#Bad Neighbour | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charliemwrites · 6 months ago

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Part 2!

Finally finished moving house so hopefully I’ll be updating semi-regularly again.

Content: brief and non-descriptive explanation of Rasputin’s backstory (injury and illness)

Agatha is over again.

You don’t know why. She doesn’t like you, your cats, or anything as far as you can tell. It seems her primary motivation for talking to you at all is to exercise her role as neighborhood matriarch. She “keeps tabs” on everyone, but especially you - the unmarried woman living alone that keeps odd hours.

A rebellious part of you wants to roll your eyes and make snarky comments whenever she sniffs at your life choices. The same part of you that would make scenes at holiday dinners or slam doors when you were a teenager. That girl has long been smoothed and polished - or maybe just worn down. It’s so much effort to make rude, nosy, traditionalists clutch their pearls. Much easier to smile in their face and do what you want anyway.

Still, that part of you itches at the surface sometimes. Makes your eye twitch.

“I know your generation is different but that’s just not the type of neighborhood we live in,” she’s saying.

You’re a bit foggy from a late night patching plotholes and haven’t registered much of anything she’s said. You really just want to go inside and stare at the TV until words make sense again.

“What do you mean?” you ask, for once not feigning your confusion. But of course this is the one time she doesn’t buy it.

She looks down her frail little nose at you, cornflower blue eyes baleful. You don’t feel scolded, but you sense that you’re supposed to.

“Now you know just what I mean. People will talk.”

People always talk, it’s an unfortunate byproduct of the human condition. Like a deaf bird, you’ve never understood all the chatter.

“Talk about… the buttercups?” you wonder, pointing at the blossoms. You’re quite proud of them actually.

Agatha puffs up and hisses out a breath. “You ought to keep to this side of the street. Away from those men.”

You blink. Men…?

A bang comes from across the street, followed by rough German cursing. (At least you think it’s cursing.)

Ah. Those men.

“I was just welcoming them to the neighborhood.”

It comes out of your mouth automatically, innocent excuses for something you remind yourself you don’t need to justify.

“I’d rather they didn’t feel welcome,” she snips. “Better they sell that awful house and go somewhere else.”

You flick your eyes over her bony shoulder. Konig passes by a window, massive biceps on display as he lifts something outside of view.

“They’re nice,” you say. Nice to look at. Krueger’s face alone quite makes up for his conversational shortcomings.

“The only reason men like that act nice is because they want something,” Agatha snaps. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”

Yeah, soooo respectable when Bertram rifles through your mail or Lisa looks into your backyard.

“Well,” you muse, “better to be on good terms with them, I think. They're not the type you want to piss off.”

That defiant streak lights up at the way her face sours. If only she knew what sort of words you use when it’s just you and the cats.

“You’ve just proven my point. Those are not the type of men young ladies should associating themselves with.”

You have to try very hard not to scrunch up your face. One blessed day, people will stop referring to you as “young lady” in that insufferably condescending tone. You can’t wait for that day.

Some of your mounting irritation must show on your face because she takes on a sickly sweet “teaching” tone.

“Neighborhoods are like gardens. Everything grows best when the rows are kept separate. That’s why the farmers plant them that way.”

You glance pointedly at your own yard, where the flowers are blooming in haphazard sprigs wherever you tossed the seeds. Agatha’s lips get thin.

“Best that you stay on this side of the street, missy. That’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

She spins on her heel and stalks off like a particularly drab bird. You stand on your porch for a second longer, face contorted in annoyed confusion. You don’t even have strong feelings about the three men; the simple act of someone - Agatha of all people - labeling them as “Off Limits” makes them instantly more appealing.

Maybe you should see someone about that or something. Then the pathetic cries of Guy through the window lure you back inside.

It’s nearly sundown when there’s a knock at your door. Still agitated from your talk with Agatha, you puff up like Shithead when Rasputin sits on her favorite toy. March up to the door, fling it open - and come up short when you see the three men looming on your doorstep.

Before you can recover, a little gray blob scrambles past your ankles, crying like the sky is falling.

“Oh!” Konig gasps in pleasant surprise. “Hallo, Bubchen!”

And all 6-foot-plus of Austrian instantly folds to scoop Guy up. You’ve barely managed a now-useless shout of alarm when Shithead wedges her fat head between your calves. Behind you, Rasputin politely screeches his little chainsmoker call.

And somehow, in the chaos of fumbling for furballs, you end up with all three men in your foyer.

Guy is purring away in Konig’s thick arms. Shithead is attempting to scale Krueger’s tight cargo pants. And Rasputin is pawing the air at Nikto, visibly calculating the jump to his wide shoulders.

Which leaves you with the clean serving platter you dropped off just yesterday. You blink at it for a moment, then glance at them.

“So… the cookies were good then?”

“Very good!” Konig rushes to say. Krueger and Nikto each nod, almost comically solemn.

“We have no baking or cooking skills,” Krueger continues, ��so tell us what needs fixing.”

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. The house. He wants to fix your house. It’s surprisingly sweet, and you laugh a bit, shaking your head. “You don’t need to do that, I was just-“

“Is custom,” Nikto interrupts.

Konig nods with all the enthusiasm of a bobblehead as Krueger crosses his arms. (Whatever effect he’s going for is ruined by Shithead clinging to his pocket and screaming.)

“In our country, we bring gifts as guests. Our gift is repairs,” he explains.

You arch your brows playfully. “I don’t remember inviting you to be guests.”

He arches his brows right back. “We did not invite you either.”

Well shit.

“Okay, okay. I guess there’s a couple things…”

Konig perks up. “We would be happy to help, Biene!”

It’s strange having men in the house. You think you should be more nervous about it, can’t remember the last non-family man allowed into your space. Especially alone.

There’s a sharp awareness, of course. Hard not to be aware of them. It’s not just that they’re big, dwarfing all of your you-sized furniture. There’s a presence to them, something felt but not seen by your untrained eye. Maybe it’s in the set of their shoulders, the way they stand with both boots firmly planted. Maybe it’s the precise way they speak and move, not just separately but as a unit. Acting more like a collective consciousness than as individuals.

Whatever it is, you couldn’t ignore them if you tried. And you’re definitely not trying.

You set Krueger to work on the kitchen cabinet you’ve been meaning to replace. He clicks his tongue at the tape-and-lean method you’ve been using to keep the old one in place. Shithead immediately sets to work helping by gnawing at his shoelaces.

Konig is stationed in the guest bathroom, where the sink doesn’t run right. Guy comes mewing into your arms when he’s set down, effectively tattling that his new friend is mean and awful for withholding affection for even a moment.

You try not to visibly hesitate when you corner yourself in your own laundry room. Nikto has followed you right in, seemingly unaware that he’s invading your personal space. He’s not even looking at you though, eyes zeroed in on the dryer you point to.

“It’s not heating up, so the clothes stay wet or take forever to dry,” you explain.

He grunts in acknowledgement, then nods to Rasputin, who has taken up residence on the washer. His one golden eye blinks slow and serene at the two of you.

“What happened?” he asks.

You hum, softening in pleasant surprise at the question.

“I’m not sure how he lost his eye. It was infected when I found him. But I know for sure the tail and leg are from getting hit by a car.”

You sigh, scratching at Rasputin’s chin. A rusty purr starts up as he tilts his head, revealing some nasty scars around his throat.

“The vet said that that’s probably from a fight with another cat,” you add.

Guy steps from your arms to cuddle up to Rasputin, shoving his face into his ragged ear. Grooming time, then. That’s as good an indication as any that Nikto’s probably safe enough.

“I ran down from an office building to save him.” You blink hard, eyes stinging just from the memory. “But anyway, he gets to rest and be pampered now.”

When you glance up from Rasputin’s happy little face, you almost startle at the sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. Your face feels warm, even though you’re not embarrassed.

“I’ll, um, get out of the way,” you say, clearing your throat. “Keep an eye on things, Ras.”

With the men occupied, you find yourself once again at loose ends. You drift towards the den, but it feels awkward to sit on your ass watching TV while your neighbors fix your house.

You check the time on your phone - ignoring the text from your mother - and figure it’s not too early to start dinner.

“Will I be in the way if I start cooking?” you ask Krueger.

He flicks you a dimissive glance. “A little thing like you?”

You scoff and cross to the fridge. “You could have just said no.”

“Nein,” he snorts.

Rude bastard, you think - though not without fondness, unfortunately. The surly attitude is already growing on you.

There’s meat and spare boxes of pasta and veggies - that’ll work. You start tugging out ingredients, mentally doubling portions for your guests. They look like they work out even beyond the construction labor, hopefully you’ll have enough to satisfy their appetites.

“So what’s the plan with the house?” you ask as you get to work. “Just fixing it up to sell or…?”

“We will live there, the three of us,” Krueger answers. He swipes a screwdriver from Shithead’s batting paws. “Somewhere to stay when we are not working.”

You hum, biting back the next obvious question, loathe to become as nosy as the rest of your neighbors. Still… getting to know people, right?

It sounds like they expect to travel a lot. You can’t imagine them as business types - not in the traditional sense anyway. Though the image of Konig sitting in a tiny cubicle does make you smile a bit. Between their statures, their clothes, their shoes, and the occasional nasty scar, you take a guess.

“Are you guys military?”

“Contractor,” Krueger corrects.

You perk up. “Wait, really?”

He scowls. “Does it sound like a joke?”

You huff and turn back to the veggies you’re cutting. “No, no. I just - you know about guns and knives and things, then?”

He pauses. You shoot him a curious glance, only to quickly look away at the intense scrutiny directed your way.

“Yes,” he answers slowly.

“Then… could you maybe answer some questions…?”

His eyes narrow. “Questions?”

You keep your gaze on the cutting board. “Okay, wait, it's not suspicious. I’m a writer and it’s hard to google very specific questions sometimes. It’s just easier to ask an expert in person.”

Never mind that majority of your readers would never know the difference. It bothers you when things aren’t accurate.

He makes a considering noise. “A writer?”

You flush. “That’s what I do. Why I’m always home? I publish fiction.”

He stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. You peek his way, shocked to see a task you’ve been putting off for weeks already done. Hell, it looks sturdier than the rest of the cabinet doors, too.

“And your fiction requires knowledge of guns and knives and ‘things’?” he asks.

Your face feels like it’s on fire. “Sometimes…”

“Fine. I will answer your questions,” he allows.

You beam. “Thank you!”

He grunts, snatches a slice of pepper and pops it into his mouth.

“What else needs doing?”

Dinner ends up much more pleasant than expected. Nikto abstains from eating, you assume because he doesn’t feel comfortable removing his ever-present mask, but he sits at the table with Rasputin in his lap. He speaks little, and has that intense gaze that prickles at your freeze instinct, but you grow used to it as the meal progresses.

Konig, however, becomes chattier with food in his belly. He’s much more forthcoming when he answers your polite and totally casual questions - though you notice Krueger kick him under the table once or twice.

You suppose he gets you back by effectively announcing to the others what your career is. Which just kicks off the usual line of questioning about how and why you got into writing. Still, there’s no judgment from these men that make their living in labors of blood and sacrifice, where you expected censure. You only find genuine curiosity and intrigue, good-natured questions. Not even Krueger makes backhanded comments about it not being a “real” job.

Before you know it, the moon is high and you’re sending the three of them off, bellies full and a little friendlier than before. Nikto nods to you (and Rasputin) as he leaves, a big Tupperware of his dinner portion in hand.

You tell yourself it’s not anticipation that goes through you, knowing they’ll be back with it soon.

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Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #cod krueger #sebastian krueger #konig #konig cod #cod nikto #polyamory #bad neighbours #men at work

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misstycloud · 2 years ago

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Yan!husband x reader x Yan!ex

You and your dear husband have gained new interesting neighbours from your past. What will your former love say now that you’re promised to someone else?

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“Phew, that’s the last one.” Arthur exhaled and finally allowed himself to take a breather. He reached his arms up and stretched his back, hearing satisfying cracks.

“Yes, now I can sleep.” You exclaimed bliss.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s dinner first, then you can sleep.” Your husband kissed you tenderly on the cheek and you groaned.

“No, it’s fine, I’m not even hungry.”

Arthur gently smiled with amusement, “Nice try, dear. But it won’t work on me.”

You huffed in frustration and crossed your arms in defiance for not being able to sway your husband, and said husband simply laughed at your failure.

You and Arthur had just come back from your honeymoon in the Maldives, which had been wonderful and deeply romantic. He had done everything to make it perfect for the two of you, always peppering you in his attention and affection. Never once did his mind stray to something else besides you. It seemed like he didn’t let you out of his sight, in the least.

It made you feel somewhat overwhelmed but you assumed every woman shared your notion. You had just married after all. It was normal. Completely normal.

Befor you flew on you honeymoon, you decided to buy a new beautiful house together. The apartment you lived in previously wasn’t bad in any way, tough you two wanted something fresh. Something that also came with a garden, of Arthur got to chose. Gardening was a hobby he’d picked up this year, he was capable of growing elegant blooms without struggle and it was something he took pride in. Some people-like you for example- clearly didn’t possess the green thumb like he did, you still tried to recreate some of his creations and failed miserably.

Luckily your then fiancé, didn’t judge people based on their ability to grow plants and didn’t kick you out.

“Honey, what do you feel like eating today?” Yelled Arthur from the kitchen to you, who sat in the living room.

The moving company had already placed your bigger furniture in the house, so you had something to sit on. It didn’t help the ugly view of the mountains of cardboard boxes laying spread out in the floor. The TV was also among the things to first be unpacked, you simply couldn’t live without it. Oh well, it it what it is.

“I dunno, pasta maybe?”

“Pasta it is.” He complied while opening a box that had ‘non-fridge food’ written on it, and grabbing a package of spaghetti. He knew exactly what dish to make and put on an apron.

Then he laid out the other ingredients needed and began boiling the water. As the man cut the vegetables, you approached him from behind and gave him a hug.

“Can I help?”

“I’d….rather not have you do that.” Arthur carefully admitted and turned to look at you with a sorry smile. “It’s better if you just go watch TV, and let me do the work.”

“But…” you began protesting, noticing the cutting board and the vegetables atop it. “I can help you cut the garlic and tomatoes.”

He pulled you back as soon as you prepared to grab the knife laying beside the board, and clasped your hand close to his chest, “Ah, darling! Don’t do that.” He blurted out.

“W-what, why?”

“Because I wouldn’t want my sweet wife to hurt herself.”

“I won’t, come on Arthur. It’s not like accidentally I’ll cut my finger off and then die.”

At your dreadful words, he hissed in response and quickly said, “Don’t say that.” And stared into your eyes with such determination and intensity that you almost forgot who you were and where.

“R-right, sorry.” You apologised for the gruesome picture you had painted in his mind and awkwardly turned your gaze to the ceramic tiles making up your floor.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m keeping you from doing the things you want, I don’t deserve you. You shouldn’t have married me.” He explaned dejectedly and looked at the floor, him too.

“It’s fine, I promise.”

Arthur felt you softly caress his cheek and saw you smiling at him.

“I can go watch TV, no problem.”

You left him to his own devices in the cooking area and plopped down on the grey couch and scrolled through films you found uninteresting. Seeing you follow his advice, the man you call husband smiled in satisfaction and went back to cooking.

Throwing yourself on the couch, you groaned in contentment. You got to say that the food absolutely slapped and now your stomach demanded rest. Arthur was way to good at cooking, he seriously belonged in a culinary show or something. You had complimented him for his skills for years now and every time he brushed you off with a humble shrug, saying he isn’t all that and there are better out there.

“Ugh…”

“Don’t fall asleep on the sofa.” Arthur warned, preferring for you to go directly to bed instead of slouching off in the living room. Though if push came to shove, he would carry you.

“I’ll try…” you murmured and closed your eyes despite his words.

Seeing your drowsy form, he chuckled and continued doing the dishes. You on the other hand, struggled to keep yourself conscious and nearly fell to the grasp of sleep multiple times. When you felt yourself drifting off, you forced your eyes open, only to have them close again.

The sudden ring of the doorbell brought back energy, only enough to let you listen in. Arthur had went to the door when hearing it, and he wondered to who it could possibly be. Him and you were new here, so it couldn’t be a neighbour visiting for a friendly chat since no one knew you. He hadn’t ordered anything either and as far as he knew, you hadn’t either.

The man peeked outside through the peephole imbedded in the large piece of wood and saw an unfamiliar man-no older than himself- standing right outside. Compared to his own natural raven hair, the stranger had bleached blonde hair. Sadly it appeared someone hadn’t gotten the bleaching done properly for the strands had a yellow hue to it.

His clothes consisted of a harsh red t-shirt, quiet wrinkly Arthur had so admit. Perhaps did the man outdoors drop the bleach on his jeans as well, when changing hair colour. Because they too were stained with lighter colouration than other parts of them.

Deciding to ask him to what brought him to your home, Arthur graciously opened the door just as he noticed the blonde reaching for the bell a second time since no one had opened, and the lights were on which meant there was indeed someone home. What he didn’t know was that he had been scrutinised by a pair of grey eyes for quite some time.

“Yes, can I help you?” Said Arthur in a polite but firm tone, signaling he wanted no play and get right to it.

The stranger had stepped back a foot when the door abruptly swung open and a very tall-maybe annoyed- man stared down at him. Frankly, he wasn’t that much taller, but it still showed when standing so close to each other.

“Eh, hey.” He greeted, “I’m your new neighbour. Sorry to bother, but you don’t happen to have some eggs you don’t need?”

One of Arthur’s brows shot up at the question, “We do, in fact. Why? You want to borrow some.” The last sentence would have seemed like an inquiry, it clearly wasn’t, based on the tone he used. It was a statement.

The blonde gawkily nodded and laughed stiffly, “Yeah, sorry I get that you got here like today.”

“It’s fine.” Your husband sighed, “but don’t forget to pay us back.”

“Us?” The stranger said, slightly confused.

“Me and my wife.”

“Oh, sorry man. Thought you moved here alone.” He apologised.

Arthur didn’t wish to speak to this man longer than he had to. He would have preferred to slam the door in this rascals face and reject his request for eggs, but even he understood it was something that wouldn’t benefit you in the further. He had to make a good impression on neighbours in order to live without trouble, at least on a social level were you lived. It wasn’t fun to be at odds with your neighbour, you live in the same building after all.

Rolling his eyes, the black haired man left the blonde man at the house entrance to fetch some of the requested food.

While resting, you had listened to their entire conversation. And though you had no idea to who the stranger at the door could be, the voice did sound dreadfully familiar. You had defiantly heard that voice before, long ago. Getting up from your position, you followed your husband from behind and peered over his tall frame to spot a glimpse of the person.

When you saw them. You understood why the voice was so familiar.

Feeling your body stiffen and blood run cold, eyes widening you were only able to mumble, “…W-Weston..?”

Instantly when he heard your voice, the blonde man noticed you. And turned his attention on you with the speed of lightning, intensity burning. You gasped. His expression mirrored yours. The eggs he so wished to borrow splattered on the floor in a yellow goo.

“…(Y-Y/n)…..?” He uttered just as shocked as you currently felt. “What are you…?” Weston wandered off in the middle of his sentence.

As the exchange went on in stunned silence, your husband observed the scene with raised suspicion. Did you know this man?

Weston’s initial shock wore off and his features transformed into a supple smile, he stuttered as he tried to get his thoughts out. “I-it’s been so long….what a-are you doing here?” he heavily exhaled in amazement.

“I…I live here..” your answer was as stiff as a board and you glanced at Arthur, who was also looking perplexed at you.

As if he suddenly understood a hard math problem, Weston perked up, “Oh, are you visiting your sister and her husband? So you currently live with them? I know this is far from your childhood home.”

Damn, he had already began making assumptions. It would be very awkward to correct him now, but you couldn’t lie to him. It would just make things more confusing and complicated in the future when he wondered to why you hadn’t gone back to ‘your’ home.

Your husband reacted before you could, “No, she is not visiting. She lives here and is in fact my wife.” He spat, hating that he created theories on you relationship.

“W-what..?” He forcibly laughed as if he thought he heard wrong, “she’s your wife..?”

“Yes. Now who are you to be so familiar to my (Y/n)?”

“Me?” Weston scoffed, “I’m her boyfriend.”

Not wanting things to become more sour than it was, you hastily broke in, “Were, Weston. You were my boyfriend.” You reminded.

When you were 15 years old, you met Weston at your school. The two of you had been put in the same class and therefore had to work together on assignments, from time to time. Despite having gone to the same school since elementary, you had never properly spoken to each other. Simply overlooking the others existence unless you had to interact. Like, during a game of tag, for example. Those were circumstances you needed to talk, but didn’t further the relationship. Choosing to stay with your respective friend group.

The time you really started hitting it off were when you had a super important assignment that would determine a great deal of your grade that year. So that was when you really focused and took the task seriously, and spoke carefully about what would be a good idea and what wouldn’t. Compared to previous pair work, where you and Weston didn’t speak five sentences to each other, came to an agreement instead of ditching as soon as you could like you had done other times. So it wasn’t weird that you two started hanging out and chatting more now that you found out that the other party wasn’t all that bad, as you might’ve thought.

Aquintances turned to good friends, that became best friends, which eventually blossomed to romance.

Weston was your first boyfriend. He was your first everything, and you were his first as well. As you were so young back then, you stupidly believed you’d stay a couple forever. Reality proved your belief wrong as it does most of the time. When you got older, you wanted to peruse different things. The deduction to break up was mutual, though its reinforcement was mostly you and met with some resistance from Weston. However, it all ended anyway.

Hearing your defiance, Weston yielded. “Yeah….right.”

“You were..dating..” you heard Arthur mumble under his breath, not sure if he wanted an answer or not you still said.

“Yeah, back in high school and such. Sorry, I didn’t know he lived here, too.” The last part you murmured in his ear, quietly.

“Sooo…you’re married!” The blonde exclaimed an unnaturally cheerful voice. “I’m glad, hehe. You did always wish to get married, so that’s great.” He let out an equally strained laugh.

“Eh..yeah, hehe. I guess so.” You pretended that you didn’t remember that he was the one you had wanted to marry in your younger days. And now it was weird since you were indeed married, just not to him. “So you live next door?” Bending down, you collected to egg shells still covering the floor.

“Yeah, I do.” Weston copied your movement to help you clean up the mess he’d made but was stopped by your spouse, who sent him another one of his furious looks.

The tall, dark haired man couldn’t bear to see some pathetic lowlife from the past ruin things between you and him. Things had gone to perfectly smooth in the latest years, and no one-exactly no one- will he let destroy it.

Witnessing your husband aiding you in your job, he retracted his hands and stood there as still as whatever is the ‘still-est’

“Don’t worry, I’ll get some new ones for you.”

“No need, it’s not that urgent. I promise.” he reassuringly stated.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Shrugging, you went to the kitchen to throw away the discarded shells and grab a towel to wipe the egg yolks. When you came back with the paper, your surprise visitor was gone like the wind.

“Where’s Weston?” You asked Arthur, sending him a perturbed expression.

The man told you not to worry, “He’s gone home. It wasn’t urgent, like he said. He said to me he would simply make something else to eat.”

Thinking it was a bit rude to just rush off like that, you couldn’t blame him for it. This unexpected meeting was rather startling. The next time you’d run into him(which you’ll undoubtedly do), you’d try to be as nice as possible to him. Being enemies with neighbours was a freaking pain in the ass. No thanks.

“Okay, I’ll let him borrow things in the future if he’d so wish. “

“That sounds great, honey.” Arthur gazed at you as you closed and locked the front door after Weston’s departure. Then as you ventured back and up to the second floor, leaving Arthur alone in the the same position.

His smile had faded significantly and he muttered, “This can be a problem.”

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