too easily seeped away with his mere hug, what’s left is confusion. Confusion, because you’re not sure what he’s apologising for.

“I’m sorry but you’re stuck with me.”

Still. Only. Confusion.

Is this Sae’s way of refusing you? Is this his way of being a tyrant?

You pull yourself away, pushing him back in the process.

“So what? You wanna continue this charade? Fool our parents and have me cover for you while you keep a mistress on the down-low?” Sae’s mouth opens but you don’t give him the time of day to speak. “Look, I get I’ll never be her but that’s too much, Sae. It’s too much to ask of me.”

There are no words to describe how you feel; it’s everything all at once. Disappointment, confusion, surprise, and worst of all is that there’s still that little speck of optimism inside you that wants to wish for the best. But you know best that all that is is an excuse for disappointment to work its way back around again.

That’s why you don’t even let him finish calling out your name before you run back towards the hotel, where you came from. Yeah, that should be a good plan—just run back, get to your suite and lock the doors. Maybe on a little television to drown out your thoughts.

Behind you, you hear the sound of boots clacking against the cobblestone path, and you know that it’s Sae because… you just know. You’d know him by any sound and any scent—you’ve fallen hopelessly for Sae and you were an idiot to think that he could’ve possibly felt it too because this is the real world, the world outside your head, and in this world, Itoshi Sae is in love with someone else who’s infinitely prettier, probably smarter too, and who’s had so much history with him that you can never even dream of replacing.

A thousand more winters with Sae would probably never replace his youth with her.

And just when you think your night can’t get any worse, you’re barely back at the hotel entrance when you spot the familiar wavy hair, the familiar pair of eyes that haunt you whenever you remember their pictures together.

But there’s something that renders you speechless, a sight you never expected to see—there are tears in her eyes.

Mirin is in front of you, just a few steps away, puffy red eyes and contorted facial expression, yoghourt in hand, half open and nothing makes sense to you right now, because the next thing you know, she’s flung the pack of half-eaten yoghurt at you, the whites staining your coat.

“You… you bitch!”

It reflects so much of what you’re thinking that you nearly thought you were the one saying it. But it’s Mirin. And she’s angry and upset and crying and you’re utterly, completely confused.

“Wait, what are—”

The next thing you know, Mirin is storming towards you, her hands grabbing your coat collar, yanking at it while she’s hurling profanities at you.

“It’s all your fucking fault, I wish you’d just disappear already!” Mirin’s crying and sobbing between her words and usually you’d feel bad for someone who’s in this state but you’re not. Not when she’s painting you a bitch, a whore, a slut and whatever else she’s calling you.

Sae stands in front of you when he gets there, and you recall him telling you about how he got hurt and there’s a little bit of guilt there. He pushes Mirin away from you, his first course of action being to assess whether you’re hurt.

“Hey, are you okay?”

This all hurts, though not in the way that he’s looking at.

You just nod. Your head’s in a mess, you don’t really know what else to do.

As everyone around you stares at the scene, the hotel manager from earlier strolls out, hands in his pockets, an unbothered aura surrounding him. He merely bows and apologises to everyone, urging them to move on and that this is just a small disturbance, nothing worth their time.

Before you can even thank him, he gives Sae a look that seemingly says yikes before turning to Mirin, opening his mouth before realising that she’s still glaring at you, and then deciding to avert his initial plan to speak to her. This time, he chooses to look at you next. The calmer of the two.

“Hey Mrs Itoshi, you alright?”

“She’s fine, Karasu,” Sae answers for you, holding you close, even if some of the yoghurt is getting on his coat.

Karasu shoots you a grin—this must be why Sae’s here. He must’ve tipped him off. And now you finally remember where you’ve seen him, among Oliver’s instagram pictures as the nameless friend you’d yet to meet.

Sae only needs to nod at him for him to understand what he needs to do, namely, be a distraction for Mirin or to take her away—either way, it’s to leave the two of you alone with each other.

Once Karasu forcefully drags Mirin away, Sae fully turns to you, putting his own coat around your own.

“It’s fine, the hotel’s right there so I can—”

“Don’t leave,” Sae blurts out, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him be so gentle, so genuine. You think he probably means not to leave him, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself.

“Sae, what’s going on?” You ask, sighing, your head pounding after an inconceivable few hours.

He hesitates for a while before ultimately proposing a compromise. “If I tell you everything you want to know, could you reconsider the whole divorce thing?”

It’s not that hard for you to agree to this time, because there’s so much more that you want answers to than you initially thought, and besides—Sae said to reconsider, not that you still couldn't flat out do it anyway. It’s a win-win, at least for you.

But just when you think you have your emotions under control, all it takes is a simple kiss on your temple and the words that Sae whispers in your ear to catch you off guard.

“Good, because I’m in love with my wife, and I don’t want her to leave me.”

taglist: @kimvmarvel @mxplesyrvp @yuzurins @futuristicxie @kiopanxp @k0z3me @y-sabell-a @sae1toshilover @xoxojisu @karmatiz @sagejin @minnieminnie00-got7 @hearts4heidi @shiinobu-x @n1uh @prepchuu @leeyzhuo @shidouryusm @tsukishiro-yue2402 @kaiserkisser @pookiebearcave @dcvilxswish @saeskiss @whtflrr @arminseas @raphsimp @saharei @danibxe @lectris00 @comet-kun @ishitam67 @gskill @sweet2wthsblog @astruoise @scaraslover @beaniedoodz @bersuadikotatua @idk-bro-gay @etoiile @sanzu-sanzu-sanzu @yourstrulyharu @noimnotttt @tinyfurytaco @bxddiebloss @biaonww **bolded: means i can’t tag you guys because of your settings >_<

#okay this is scheduled so !! shorter chapter for this week :)#bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #sae x reader #itoshi sae x reader #bllk x you #bllk x y/n #sae x y/n #itoshi sae #sae x you #itoshi sae x y/n #sae imagines #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi #bllk sae x reader #૪ aeri’s fics !

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