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comfortless · 9 months ago

Note

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction

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saintescuderia · 8 months ago

Text

pancakes (pt. 1)

welcome a new multi-chapter fic. enjoy.

AKA - the story of how the naive australian rookie befriended the gym junkie F1 hospitality worker with the shoe collection - and inadvertently broke the grid's most treasured and unspoken rule: you don't go for y/n.

series masterlist here :) // the pancakes recipe here :)

P1 - bulgarian split squats

Really, the only way to survive Formula 1 was by going to the gym.

The gym addiction was something that had existed long before joining the circus of a motorsports paddock filled with politics and rumours, as well as the slim fitting uniforms that always seemed to be accompanied by, in your opinion, ugly ass shoes.

Sure, Puma was the offical sponsor but couldn’t they get anything other than the Speedcat? And what even was that name? Speedcat? It was on brand, sure, but at what cost? Really? If Formula 1 was trying to grow its popularity they could honestly start with their dress code. Seeing Christian Horner in Skechers really took the intimidation out of him when you served him his double espresso during the Spanish Grand Prix that one time last season.

One of the perks of working in Hospitality - and there were very few far and in between - was that uniform was not so strict. F1 Hospitality only required an all black service with ‘comfortable shoes.’ This you took for interpretation. Dunks. Jordan 4s. Maybe 1s. Never 13s. Forces were good for a night race - that usually meant more stairs - and Vans were what you reached for in the morning when you knew you’d be working the barista shift. Converse were for ‘throw away’ races.

These were the races where you knew the shoe-care was not important. For example, Silverstone with its torrential UK drinkers who were likely to throw up on your beloved sneakers. Alas, you had learned the hard way when you almost lost your job by rushing to the kitchen to start scrubbing the vomit off your blue and red Cortez during peak lunch.

Never again.

Admittedly, you did try to keep at least one pair of Converse in good care since they were the renowned shoe come leg day.

Another perk of working in F1 Hospitality was that every circuit’s map layout had been drilled into your head. Meaning you always knew exactly where the communal driver’s gym was located at and could therefore get your daily dose of dopamine before dealing with… well, everything.

You silenced the shrill horror that came from the iPhone alarm. 4:00 read the lockscreen, the light shining brightly into your face. It didn’t help that your wallpaper had a photo with a clear blue sky, making the light even harsher in the darkness. You could’ve very well changed it and avoid the pain you routinely go through every morning. But it was this very photo that reminded you why you were getting up in four in the morning in the first place.

You had snapped it during a free practice in Italy that had miraculously lined up with a break in your shift. The sky was clear and the red car was small, but clear on the circuit. Ferrari, of course. You still remember the buzz that circled around the paddock staff that day. No matter who you routed for or whatever bias you had, there was a unanimously acknowledgement that Ferrari winning at Monza was special. He was special.

Then again, you’ve known that long before he stood on that podium in Italy and was given his infamous nickname.

It didn’t even take you ten minutes until you were out the door. Your gym clothes (pump cover included!) were on the one limpy chair that decorated your poor little hotel room, your shaker sat on top of your gym bag with you black high top Converse right beside it. By the time you had made it to the gym, it was a little past 4:15 and you had already scooped in pre-workout into your mouth ready to get through the oncoming pain.

Your hips were a little tight, as per normal. The left side even more so. The hood of your hoodie was up, headphones on and blasting the hardstyle house music that would see you through the next two hours. You went through your usual stretches but with today’s added focus on the lower body.

And then you went about destroying your legs.

It was about an hour or so that Oscar finally sleepily arrived. You weren’t actually sure what time it was but you were up to doing bulgarian split squats - and hating life - and that was usually at the hour mark. You gave him a curious once over, noting the odd choice of clothing. It was a little odd to see a driver in the paddock wearing athleisure that wasn’t their team uniform.

“Bro, it’s five in the morning.” Oscar groaned, shuffling over to come and sit on the bench next to you. You gave another three more reps - Oscar silently watching you groan in pain through the last two - and then finally dropped the dumbbells. You reached over to take a sip of water and checked the phone for the time.

“It’s five thirteen in the morning.” You corrected. It had been just about the hour mark. “Are we training today or?” It wasn’t the first time Oscar had joined you. The reason his neck was getting stronger was because of you. In your opinion, the trainer Alpine had assigned Oscar was a fucking idiot.

“You’re doing legs.” Oscar pointed out, as if that was enough of an answer. He leaned to lay back down on the bench and stared up as he continued to speak. “Drivers don’t need bulky legs. We’ve been over this.”

You had. Many times. You knew he was right. It still would be nice to have someone to go through legs with you, though.

“So train with light weights.” You offered, trying. Oscar just gave you a look that made it clear he was not picking up any type of weights. You shrugged, not deterred. “I’ll do calisthenics with you. Or we can work on plyometrics.” Oscar’s response was to close his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Fuck it man, do some cardio.” You came to the last resort, coming to kick his legs as you walked past to load up the smith machine with some different plates.

“Piss off Tezza.” The Australian-ness continuing to shine through with the nickname that Oscar had specifically designed for you in respect of your shared citizenship to the ‘land down under.’

Except unlike the blond caucasian boy who loved AFL, grew up in Brighton East and attended Haileybury, your Australian-ness was less obvious. Your accent, for one, wasn’t as prominent since your parents were African immigrants. This, of course, didn’t just influence your speech patterns and accent.

Dark skin, dark eyes and dark hair, you weren't exactly the picture of a 'true blue Aussie.' The rite of public school bullying from those who did look 'Australian' (whatever that meant) had you scoffing at vegemite and preferring to follow EPL and La Liga than whatever the fuck was Aussie Rules Football.

Why is it called football if the players pick up the ball?

Still, when a homesick Oscar Piastri overheard one of the Hospitality staff yell out that that they were going for a 'Macca’s run' between the practice sessions on his very first F1 race weekend, he instantly picked up on the Australian-ism. And he didn’t let it go. And cue the beginning of a friendship that had Oscar Piastri calling you ‘bro’ and shortening your last name as per Australian rite.

Even if you had sworn off that sort of thing.

“Oscar, man, if you ain’t here to train then why are you?” You said, locking the plates in place on the smith machine. You lifted up your hood up and ducked under the bar to rest the metal against you shoulders, the hood acting as a cushion. The starting weight was light enough that you wouldn't have to worry about music for your first set. Besides, if Oscar was here, he could be the entertainment for this set. “You forget that this is a driver’s only gym. You could get in trouble." The sarcasm was all too clear in your voice.

No one used the ‘drivers-only’ gym. It was something that every Grand Prix had set up. Mobile, communal and high-end, it had enough equipment to rival the local 24/7 studio franchise gym that seemed to exist in every neighbourhood. Despite the fact that every driver preferred to train at their own motorhome gym - or that every team had their own mobile gym set up in conjunction to the motorhome - F1 still went about packing up and moving their own studio gym to every single location come race weekend.

If anything, it was a nice stop during the presentation walk during the sponsorship lunches where good old Stefano Domenicali would show off all the amazing resources that the Grand Prix space has to offer.

So, no. F1’s Driver Gym was not used.

The only reason it wasn’t gathering dust was because every weekend it was packed up and moved. That and you woke up at 4am every weekend to destroy your muscles in the familiar red and black equipment.

"You're here." Oscar reminded you. "And not a driver."

You ignored him and just kept up with your repetitions, focusing on engaging your glutes and keeping your core tight. Oscar was silent as you finished your first set. When you finished your last rep, he stood up and came round as you locked the machine. He knew you well enough to pick up the 10kg and help add it to the sides.

"Thanks." You said. Oscar nodded and added the weight to the other side. There was a quiet air for a moment and you went to pick up your headphones to put them back on. Things were getting heavier and you would need music to get through the next few sets.

“I might be leaving Alpine.”

You looked up at Oscar who dropped the bomb and then looked back at your headphones. You sighed and then dropped the headphones back to land in your gym bag. Headphoneless, you went back to the machine and Oscar took your invitation.

“Zak Brown approached me yesterday and suggested something about picking me up for next year.” Oscar said.

You just kept squatting. Oscar was far too removed to yet be aware of - well, everything.

“And with talk of Fernando quitting, I know that Alpine will be calling me up but do I trust that? Honestly Lando has been doing so well and Ocon has always pissed me off.” Oscar watched as you started to struggle.

He stood up and came around to help you but you just shook you head. You pushed through one more rep and then called it.

“He does have a punchable face.” You said, now out of breath. Esteban had always annoyed you and before meeting Oscar, you used to dread the weekends where you were put on Alpine.

Your friend handed you the water bottle sat beside your gym bag before you could even ask. You gave a two finger salute in thanks as he continued on.

“And Lily and I got into this massive fight again! Apparently I don’t communicate enough!” He huffed. “But I sent her flowers and chocolates because she’s going through finals and she likes daisies and Cadbury."

“Yeah, but is that her love language though?” You asked, dropping your bottle and going to stack up the final set of weights on the smith machine. Oscar stood up again to help you.

“Her what?” He asked, handing you the plate.

“Love language.” You answered, still panting, and explained, “You’ve got physical touch, gift giving, quality time, words of affirmation and acts of service.”

“Are you saying people love in specific ways?" Oscar asked, quick to process new information as always.

“Exactly. You did something nice for her, an act of service. Maybe all she wants is a nice, long phone call or maybe some texts complimenting her or something.” You shrugged and then brought up your headphones.

Oscar accepted this, knowing the last set would require music.

He watched you as you settled back under the smith machine bar and went on squatting more than his body weight. He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. He really shouldn't have been surprised at your lack of surprise. Little shocked you. That or your might’ve already known and just kept it to yourself. F1 Hospitality were a part of the Formula One Group and, therefore, were not associated to any one team. They had rotations across all teams and, therefore, every member of staff were required to sign an NDA. Not that ever did anything in this damn place.

Still, Oscar knew that you were one of the few genuine people left in this place.

He knew that there would’ve been so many opportunities where you could’ve easily done something for yourself by recounting something you had overheard while pouring Toto Wolff his coffee or serving Mattia Binotto his lunch. It was the reason why so many teams hired their own internal hospo staff.

It was also the reason why Oscar felt comfortable coming to tell you about Alpine and McLaren before he had even told his own parents, or Lily. The argument with his girlfriend had prevented him from getting any sleep, mulling it over in his mind for hours. Oscar knew you would be able to help him through it all.

And that you would be the only one awake at this godforsaken hour.

By the time you had finished your first set, he was Googling love languages and having a quick read through.

By the time you had finished your second set, he was halfway through doing the love languages quiz.

By the time you had finished your third and final set, he was seeing what the problem was between him and Lily.

“I think Lily is words of affirmation and I'm acts of service." He said, coming up to the machine as you stepped back and pulled down your headphones. You blinked and nodded, still put of breath. "I think I forgot to check in with her and send her some compliments. Tell her I'm proud of her for getting through exams. Especially because she never is one for gifts, really."

You held out your hand to him. "There you go. Growth."

"I don't know what to do about Alpine."

"Call a lawyer."

Oscar pursed his lips and then considered this. That wouldn't be his first move but thinking about it, it was probably for the best. "That's actually a good idea."

"Isn't that why you're here?" You retorted. "Since you're not here to train. Speaking of which, the fuck is that?"

“What?” He asked and realised you were looking at his feet.

“Zak Brown isn’t going to hire you if he finds out that you’re wearing fucking thongs with socks.” You said, finally recognising the flip-flops he wore with some white socks that really needed to be washed.

“You’ve been a great help, thanks.” Oscar smiled. You rolled your eyes and went to your gym bag. Pulling out a pair of white Adidas Sambas, you tossed them to Oscar.

“Put these on.”

“Is my footwear really that offensive to you?”

“We’ll go run the track.” You said then gestured to all of him. “It’ll help you burn all of this off.”

Oscar sighed and did as he was told. He laced up the shoes you'd given him that surprisingly fit his large feet and followed you out to the track. He used his pass to get through since a driver running the track at 5:30 in the morning would just be seen as the dedication to the grind. A Hospitality staff member would just be accused of breaking in.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re going through a crisis. I’ve always wanted to do a morning run on the track.” You said with a grin as the pair of you came to the starting line that, in a matter of hours, would be full of mechanics, engineers, reporters, camera crew members and, of course, drivers.

“If I get a seat at McLaren, you can be my trainer.” Oscar said as you both started warming up into a light jog.

"Ha." You snorted. "As if you could afford me, bro."

next ch [2] >

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hyggetrait · 2 years ago

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🚑 Welcome to the White Willow Memorial Hospital 🏥

Functioning Hours:

Open 24 hours a day, 7 days week.

White Willow Memorial is an integrated healthcare system providing quality care to local and global communities of the Sims world. Located in the central point of Magnolia Promenade, White Willow Memorial is acclaimed for its excellent care teams and specialist. With around the clock emergency room, two state of the art surgery room, a pediatric office, and a birthing suite for any expecting patient, White Willow Memorial staff is prepared to take the best care of you and your loved ones.

Gallery Id: NicoleSimblr (check the ‘include custom content’ or it won’t show up). Click here for the lite cc version.

Finally able to share the long-awaited hospital build. I hope you all love it and it lives up to your expectations!

Floor plan and additional information, including CC list and how to set up birth suite below.

Floor Plan

Important Information

Enable bb.moveobjects when placing down

I tried to playtest as much as I could for birthing experience but did not have time to try out with the doctor career, so I apologize in advance for any hiccups.

I used gshade preset spring bubbles by jayica, so colors might look different for you

Please tag me if you use this build, it makes me so happy to see my lots be part of your sims stories!

This built was primarily made to be used with pandasama’s birthing mod. I recommend potentially removing the door (or locking access) to the pediatric room and the doctors office in the second floor to ensure your sim sticks to the birthing suite.

Speaking of the birthing suite, if I want my sim to have a regular birth using the pandasama birth mod, then I start off with the default hospital bed already in the room and when the time comes to deliver I go into build mode (bb.enablefreebuild) and switch the hospital bed for the surgery machine. If you want to go c-section route then use the birthing suite up until its time and then go into the surgery room (I recommend the one at the very end of the hallway which has the baby decor)

CC Information

Note the “*” denotes the costom content that is not required for functional gameplay but just simply decor to add more realism. Essentially, House of Harlix, Pierisims, and Tud’s CC are must.

Tuds - 2nd Wave Set (Couches all over the hospital)

Pierisims - The Office, MCM (for offices)

Harrie - Octave, Brownstone, spoons (windows, bookshelves, clutter)

Harlix - Livin Rum' (table), Tiny Twavellers (wallpaper)

PandaSama - Birth Mod (for sonogram machine)

CharlyPancakes - The Lighthouse Collection (books in offices)

Awingedllama* - All sets (used plants for clutter)

Brazen Lotus - Party Poppers (balloons in maternity suite)

Aeonpixels *- Medicare Ads (not necessary but recommend for posters around hospital & meternity suite)

RVSN* - Skewl is Kewl (school board, not really needed just a detail)

Syboulette -Hippocrate Set (simlish service navigation sign in hallway and ambulance (note this is very high poly, you could just get a makeshift one from the gallery like I did for the cc lite version!)

#showusyourbuilds #ts4 build #ts4 lot download #ts4 exterior #ts4 lot #ts4 community lot #ts4 hospital #ht:build download #ht:build

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hometoursandotherstuff · 8 months ago

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Here's a nice mint green 1988 ranch style home in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. It's got 3bds, 2.5ba, listed for $314,900. And, it's colorful inside!

Spacious living room with a high ceiling, and it's all painted a lime green already.

And, look at the cool matching Swedish fireplace. What a pleasure not to see bland white or gray walls.

This is so nice, a large sunny yellow kitchen with white cabinets and colorful retro wallpaper in the dining area.

Step down from the kitchen to the laundry room.

Bright green hall to the bedrooms and baths.

Purple primary bedroom and en-suite.

Bright bd. #2. This home is perfect if you like retro decor.

The smaller bd #3 is being used as an exercise room, but the feature wall makes it easy to make back into a bedroom.

I like the pink bath, but not the stairs up to the tub.

Look at this bonus. There's a full-service hair salon.

Love the red floor. There's lots of potential here. This can even become a rental unit.

Plumbing and some cabinets already there can be turned into a kitchen.

There's a separate room back here.

I like the sink in here. Looks roomy enough to fit a tub or shower.

Lots more potential in here. It's a very big house for the price.

The property measures .34 acres.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/2010-Clear-View-Dr_Elizabethtown_KY_42701_M35546-56236

#ranch style homes #colorful homes #houses #house tours #home tour #homes under $400K

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ncroissant · 10 months ago

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aquamarine hoshino x jealous! bimbo! reader

summary: after aqua's passionate kiss with akane on the final episode of 'love for real', aqua comes to home to your jealousy.

content warnings: spoilers to oshi no ko, suggestive, mentions of cock/crotch, toxic relationship, controlling behaviour, dacryphilia, manipulation, use of petnames: angel, sweetheart, good girl like once, no use of yn

wc: 1.2k

author's note: aqua is 16 in the anime and manga, mentally 40, but i'd like to age him up to 18!! this is not proofread, so there are probably a lot of mistakes, lmk if i need any more warnings!! minors please DNI !!

you spent most of your days encased in aqua's basement. he made the entire place feel like home; decorating it in pretty pink wallpaper and making sure you had anything in reach. whenever you asked for something, he would provide. he was fully set on servicing you as long as you obliged to his one and only rule:

'stay in this room, don't leave without my permission'

he would drill it into your brain like clockwork, never letting you forget, especially since you were likely to forget within a few seconds. you'd look up at him doe-eyed, hanging off his every word. you loved when he would tell you what to do and you could just blindly follow along. he was your best friend after all.

he spent a lot of his time with you: he'd check on you before and after school, he'd listen to you talk about the animes you watched and the mangas you read, or do his work assigned by the director while you sat in his lap, questioning every little detail.

but as of late, he came around to visit less and less, to the point where you would hear him come into the basement late at night, slipping under the covers to cuddle with you.

he convinced himself that you were the one insistent on being touchy-feely, but he was self-indulgent in the way you'd bury yourself in his arms, snuggling deep into his chest.

"aqua?" you'd mumble, feeling him wrap his arms around your waist.

"sorry angel, did i wake you?" he slid an arm on your back, rubbing it soothingly to lull you to sleep.

"no, s' okay, i missed you aqua," you flipped over, wrapping your arms around his neck, inserting yourself into his neck.

he reeked of women's perfume. you wanted to convince yourself he was going around stores finding you your perfect scent. but a pit in your stomach grew and you didn't understand why.

aqua would never tell you he was on a dating show. for one, he only needed to go on it to find clues on ai, but he also didn't want you to worry your pretty head over it. as much as he loved to see the frustration on your face when you were thinking, he knew he'd have to lighten the load for you.

it was tv day, aka saturday, because he was very insistent that TV was very, very bad for you and could only be watched for an hour a week. and miraculously, that hour was filled with content from the last episode of 'love for real'.

you sat there anticipatingly, already shocked from aqua's appearance in the intro, but the final moments had caught you off guard. although the two other guys had gotten rejected, aqua had marched over to the blue-haired girl, akane as you remembered, and placed a long, passionate kiss on her lips.

your eyes widened. he might have done a lot of things for you, but he's never kissed you before. he's never looked at you like that (at least not when you were looking). the tv automatically closed (as aqua had programmed it) and left you with a reflection of your teary-eyed expression.

your knees were pressed against your chest, your arms tightly holding them in place. you wanted to throw a tantrum, a fit, anything that would get rid of this stupid anger inside of you.

as if on queue, the lock on the door unlocked and in walked aqua. "hi angel, how was you day?" he slipped off his shoes, placing his bag down before looking over at you.

"aqua, why didn't you tell me you were on a dating show?" you pushed yourself onto all fours, kneeling in front of him with your stupidly big, round eyes, clinging to his tapered pants.

his eyes widened. he didn't know if it was a treat or a curse to see you in such a state. but, hearing that you saw the show snapped him out of his trance.

"how did you...?" shit. they changed the airing for this episode for saturday instead on sunday, he mentally cursed himself, remembering the fuss the crew made about it earlier.

his thoughts were cut by your sudden display of waterworks, burying your face into his thigh, hugging it like a babbling baby. "are you getting tired with me already?" you sobbed, pulling and pushing at the fabric of his pants.

he felt bad, he really did. but the way you were looking up at him so sweetly and clinging onto him like a little girl made his cock strain in his pants. he was biting back a smile before kneeling down to you level.

"so you saw it, huh?" he frowned slightly, holding the hand that gripped his thigh in his own.

"mhm," you nodded, crying incessantly, trying to wipe away your tears with a free hand.

"aw, c'mere sweetheart. let's get your tears out," he pulled you into his lap, allowing you to bury yourself into his shoulder as he patted your back soothingly.

you cried, rambling about how he didn't tell you and how he's never kissed you before. before you knew it, your hands had boldly gripped his shirt collar.

"why can't you kiss me like you kissed her, aqua? do you like her better?" you puffed your bottom lip out, tears still filling your waterline, leaning too close for aqua's comfort. you so badly wanted to be kissed by him too.

"angel, you know i can't kiss you, it's..." he trailed off, pursing his lips in thought.

it's not that he didn't want to kiss you. he felt like he was too tainted to even think about pressing his lips against yours. you were too pure and innocent. not a single thought inside your pretty little brain.

little did he know, all you could think about was him.

"aqua, please i wanna kiss." you pushed your lips out like a fish, clearly unfamiliar with kissing. he sighed in relief, but also somehow felt nervous to lean in.

he had countless fantasies about kissing you. more dreams beyond just kissing, but dreams of being intimate with you. if you hadn't shifted yourself right on top of his cock, he wouldn't have hastily pushed you down with his lips pressed against yours.

you squealed in surprise from the sudden movement, but he protected your head when you two had tumbled to the floor. he pulled away to look at you, both of you out of breath from the intensity of the kiss.

you looked so pretty just waiting for him to continue and let him do whatever he wanted to. he knew you'd agree with whatever he told you to do. but he wanted to relish in the fact that you were lying there so perfectly, patiently waiting his next command like such a good girl.

"you still want another one?" he teased, inspecting the redness on your face that trailed down the entirety of your body.

"mhm, wanna get her taste off your lips." his cock pulsed at your sudden possessiveness. you didn't even know how to kiss 10 seconds ago, but he wanted to see how much he could teach you in one night.

"yeah, you'll help me like a good, little girl, right?" he dragged you closer by the thigh before pressing his lips on yours once more.

#oshi no ko #aquamarine hoshino #aquamarine hoshino x reader #ncrescent

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ruby-serpentis · 1 year ago

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horror au! whitney - head canons

pairing: male! whitney x gender neutral! reader

warning(s): death, hauntings, forced marriage, blood

I MEANT FOR THIS TO BE OUT DURING HALLOWEEN LMAO obviously that didn’t happen

please note that i do not condone any of this behavior in real life. this is merely a work on fiction based on another work of fiction.

INTRODUCING...THE 2ND BEST BIO-EXORCIST

how could two ghosts fail to haunt a house and rid themselves of the family? inexperience, simply.

their case worker, bailey, had told them they would have to get rid of the humans themselves. but to never rely on that business card they got with one name scrawled on it: whitney.

river and winter were inexperienced ghosts and their haunting skills were juvenile at best. but it amused you, the child of the people that had moved in.

your father was a man of business and your step-mother was an eccentric artist. you wouldn’t really be at this home if it weren’t for the fact that finding an apartment was extremely difficult near the end of the academic year. so you resigned yourself to spending the summer between your freshman and sophomore year of college with your family and helping them move in.

the house had an old charm to it. and clearly there was a lot of thought put into everything from the wallpaper, to the decorations, to the antiques. it was a shame your step-mother was keen on reimagining the whole house for herself. you would’ve kept it the same, like your father.

when you first moved in, you noticed two women watching you from the attic window. they quickly disappeared, but it piqued your interest and you tried to go into the attic. only to find it locked.

you knew something was up, so you pushed the skeleton key into the lock and watched as it fell out, as if someone had poked it from behind.

after a few days, you were able to get into that attic and see the beautiful, well crafted miniature town. it was a cozy place to be, especially if you were a ghost.

you’d come to run into the couple later on that week. river was frustrated that it seemed the sheets did not work. (why would they?)

but as the weeks went on, the couple gradually grew more and more fond of you. even if they still wanted your family out of their home. winter was more than happy to receive your help in getting supplies for his model town. and river liked that at least you were trying to keep the integrity of the house, much to the disagreement of your step-mother.

things took a terrible turn though when river and winter tried to scare off your parents and their guests with a pretty good haunting incident. it scared the living shit out of you and usually, you would’ve been unphased.

perhaps it was time to call in the expert.

“it’s not a very scary name.” winter says, adjusting her glasses. “how do we know it’s going to work?”

“we’ll just have to try.” river looks at the back of the card, seeing it blank.

whitney. whitney. whitney.

the couple were shrunken down to the size of the model town and in the distance, they could see lights. they followed it, finding a bunch of arrows and shovels.

winter was not keen on doing what he thought they’d have to do. “let’s start digging.” river tosses her wife a shovel.

after what felt like forever, river felt her shovel hit hard against wood. she brushed the debris aside to discover a coffin with the name whitney messily scratched into it.

the coffin starts to shake, giving them the cue to climb out of the grave they had just dug up.

out from the grave popped...a child?

he looked no older than at most 20. he still had a bit of baby fat attached to his face. he looked so...human. like them. and yet the grin on his face was a little unnerving.

“whitney here! at your service! the second best bioexorcist in town!” his voice was a little raspy.

“you...you’re just a kid!” river exclaims.

“a kid?” he laughs. “i can guarantee i am not a kid! i just chose a form that would be suitable to your eyes and your comfort.”

“a kid is going to help us exorcise the people from our home?” winter raises an eyebrow. “what can you do?”

“i can do a lot more than you. like this.”

winter and river would never speak of what they saw when whitney uncovered a sliver of his true form.

whitney spent the next two weeks terrorizing you and your family. and honestly, you were terrified from leaving your room.

it was a little extensive what he was doing. and yet, he was frustrated as to why your step-mother insisted staying. do people just not know that a haunted house is a big neon sign for “get the fuck out?”

and yet, part of him was quite satisfied with the fact that you haven’t left. not yet anyways.

there was something about your particular fear that...really made him feel hot and bothered. especially below the waist.

he loved watching the way your eyes would widen and how you’d run straight for your room, locking the door behind you. he could easily pass through the door and unlock it, open it to give it the illusion of him coming in. but he didn’t. he liked that you thought you were safe from him in your room.

naturally, you were angry with both river and winter. you understood why they wanted you and your family out of your house. but you didn’t think it would ever come at this price.

the culmination of everything in the house comes with a seance. or what your step-mother’s colleague thought was a seance summoning.

what it really was a spell of exorcism, a spell that made the dead beyond dead, forced to float around in an endless void.

you recognized it for what it was. your step-mother was so desperate for validation with her art, within higher society, so desperate for fame that she was willing to kill people, kill souls.

you didn’t know what to do. there was nothing in this handbook for the dead about how to stop an exorcism. and that left you with only one option.

you ran to the attic, desperately searching for the spirit that had been terrorizing your house and family for the past few weeks. you didn’t know its name, only that it had a presence—

“looking for me?”

you look down at the model town, seeing a boy your age lighting a cigarette while sitting on the roof of a home. he takes a long drag and blows it towards you. you quickly swat the smoke away. it smells horrible.

“who are you?”

“who am i? well i can’t say. someone cursed me with the inability to say my name. so you’re gonna have to guess.” he blows his some hair out of the way of his eye. you swore you could see the eye hidden by his fringe being all black.

“i need your help!”

“help?” he smirks. “what help?”

“what do you—!” you took a deep breath. your hands were still shaking however. “i need you to save river and winter!”

“so those are their names?” he takes another drag. “why should i save them?”

“because it’s right?” you were in disbelief.

“yeah, but what’s in it for me slut?”

you felt your cheeks grow hot. what was even the point of calling you that? you couldn’t get distracted though! you could not!

“i…i don’t even know what i could give you!”

“you could give me your body.” he smirks. you feel repulsed by the way he’s looking at you, observing you.

“no!”

“not in that way.” he flicks his cigarette away. “i am kind of tired of being dead, y’know. kind of wanna be alive again? taste things, live things. you just need to marry me! and after my come into the world as a human, that’s it!”

“that’s…that’s it?”

“exactly.”

“there has to be more than that!” you exclaim. “i know that’s not all!”

“sure, i can go on about what else there is to the bargain. but,” he taps on his watch. “time is running out real quickly for your precious ghosts.”

your stomach drops. in the midst of trying to get help, you had forgotten that there was a clock ticking on river and winter.

“can you really bargain with me right now slut?”

you purse your lips and huff. “fine! i’ll…loan you my body i guess.”

“great! you just have to summon me! by saying my name.” he puts three fingers up. you’re able to guess what he means.

“what…what is your name?”

“it’s your…what’s their name? whatever one of your friend’s favorite drinks.”

“lager?”

“definitely not.”

“vodka?”

“gross!”

“okay…pink whitney?”

his face lights up. “second word slut.”

“whitney?” it sounds so strange rolling off your tongue. to you. to him it sounds so right. a little too right. “whitney? whitney?”

that was all he needed.

whitney disappeared, causing you to rush down stairs back to the exorcism.

with a snap of his fingers, he was able to stop the exorcism, saving winter and river from a fate worse than death (literally).

whitney proceeded to terrorize the living, especially your step-mother and her colleague. he was like a conductor leading an orchestra. the chaos moved like a symphony and you yourself yelped when your own shadow began moving on its own.

you were paralyzed with fear, watching everything unfold. you thought you saw everything until now.

before river and winter could question why whitney was free, he disappeared. and you with him.

“(y/n)?” river exclaims. “(y/n)!”

you were suddenly in a different place. it looked…quite cozy actually.

the lighting came from a singular fireplace, which crackled calmly. you approached it, mesmerized by the flames.

“alone at last.”

you turn around, whitney directly behind you. now that you were standing in front of him, you realized that he was…huge! he towered over you!

“take me back!”

“can’t do that slut. you’re mine now.”

“yours? i don’t belong to anyone!”

whitney raises an eyebrow and laughs. “oh you belong to me now. i mean, you agreed to give your body to me. and i fulfilled my end of the deal by saving those sissies called ghosts.” he grips onto your waist, pulling you close.

you squirm when you feel his tongue on your face. he gives a long lick and pulls away. “you taste so good when you’re afraid.”

“take me back!”

“don’t you listen slut?” he scoffs. “you’re mine. which means you will be forced to stay here. did you really think i would let you go after planning everything? leaving the handbook for the deceased out in the open for your step-mother to find?”

“you…you did this?”

“of course! what? don’t think i’m smart enough to?” whitney laughs and leans forward, catching your lips in a hard kiss.

+++ Stress

- - - Control

++ Arousal

you squirm, trying to free yourself. his grip becomes unbearably hard, forcing you to stop. and he bites down on your lip, hard. so hard that he draws blood. using your gasp of pain, whitney shoves his tongue into your mouth, tasting you. you wanna gag when you taste notes of copper.

he pulls away after what feels like an eternity of kissing. you looked so cute with your cheeks flushed, adrenaline running through your body, and blood dripping from your lower lip.

he wanted more.

your nose scrunches up out of disgust, smelling the heavy scent of cigarettes on him.

whitney just laughs.

“you’ll get used to it slut. in fact, you’ll learn to crave it~”

#degrees of lewdity #dol #ruby's horror au #horror au #whitney the bully #dol whitney #whitney x reader #dol whitney x reader #x reader #male reader #female reader #gender neutral reader

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untaemedqueen · 2 years ago

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At Your Service

Escort!Jeongguk x CEO!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Angst, Fluff, Cold Heartedness, Emotional Trauma, Healing, Smut, Dark Humor

Warnings For This Chapter: A Misunderstanding, Early Angst Babies, Backstory Drama Begins

Chapter 4.

When you first step out of the car, the scent of manure and nature smacks you in the face like a tidal wave but there's something comforting about it.

Knowing you're about to see animals that took up so much of your imagination during your childhood feels practically euphoric in a way… Not that you'd ever reveal that to the outside world.

"You look lovely, by the way." Jeongguk breathes, closing your door for you.

"Thank you, Jeongguk," you whisper, fixing your long black gloves.

"Just Guk."

"Huh?" you inquire, lifting your sunglasses to the top of your head.

"Just call me Guk. All my friends do."

Oh.

How fucking dangerous is that? You're on friend terms now.

"Alright… Guk…"

The smile he gives is one that can be compared to the expansive universe and all its possibilities or an Aurora Borealis on a cold winter's eve -- breathtaking.

He pockets his hands casually into his ripped black jeans and his head nods towards the entrance of the large zoo. "Ready?"

"Oh yeah," you breathe, fighting the urge to smile.

As he walks beside you with an air of confidence that could smite down the lowly, you take him in. You hope you aren't rude to be thinking this but he doesn't look like the type to be into theoretical physics.

And if he is then why did he not graduate from Stanford? And why is he an escort?

It seems that he's an enigmatic puzzle quite like you.

Although some would argue that you aren't a puzzle, just dreadfully dreary.

"I can't believe you wore heels to walk around a zoo," Jeongguk laughs, pulling you from your thoughts.

Notching your eyebrow, you tilt your head to him. "I paid for a VIP tour. We don't walk."

"I see," he muses, sniffling once and lifting his arm to wrap it around your shoulders.

When you freeze, he slowly pulls away. "Just trying to get you comfortable with me. I don't have to though."

You imagine the wedding then, if you aren't comfortable with him by then people might assume you paid him and you will NOT allow people to judge you.

So you grip his wrist and fling his arm back over your shoulders without a second thought.

"Atta girl," Guk laughs.

He smells of sandalwood and citrus -- clementine, maybe? It's honestly divine and it matches him all too well.

"It's a nice day to see some animals," the escort comments, stepping past the gate with you by his side.

"Yes," you agree.

In a way, you feel kind of terrible that you have zero personality anymore. You give nothing to conversations nor can you manage to keep one up. It must be incredibly taxing to others.

Your date seems pleased with your answer though because he gives you a wide smile that makes the tips of your toes tingle.

"Do you have any pets?" you inquire.

"A dog. A Great Dane, his name is Hawking," the escort answers, pulling out his phone and showing you his wallpaper.

"Like the physicist Stephen Hawking?"

"The very same. Bingo," he muses, giving you a wink.

"What's your I-"

"Miss L/N!"

When you're cut off from speaking, the scowl that etches onto your face makes Jeongguk's eyebrows lift with amusement.

"You're feisty," he jests, turning to the person who's calling you.

You nudge him softly, the ice around you breaking for merely a moment to let in a good natured joke.

The zoo personnel that sees your disappointed expression seems to reel their excitement back in and they give you a polite smile. "It's such a pleasure to have you here. We can start your tour as soon as you're ready."

"Let me just run to the restroom, I'll be right back," you promise.

Guk nods, dropping his arm off your shoulders and watching the way you stride effortlessly towards the tribal decorated restrooms.

You've got a great ass.

"You're a lucky dude, huh?" the zookeeper breathes, stepping up beside the escort.

Jeongguk smirks, folding his arms accordingly. "Yeah, she's something else."

"She's so generous too," the keeper beams, lowering the volume of his walkie talkie.

It intrigues Guk immediately and his head cranes towards the shorter man beside him. "How so?"

"Y/N donates almost a million dollars every year to the sanctuary! She's the reason why our zoo looks so wonderful! She's the reason we can do conservation as well as we can."

Your date simply shakes his head, a wry smile etching onto his features.

There's so much of you shrouded away from the world. He wants to just get a chisel and hammer and just knock away all the stone encasing you until there's just you in your purest form left.

"Is that right?" he breathes, drifting his hands through his long hair.

You surely are a Rubik's Cube that he wants to solve.

"And to your left here we have the pygmy hippos. They're native to West Africa and are still unfortunately on the endangered species list but with all of your donations we've found a way to breed more of them," Lyle, the zookeeper informs you and your date stopping the golf cart.

"Oh, that's okay Lyle. You don't have to keep bringing up my m-"

"They're super cute!" Guk chirps, climbing out of the cart and holding his hand out to you.

The zoo tour has been going smoothly so far, you really are enjoying yourself. There's something wonderful about seeing Guk light up with each and every cute animal that makes the day even better. You've begun to wonder why you've closed yourself up so tightly over the years.

Is this what you've been missing out on?

You've been missing out on making memories with people that deserve it?

You've hidden away from the world for so long that maybe you've been missing out on good people too.

You take the escort's hand, stepping up alongside him.

He leans against the wooden railing along the habitat, letting his black hair fall into his eyes. "You can let someone gush about your donations, y'know. You're really helping them out here."

He speaks softly to you, almost as if he's trying to feather away any embarrassment that might land in your direction from his words.

"I just- My money isn't the most important thing there is."

"That's true," Jeongguk agrees, "You're more important than your money but you do help them out here. It's only right that they gush."

He smiles over at you, pushing some hair back behind your ear and you practically fall backwards at the feeling. Your heel slips awkwardly and he catches you with ease, wrapping his arm around your waist safely.

"Relax, Y/N. I know it's hard, I do. But try and relax," he murmurs, setting you upright.

Taking a deep breath, you turn towards the hippo, training your sights on the animal.

Your body is an amalgamation of sickly horror and longing all at once and you aren't sure which you should let win.

The one time Namjoon tried to push your hair back behind your ear, you smacked his wrist so hard that it left a welt for three days.

It's only been a few hours since the tour began but Guk had slowly gotten you to be more comfortable with him. From the way he jokes around with you, even though it's small and it doesn't need to be returned or the way he smiles at you like you're something brand new to his life -- it has set you at ease.

Which is why the next set of words he chooses to say makes you feel as if you're walking over glass with bare feet.

"Just let me show you what you're paying for."

When you wrinkle your nose in distaste, Guk knows that he worded it wrong. "W-Wait, I didn't mean-"

"You did. I get it. It's a job," you reply briskly.

"Y/N, no. Wait, I'm sor-"

"It was my mistake. I forgot that I was paying you. I'm at fault," you hiss, turning on your heel and walking away.

When you start to march up the hill towards the African Plains section of the zoo, Jeongguk groans loudly.

How could he drop the fucking ball like this?

He didn't mean to say it in such a way…

Guk has noticed just how happy you've been the past few hours. He's noticed how comfortable you've gotten even to the point where you've smiled more times than he can count on two hands so far.

And in an instant with nine fucking words, he's crushed your spirit and your openness.

The guilt that echoes inside of him makes his bones ache long and dull within him. His heart picks up speed and he's so flustered that he can't even register how unprofessional or how emotional he's getting.

"Lyle, get out of the cart!" Jeongguk orders, tying his hair up into a ponytail.

"I-I can't! It's against the rules! You can't drive the car-"

"Get out of the fucking cart!" Guk seethes through his teeth, grabbing onto the zoo keeper's bright green shirt and tugging him out of the driver's seat.

Has he even driven one of these things before?

No.

Does he give a flying shit?

Hell no.

Pressing his foot on the gas, the cart charges up the hill and he can see you steamrolling your way through guests with your Birkin limply hanging from your hands. Your shoulders are hunched over in a way that makes the thousands of dollars worth of clothes on your body seem like they came from the Dollar General and the escort feels sick to stomach that he did this to you.

He doesn't slow the cart down, he just honks the horn for people to move out of his way.

And when he finally reaches you, he takes a deep breath.

"Y/N, please get back in the cart," he begs, throwing his arm over the steering wheel and angling his body to look up at you.

"No," you mumble childishly, folding your arms.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Really, I didn't!" he gasps, shaking his head.

"You didn't upset me," you boldface lie, looking over at the lions as you pass by.

Now he knows that's completely untrue.

"You're gonna kill youself in those heels. They're a deathtrap. Please just get in the cart."

"You don't get to tell me what to do! I pay you! I'm your boss!" you snap, bearing your bleached teeth at him angrily.

He'll let that go. He'll let it roll off his back because he upset you in the first place.

"I just meant-"

When you start to walk faster, he curses softly under his breath. "C'mon Y/N, this cart can only go like three miles an hour."

"Good! Get lost!" you rasp, upturning your nose to him.

"Christ! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that! I just meant that you should get everything you want, you should get treated nicely!"

"Because I'm paying for it!" you guffaw, ripping your gloves off and throwing them at him.

He pulls one of the long black gloves off his shoulder with soft, apologetic eyes and he shouts after you so loudly that it makes all the patrons at the zoo turn towards you. "No! Because you're fucking beautiful and you deserve it! You deserve to be treated nicely!"

When you stop mid-step, he slams his foot on the brake

He doesn't care about the onlookers, he doesn't care about Lyle rushing up the hill with a sweaty, winded face.

He cares about you.

He rounds the cart, putting both hands on your arms. "You didn't pay me to come with you to the zoo. I came because I wanted to. And I've been having a fucking amazing time. I like getting to know you... the real you. I don't need to be paid for that. I did what came naturally to me. Me putting my arm around you, brushing your hair back -- that was second nature. I'm sorry that I misworded it and made you lose trust in my intentions. I'm happy to be here -- with you. I promise."

Jeongguk can see how red the rims of your eyes are and he's unsure if it's because of sorrow or anger but it makes him feel guiltier nonetheless.

"Really?" you mumble, looking down at your heels.

"Yes," he hisses, putting his index finger below your chin and lifting your face to look at him.

You can see how flustered he is, how heavy his breathing is and just how anxious his body language is.

He means it.

You've been studying people long enough to know when they're being sincere.

And this is an example.

You're not a normal enough person to admit that you were hurt by this, nor will you be accepting his apology because then he'll know that you really were hurt so you just give a brief nod.

"Alright," you whisper, clearing your throat.

"Okay?" he inquires, drifting his thumb over your cheekbone.

"Yes. Okay." you reply briskly.

That's good enough for him. As long as you're alright and you forgive him.

"Wanna get some food?" he asks, handing you back your gloves.

"Su-"

"I could have gotten in trouble!" Lyle heaves, leaning against the cart to catch his breath.

The both of you turn your heads to him and you both shrug in response, climbing back into the vehicle.

"I'm hungry, Lyle," you droll.

Jeongguk drapes his arm over your shoulders and he's so pleased that you allow him to. It feels good… almost right and it blows his fucking mind that this is something he can feel after Chloe decimated everything in his heart and within a fifty mile radius.

"Yes ma'am," the zookeeper whispers, getting back into the cart.

While the vehicle winds through staff-only roads towards the East Asia Eatery, you sit in silence. You're replaying your childish tantrum in your head over and over again to the point that it makes your brain want to melt.

Who the fuck is Jeongguk to rile you up? Since when do you have emotions to get hurt by what someone says in the first place?

You'll deny it until you're blue in the face but… you were having fun before, you were letting your guard down without even knowing it.

It was almost as if you didn't even have to try with the escort, he just understood you on such a level that he could break down your jaded walls without even trying.

On some level it's intriguing and on another it's absolutely frightening.

You can't let that happen again.

You won't.

Jeongguk looks at you over his rice bowl and he becomes completely deflated at the expression that sits prettily on your face.

You've closed yourself off again.

Since you've sat down at your table, you've been invested in something on your phone.

You've barely touched your food and the escort is a second thought right at this moment.

"How's everything? Can I get you anything else?" the waiter inquires.

You look up from your phone for a second and you just stare at Guk waiting for his answer.

"We're good, thanks," he breathes, setting down his chopsticks.

"Can you bring us a bottle of the red Screaming Eagle 1992?"

It's a question but it doesn't come out as such and you're throwing your dominant personality all over the place to make up for how flustered you were just a mere half an hour ago.

Jeongguk doesn't know if he should call you out for it or not. He doesn't even know what the fuck he should be doing to make you more comfortable.

He's completely lost.

You remind him of Jimin and Taehyung. He feels comfortable enough with you to speak with you like a friend and on some deeper level he wants to.

"I know you're upset with me," he sighs, pushing his plate away when the waiter leaves.

"No, I'm not," you reply, staring at your phone.

"Y/N." Jeongguk calls you.

Quirking an eyebrow, you slowly set down your phone. You give him your attention and he takes a deep breath.

"Listen, okay? I know that being comfortable with me is probably really weird to you. I understand. And I know that I fucked up earlier with how I worded what I did but you don't have to close yourself off from me."

Like always, your first defense mechanism within you is to become combative, so you do. "I never opened myself up in the first place."

"Mkay," Jeongguk huffs, running his hands over his face, "it took me a long time to be comfortable with people again after I was hurt too."

He didn't expect to do this. He didn't expect to start pouring his heart out over cheap fried rice but he doesn't want you to close up completely to him. He likes how you were just a mere hour or two ago.

When you raise an eyebrow, he continues on.

Guk doesn't even register how it took him weeks to even tell his best friends this but with you… it's almost too easy to spill his guts.

"At some point not too long ago, I got into a relationship with a client of mine. Her name was Chloe. She was… uh… rich, I guess. Really rich, like old money rich. Her great great grandfather invented the tin can or some shit… But I fell deeply into anything that had to do with her. It's like she consumed me to the point of no return."

You slowly set your phone down, watching his neck muscles strain with each word he speaks like his body is trying to stop him.

"We got toxic to the point where I would rather sleep on park benches then fucking going home. She was the devil but she looked good doing heinous shit… So when we broke up, I completely lost my sense of self. She was… everything to me. She was what made me a person for a long time and then suddenly it was gone and I was like this fucking shell of a living ghost or something."

You shoo the waiter away when he approaches and you give the handsome man in front of you all your attention.

You can see him reliving the horrendous relationship and something inside of you wants to stop it. Something inside of you wants him to stop hurting like you were hurt long ago.

So without a second thought, you wrap your hand around his.

Jeongguk gives you a smile, a genuine one and he squeezes your hand reassuringly for a moment. "I can tell you truthfully that I do understand who you are. I do understand how hurt you are, how jaded you are with other people. I completely realize how I fucked up earlier and I am sorry for it. I want you to be open with me, I want you to be comfortable and find some healing with me. Because it's not fair that you have to live in some sort of shitty turmoil while the people that made you miserable get to be happy."

When he speaks, your soul wants to thrive at his words and you swallow thickly at the sheer passion of his voice.

"I did open up," you admit.

"Yeah, I know," he whispers with a smile, "I want more of it."

"It's hard to do that," you reply, clearing your throat.

"And I know that too. But I promise you, I'm not gonna fuck up again. I want you to be yourself with me… not the self you show everyone else. The real you. And even if it takes you a while, I'd like to see it."

Oh, he talks a big game but you're almost a hundred percent sure he can back it up.

Just knowing that he's been hurt like you have gives you this blanket of protection that no one else could ever give.

"I can try," you offer, accepting the bottle of wine from the waiter when he comes around again.

"Atta girl," Guk breathes, squeezing your hand once more.

You're both two puzzles that seem difficult to solve to one another but slowly the pieces are getting revealed and it's only a matter of time before one of you completes the other.

<---- Last Chapter ----> Next Chapter

#at your service #ays #chapter 4 #chap 4 #jeon jeongguk #jungkook #jungkook smut #bts #bts fic #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook

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redheadspark · 1 year ago

Note

I am LOVING these prompts! Do you think you could do Druig with 9? The one where reader is reading and Druig’s being a clingy watcher?

A/N - Druig would definitely do this! Thanks for requesting this, anon!

Passage

Summary - After the Emergence, you and Druig have a moment to pause and have peace.

Warnings - Just fluff :)

It started with a simple bit of movement on the couch, you staying still as you flipped to another page. Then it was the feeling of a shadow right behind you, yet you remained calm and read the passage in front of you. Of course you knew this game far too well, it’s happened so many times you lost count. Especially since it started long before technology had started.

Centuries ago this started, and it hasn’t really lost its fire.

Finally, you felt arms wrapped around you from behind and a neck tucked on top of your shoulder. You hummed, feeling those hands before on your lower waist with the right amount of pressure, the softness of the brown hair against your neck and ear, and the scent that he carried after being out in the sun for far too long.

“Whatcha readin’, lover?” You heard in your ear.

Druig.

“A book I found in Makkari’s personal treasure trove on the Domo,” You hummed as your eyes were still moving and following along, “This one is called Treasure Island, a pirate adventure,”

“Ah, sounds like somethin’ you’d like,” He replied as he too was reading some of the words there, “Never took Makkari as one to like pirates. Then again they stole gold.”

“Oh, and Makkari steals gold like a pirate?” You asked as you paused in your reading, looking over your shoulder barely to see Druig’s eyes on your thanks to your peripheral vision. He said nothing but smirk as you clicked your tongue, “Fine, I’ll go tell her!”

“No!” Druig said suddenly, keeping you close on the couch as you were about to get up. You laughed as he peppered kisses along your cheeks and neck to keep you in one place. The mood was a bit lighter then in that moment, given the last few days and all that you had to deal with together. Once you both were done laughter and simply holding each other, you looked around the room that you were in, sighing in both remorse and regret.

Ajak’s living room at her farmhouse.

It’s been two days since the near Emergence, you all came to the Farmhouse to unwind and lay low since the news all over the world was talking about the marble being that was frozen in the ocean. Sersi, Kingo and Sprite were already back in London, going back to reality themselves as the rest of you went to South Dakota. There was no real mindset on what the future was going to hold, Thena wanted to hold a meeting later that day to see what we should do next. Sersi was our new leader, yet she was waiting to go back to London to talk to Damon and perhaps but every that happened behind her. You would have too, yet you and Druig were still deciding on what to do.

“I miss her,” You said as you drank in the small living room you two were in. It all was Ajak, the paintings and decor on her walls, the rug along the worn floor, even the slightly peeling wallpaper against the wall. It had charm and life in its bones and walls, just like how Ajak was when she was alive.

“Me too,” Druig murmured as he took was looking at the walls and then out the windows, “She meant well with all of is….and with me,”

“Druig,” You said his name, “We talked about this. You know she loved you, beyond loved you. What happened is in the past, and all we can do is move forward,”

Druig was heartbroken when he heard about Ajak’s death through Sersi. He kept it to himself while the Eternals were visiting your home in the Amazon. Yet when the fight was done, and after you had the service for Gilgamesh, Druig finally collapsed in your arms as you two slept in your little shack. He mourned for not being able to talk to her again. He mourned for not telling Ajak he was wrong in how he blew up against her.

He mourned for never apologizing.

“We did stop the world from ending, and I think Ajak would have been proud of us,” You explained as he was still searching your eyes to see that you were telling the truth. You moved his brown hair from his eyes, tracing his nose slightly with the tip of your finger.

“Proud of me goin’ against Arishem even?” Druig had to ask, speaking about the very Celestial whom he butted his head against ever since you all came to Earth.

“No, Druig. Proud of you protecting humans, the same species we were sworn to protect since we came here to this planet,” You answered him. Druig finally gave a smaller smile and leaned into you to hug you. You hugged him back, kissing the top of his head as you rubbed his arms, “Ajak would be proud of you and how far you have come, Druig.”

“Aye, the same for you, M’Lady,” he said your nickname with you as he hooked his chin on your shoulder again, “Now, read to me some of this pirate book that you think is amazin’.”

You opened the book again, finding the page where you left off and started to read aloud. Druig hung onto your every word as the South Dakota wind was picking up outside the farmhouse. Now that the world as not going to end and life can move on and grow, you were optimistic about the future that you were going to have with Druig.

You both were going to find your peace again, one day at a time.

The End.

June Summer Prompts

#druig x female reader #druig x female reader #druig x you #druig x reader #druig x oc #druig x female eternal reader #druig x y/n #fanfiction #writing #barry keoghan #druig #eternals #marvel cinematic universe #mcu writing #mcu fanfiction #mcu phase 4 #marvel cinematic universe fanfiction #mcu

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grilledcheese-aspiration · 2 months ago

Note

I love the wallpaper from the bedroom on this recent post. Would you please tell me where you got it? Thanks! It's the "workin on them trailers; felt the need to ✨decorate✨" post. :-)

hiya @thehistoricalreader and also @toki-code-04!

huge bummer but i do not know where this set is or who created it. i do not have the post in either tumblrs and the file doesn't tell me either. SO imma leave it to the community to find while my husband and i are out of town for the next week; we will not have cell service so i will not be able to assist further until my return.

if anyone knows where/what this pretty floral wallpaper set is, PLEASE let these fine simmers know! its a gorgeous set, its huge too!

#ask #question #answer #thehistoricalreader #toki-code-04 #WCIF #where can i find

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star-reaper · 1 year ago

Text

Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Two) Bucky Barnes x Reader

series masterlist

tuesday, march 13th, 1:06am;

The three girls lay slumped over one another on the squishy brown sofa that lives in the family room. Laughter erupts down the halls of the home, filling the space with the lovely noise that had become a stranger to the property. Their bellies are full with their mother's stew (and nearly a whole bag of twizzler's candy split between the three as the evening progressed) and bodies warm beneath the shared stitched quilt.

Kennedy had arrived home from work in a frenzy that evening, shoving open the poor front door with a shout, "Is it true?" she asked her father, who sat unsuspecting at the breakfast nook with the paper pulled open and a beer.

"Is what true?" He had asked, peering up at her from the length of his nose.

"(Y/n)'s home? The teacher across the hall had mentioned on our lunch break that she'd heard a rumor. I didn't have time to call home and confirm it!"

"Well," The old man chuckled coyly, "Go see for yourself, why don't you?"

With that, the girl gasped, bounding up the steps two at a time, black kitten heels left strewn across the landing.

Joyously, Ella had proposed a celebration in the form of a sleepover, or rather, an all-nighter slumped together on the family couch. Just like old times.

The old tv drones on incessantly, a VHS tape of The Little Mermaid set to a low volume, the grain in the picture distorted ever so slightly. It's blue glow illuminates the wallpapered walls and results in a ghastly, iridescent hue on the girls faces. Their parents had long since retired to bed, leaving the sisters to their shenanigans. An old scrapbook sits on (Y/n)'s lap, Ella's head on her right shoulder and Kennedy's arm wrapped around her left bicep endearingly. They take turns flipping the laminated pages, giggling at their old baby photos and cooing at the particularly adorable ones.

There are polaroids of (Y/n) as a toddler, before the other girls were born. A blue sand bucket is perched on her little head like a fashionable hat, and the sunset in the background casts gold reflections on the waves. In the following photo, three year old (Y/n) holds baby Kennedy, of course assisted by Dad. In his younger age he is almost a completely different person, aged bleakly at the hands of the Island.

The marred cover of the book holds memories the girls don't even remember, the figment of their childhood experiences a distant dream in the back of their mind.

Ella flips the next page, revealing (Y/n) and her big patterned book bag on her way to the first day of kindergarten. Her polka dotted sundress flowing at her calves and a lunch box at her side. A big grin decorated her face and her eyes twinkle in excitement. Next to her stands a similarly posed little boy, with dark brown hair and those salient blue eyes.

"It's little Bucky!" Kennedy exclaims, "Did you see him today, (Y/n)?"

"Oh, she saw him all right." Ella pokes, nudging the oldest with her shoulder.

(Y/n) groans, "Honestly!" she scolds, "Would you knock it off? Yes, I saw him. He came by to drop off wood with Dad today."

Kennedy hums, "He helps out a lot, it's nice to have him around. You know, his Mum passed while he was away in Afghanistan two years ago."

"What?" (Y/n)'s face screws up a little with the news, "That's awful. I didn't even know he joined the service, when did that happen?"

"Yeah, after high school he enlisted and left for a while." Kennedy nods, "He doesn't talk about it though, so I wouldn't ask. He - uh, he lost a lot those couple of years, to say the least."

"So it's just him and Rebecca all alone in that house then?" (Y/n) asks, she feels her heart cry out sympathetically at the thought.

When they were in middle school together, years before she had left the island, the siblings had lost their father in a freak boating accident. The poor man had been overworking himself and had drifted asleep on deck, out alone on his small gill-netting boat at dusk. Despite having been the most experienced fisherman on the island, he had crashed into the rocks and capsized, leaving the harbor patrol to find his body in the early hours of the morning after Mrs. Barnes called to ask about her husband. For the first time in eleven years of walking to school together, James didn't meet (Y/n) at the end of her driveway that morning. When he didn't arrive late to school either, (Y/n) had begun to worry. As soon as the bells dismissed her final class she had rushed out of the building to the Barnes' small cottage home just a few blocks away. She remembers the cop car sitting in the driveway and the front door ajar, she remembers the wailing of Mrs. Barnes as she crossed the threshold of the entrance and James sitting stiffly at the head of his dining room table, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. James never ever cried in front of anyone, but as he locked his gaze on hers she felt the dam snap and watched helplessly as the tears streamed from his eyes like a waterfall. She remembers the day before when Bucky begged his father to take him along that night to check the lobster traps. Selfishly, she couldn't bear to think what she had done if Bucky had met the same fate as his father. And to know now that the boy had now lost both of his parents hurts her heart in a way indescribable.

Kennedy sighs, "Yeah, she was sent out to foster care in Portland for a while before Bucky became her legal guardian. She's like - what, Ella? Your age?"

Ella thinks for a moment, "Sixteen, maybe. She's a year younger. We have some of the same classes though."

"I feel so horrible for not reaching out to him." (Y/n) sighs, throwing her hands up, "I don't even have a good excuse! I'm downright terrible. I can't believe no one told me she passed."

"You'll make it up to him. He's never been one to hold grudges, you know." Kennedy says, "I think we assumed you knew and didn't want to talk about it."

It's true. She remembers many trivial arguments on the playground, whether it be with her or another child. Bucky has always been loyal and fiercely protective of the people he loves - protective of himself even - but he's also forgiving. However, it's not being forgiven that (Y/n) is worried about. Deep down she knows Bucky would forgive her for anything. No, what she's really afraid of is if the time apart has changed the two of them beyond recognition. She worries that even if she tries, she won't be able to repair the friendship they had when they were kids. There's so much to say, so much to tell each other about and (Y/n) doesn't even know where to start. How is she meant to pick up where they left off?

Because the truth is, they aren't kids anymore. That's the hardest pill to swallow. They won't be running off to the shore barefooted with their bikes discarded in the dunes, holding hands and soft touches will no longer be innocent - maybe not even natural - no more folded notes passed silently during class, no more forts built in the woods with his mother's linen sheets and mossy branches. It'll be like navigating uncharted territory, except it's not uncharted, just lost. Forgotten.

It isn't long before the two younger sisters succumb to their sleepiness, (Y/n) left awake listening to the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway. It's always been there, passed down through her family for generations and she hopes to any god that will listen that her parents won't give it to her next. There's been many several nights she has lied right here on this couch tormented by the rhythmic tick of its incessant song. Though hypnotic it's never been successful at lulling her to sleep, instead it's talent lies in keeping her awake, trapped in the advancing reminder that time doesn't stop.

Time is inevitable. It's always passing, spending, wasting, reminding you of what you've lost. She only wishes it would stop for a moment, so she may be able to catch her breath.

(Y/n) hadn't realized she had fallen asleep until she wakes up the next morning. The sound of eggs sizzling on the cast iron pan in the next room over is what tickles her awake. She hears her father mutter something about the coffee being burnt and her sister rattles around in the silverware drawer looking for a particular knife. She's alone on the couch now, the quilt pulled up and tucked around her body tightly. (Y/n) rises slowly, collecting her pillows and placing them back neatly on the couch before rubbing her eyes of sleep.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty." Chimes Ella's teasing voice as (Y/n) rounds the corner into the kitchen, the youngest not even sparing her a glance up from her bowl of cereal, only a coy smirk. Beside her sits a small baby blue backpack with a plethora of sailor knot keychains tightened around the zippers.

"School today?" (Y/n) asks after greeting the rest of her family. Her mother hands her a mug of hot coffee, the perfect amount of cream swirling around in the porcelain.

"Yeah. Kennedy and I leave at the same time, she said she'd drive me today 'cuz of the rain."

(Y/n) hums in response, taking a sip of her coffee.

"What are you up to today, hun?" Her mother asks softly, plating the food from the stove for everyone.

"I don't know, I guess I'll just hang out around the barn. Did you guys feed the horses yet?"

"No, that's my next step. But be my guest if you beat me to it, everything's listed in the little notebook in the grain room." Her father responds, "The fence is finished too, so you can turn them out after they eat. I got some work to do around town today."

(Y/n) takes a seat at the table as her mother places down the food for everyone. "I'll take care of it today, Dad." She responds.

Kennedy bounds down the steps and takes a seat next to her, her hair done up in a stylish bun and a black pencil skirt adorning her legs. It was almost strange to see her so done up, she was so grown up now and even though she was only a few years younger than (Y/n) it still felt bizarre to see her so . . . adultish. How fast time has gone. It seemed only yesterday she was still playing dress up with her sisters in pretty, pink, princess dresses and plastic heels. Now she was off to her dream job in real heels and a whole wardrobe of business casuals.

"So, (Y/n), am I allowed to tell people you're staying with us when they ask? Or is it like . . . a secret?" Kennedy asks as she takes a bite of her bacon.

"As if the whole island doesn't already know," Her mother interjects, rolling her eyes, "You know how everyone gossips around here, there's not a single thing you don't hear about. Everyone already knew by dinner time yesterday, guaranteed." She laughs.

"It's true. I'll be here for a while anyway, no point in trying to hide it."

"Well, you know, the town fair is only a few weeks away. I'm sure everyone will be too busy worrying about their booths and the competitions then to cause too much trouble." Ella remarks.

"They mean no harm girls, you know that. We're all just a little bored, gotta have something to talk about around here." Dad says as he gets up and washes his plate. "You two need to get going or you're gonna be late."

"Crap! I'll start the car." Kennedy replies, handing off her dish and kissing her mother on the cheek, "Thanks for breakfast. See you, (Y/n)."

Ella shovels the last of her eggs into her mouth before doing the same, rushing out to the driveway in her sister's wake.

"If you're staying for a while did you want me to fix up my extra truck?" Her father asks, turning over his shoulder to look at her. "Buck and I can work on it, just needs a few parts."

"It's no big deal, Dad, I wouldn't want you guys to overwork yourselves. You have so much on your plate already, I'll make due without a car for a bit."

"Alright well, you let me know if you change your mind."

After breakfast (Y/n) goes up to her room to fish out some clothes and takes a quick shower to freshen up. She pulls on a pair of worn jeans and her emerald green rain jacket before descending down and out to the barn. The horses nicker at her instantaneously as she flips up the lock and slides open the thick barn door. Though there are eight stalls, the barn only holds five horses currently. There was a time when her mother made decent money training and selling working horses and holding riding lessons for the local kids, and back then there was never an empty stall. Now times have changed, the business has diminished and there's no longer the money for her mother to pour into their horses. She still teaches a few of the kids nearby, and it's just enough to support the existing horses but it's not the same.

(Y/n) greets the horses one by one and unlocks the door to the grain room at the end of the aisle. The black notebook sits upon a stack of vet paperwork and other various items, she flips open the cover and locates the page with the feeding schedule. The grain buckets sit in a neat stack against the wall, (Y/n) arranges them on the floor and begins to scoop the correct amount of grain into each one, topping them off with the required supplements and powders.

Each bucket is labeled, a thick piece of silver duct tape attached to each bucket with the names written in sharpie marker. She delivers each meal to the horses and tidies up the grain room while she waits for them to eat. After a few moments pass, she flips her hood over her head and halters Hera, leading her out to the paddocks for turn out. The rain patters on the rigid fabric of her rain jacket as she takes each horse one by one out of their stall and to the gate. When that task is complete she focuses on cleaning the stalls and starts to head inside when's she's finished. She had to admit, as silly as it sounded she missed the barn chores. There's a sort of strange gratification in mucking the stalls and cleaning everything up, the sweet smell of hay and musk of the horses surrounding her.

(Y/n) pulls open the door to leave the tack room and shuts it behind her, turning to lock it closed as well. As she spins around soundlessly, she's met with a solid wall striking her in the chest. Or rather, not a wall, but a person she realizes as she looks up with a surprised gasp.

"Shit, I'm sorry! I didn't even hear you." (Y/n) pulls back, removing her hands from Bucky's strong chest where she had braced herself. His right arm comes up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, a greeting smile creeping to his lips.

"No, no that's my bad, I snuck up on ya'. Your mom said you were in here."

He's wearing another baseball hat, this one a navy blue that went well with his eyes, and a thick gray sweatshirt under a carhart jacket, both hoods are pulled over his head. His clothes are wet and (Y/n) becomes suddenly aware of the surging rain outside and the thick grey clouds rolling into the horizon through the sky from the half opened barn door. He towers over her figure almost comically, never before had she felt so small.

"Remember when I used to be able to look down at you." (Y/n) blurts out. She almost regrets the sudden, random statement until Bucky begins to laugh, his eyes squinting and his crows feet imprinting on his face.

"I was never that short." He huffs, "We were like the same height from age eight until like - I don't know, the summer you visited when we were sixteen?"

"Mmm, no, I was definitely taller," (Y/n) retorts. Bucky begins to open his mouth to disagree, brows furrowed. "Don't worry, you're huge now. You could fight a black bear." She grins, delivering a teasing punch to his shoulder.

"I do not want to fight a black bear."

(Y/n) huffs a laugh, she spins to turn the light off in the aisle and grabs her water bottle off the hay bale stack. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I came to drop off a few packages of fish for your parents. Whenever I work on the boats I get a share of whatever we catch so I split it with your folks. Figured it's the least I can do."

"Well, it seems like you do a lot around here. They're grateful to have you." (Y/n) responds. He looks away from her shyly, as if being thanked made him feel uncomfortable. "So what, do you do everything around the island? Fishing, fixing fences, working at the harbor . . . You sound busy."

"Yeah, I like it that way." He nods, "I work as a deck hand some days, I go out on the boats with Dad's old friends to fish and sell at the markets. I do all kinds of weird jobs around here, sometimes I work at the lumberyard and I help around where I can."

"You're like, the Island's handyman."

Bucky chuckles at that. "Yeah, guess so. But what about you, what were you up to all these years?"

"Oh," (Y/n) wasn't prepared for that question. She's not too great at talking about herself, "Well, after high school I went to the University of California, for Fine Arts. Graduated and got my own studio, ran a small gallery and just spent my time painting and such. Made some good money and decided it was time to come home. It was great while it lasted though."

"Why would you ever come back here?" Bucky teases, but she knows he really begs the question.

She thinks for a moment before answering with a shrug, "I guess I just missed home."

Bucky nods like he understands, "You see cool things out there?" he asks.

"Yeah." She sighs, "Wish I coulda shown you. Maybe one day you can come back with me and I'll show you around."

"I'd like that. And I'd love to see your art sometime, too. Can't even imagine how good you must be now."

"I did make a name for myself out there. It was . . . gratifying to say the least." The excitement of selling a piece of work and getting the praise she always wanted for the things she poured her heart into. It was exhilarating really, to be successful at something you love.

"You should open a gallery downtown, and host art nights. There's so many vacancies now I'm sure you'd get a good deal on a retail space."

"You know, that's actually not a bad idea." (Y/n) agrees thoughtfully. A modest little building to display her work and other local artists, hold little art classes for the community, bring in a little money. Maybe it's something she'll have to keep in mind if she's planning on staying for a while.

Bucky slips his hands in his pockets, nodding towards his truck at the end of the road.

"I gotta get going, I have some errands to run before I pick Beccs up from school. I'll see you around right?"

"Absolutely." (Y/n) nods. As the two turn around and start to walk out the barn together, she stops, grabbing hold of the fabric of Bucky's jacket.

"Hey," She starts, looking down at her shoes and shifting her weight on one foot before looking back up to his face. "I'm really sorry, for not keeping in contact. You didn't deserve that." She says, trying to keep her voice from wavering.

"It's okay, doll. I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for what I said before you left, it was unfair of me."

A lump almost forms in her throat as she thinks back to their last meeting when they were young. She has to swallow it back into her stomach where the energy flutters uncomfortably. "Can we just agree to put it behind us?" She asks, offering a small smile and a gentle squeeze of her hand on the back of his arm.

"I'd like that." He complies. "Let's forget about it. We were stupid kids, we have all the time to make up for it now."

As they step off the concrete platform of the barn's floor and onto the slick dirt path, the sludge of the sticky brown mud squelches under (Y/n)'s boots. It's in an instant that the ground is being pulled out from under her like a carpet and she's sent straight into the mud with a comically loud splat.

"Shit, (Y/n)! You good?" Bucky calls alarmingly. He's holding his hands out to help her up but before she can even comprehend her position he's falling too.

He manages to catch himself on his hands and knees, unlike (Y/n) who can feel the wetness creep through her jeans from her bottom all the way down the back of her thighs.

Bucky let's out a boyish laugh coming from the depths of his chest, "Careful, doll. It's slippery." He grins and for a second (Y/n) really does feel like a kid again, the clumsy, giggly mess that they were.

(Y/n) can't hold back her own laugh, letting her pained chuckle overtake her until she's just as loud as Bucky. Her tailbone aches and now her stomach does too as she curls in on herself, shoulders heaving.

They're all smiles and pink blush as they pick each other up off the ground, the rain drenching their skin and clothes covered in mud now.

"God, I'm sorry. We look like idiots."

"We are idiots." (Y/n) corrects, "Come inside, there's gotta be something for you to change into. I'm sure you don't wanna run your errands like that. Or even get into your truck like that."

Bucky shrugs but follows her into the house anyway. They discard their shoes on the front porch and (Y/n) calls to her mother to let her know they are coming in.

She leads him upstairs and hands him a towel from the linen closet adjoining the bathroom and knocks on her mothers bedroom door. She opens it confused, raising her eyebrow at the pair's appearance. Bucky waves a hand in greeting.

"Does Dad have a pair of jeans that might fit Bucky? We slipped in the mud."

Her mother laughs, "You two are always a mess. Reminds me of old times. Give me a second."

The two exchange fleeting glances, shoulders bumping one another in the narrow corridor. Her mother returns with a pair of dark wash jeans, a small hole down the seam in the side.

"These should do the trick. Let me know if you need anything else, hun." She says sweetly, before retiring back to her room.

Bucky changes in the bathroom while (Y/n) waits and then they switch. An awkward goodbye is shared in the hallway, the two not really wanting to depart. Bucky goes back downstairs and out the front door, stopping to wave at her once more at the top of the landing.

written 5/17/23

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #avengers #sebastian stan #bucky barnes series #james bucky buchanan barnes #marvel #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier

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anjaelle · 2 years ago

Text

Warped | Part I

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Characters: Jake 'Hangman' Sersin x Black!Reader (Late 20s) x Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia Word Count: 3k Warning: Unreality (basically) Summary: A road trip cuts through a small, nowhere town and gets a little freaky. a/n: I'm a bitch who loves to be a little extra with her plots. Below is an accompanying mixtape with some vintage bangers.

Masterlist | ꩜The Warped Mixtape ꩜

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"C'mon, c'mon. Work with me."

SIGNAL NOT FOUND

"Fuck."

You sat, stranded and exhausted, in the middle of a strip mall parking lot. You'd crossed over into a small town in the middle of nowhere--you think you saw a sign that said "MILLERSFORD." But you'd been driving for hours, and could've easily confused it for someplace else. The neon lights of the 24 hour convenience store buzzed menacingly, and the cashier curiously eyed your car from the inside. Your cell signal refused to cooperate, it was an hour until midnight, and you were beginning to run low on gas.

You mentally kicked yourself for blindly thinking you'd start the new year in a new city, among friends.

You swallowed hard and slouched down in your chair, well aware that you'd need to find a place for the night. You couldn't keep driving under these conditions.

As you pushed the store's door open, a bell rang announcing your arrival. The middle aged, blonde cashier brightened up. It was then that you noticed that she was wearing a colorful garland around her neck, attached to a flask.

"Hey there! Happy almost New Year!"

She blew a tiny kazoo and you couldn't help but tiredly grin at her enthusiasm. Her joy would be infectious if you weren't dead on your feet.

"Same to you. Um--" you glanced briefly at the TV behind her, showing the raging crowd in New York. "--Is there anywhere nearby where I can sleep for a bit? I've been on the road for most of the day and I need to lay down."

She leaned forward on her elbows and hummed in thought. "There's an inn a few minutes down the road." She pointed south, into the darkness, "That probably has some vacancies. I think Dawn's boy might be working the check-in there." The woman giggled and shook the flask that appeared to be empty now, "I need to ease up on the sauce. I forget the boy's name. But let him know that Janie told ya about it, and you might get a little discount."

You weren't sure you really needed a discount for a small town inn, but you appreciated the friendly reminder anyway. You grinned, thanked her, gave her a tip for her troubles, and dragged yourself back to your car to contemplate your life and terrible choices.

"'No, I won't take the train'," you murmured to yourself, "I'll drive. It'll be nice to be alone.' What an idiot."

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

Dawes' Inn wasn't particularly difficult to find. The bright green vacancy sign beamed like an oasis in the middle of a vast desert. You could almost smell the hotel disinfectant the minute you got out of your car. And as you rolled your luggage through the dimly lit lobby, you noted how depressing everything looked. Faded floral wallpaper decorated the walls, and a church service played on the flat screen mounted on the wall. The overhead ceiling fan lazily circulated, moving around the humid air that was uncharacteristic of December...but apparently normal for the area. Your t-shirt clung to your back and your braids were beginning to frizz at the root. Your skin felt sticky. Your mouth felt dry.

As you crossed the lobby to the concierge desk, you noticed a college-aged boy with blue hair and tattoos, reading a comic book. On the wall behind him was a large American flag with a framed photo of Donald Trump in the middle. You pursed you lips, and began to consider if sleeping in your car would be the better option. The boy glanced up at you and waved politely.

"Hey, sorry," he motioned with his book, apologetically, "I was kind of in the zone."

"No problem. I just wanted to get a room for the night." Your eyes glanced up at the photo again, and he followed your gaze, then winced.

"My Aunt Ginny's idea. Sorry..." he placed the comic book under the counter and began typing away at the desktop, "I promise, me and my mom aren't like that."

"That's comforting to know." At this point, you didn't have much interest in small talk. Sleep crept up on you, and you hid your yawn behind your hand. Getting the gist of your capacity for conversation, the boy rushed to get your information. As you mentioned Janine from down the road, he rolled his eyes but laughed.

"I swear, she'd be our official marketing rep if she wasn't so stubborn."

He tore your receipt from the printer and handed it over, along with two keys ("One for the safe and one for the door. They're labelled."). As you hauled ass across the parking lot, you checked your phone and saw that it was 10 minutes until midnight. You'd given up hope on getting to watch the ball drop. What was the point, if you were alone in an unknown town? It was just another day now.

The room was clean, at the very least. The scent of lemon cleanser smacked you across the face. You sighed tiredly.

5 minutes to midnight.

You pushed your bag under the writing desk beside the entrance and collapsed onto the springy, quilted bed. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand had to be as old as you are, if not older. It looked like something you'd find in your grandmother's house.

1 minute to midnight.

Your eyes drifted closed. You missed your parents. You briefly wondered if you should call them. You knew they'd very likely answer you, but your pride wouldn't allow you to concede.

10...9...8...7...

Someone in the distance shot off a gun. Or maybe it was a firecracker. Your head was pounding. You should've taken ibuprofen.

4...3...2...1...

HAPPY NEW YEAR AND YOU ARE LISTENING TO KMRB, PLAYING THE BIGGEST HITS OF TODAY

The clock went off, blasting the radio at damn near full volume and causing you to shoot out of the bed with a start. The sun peeked from behind the floral curtains and you shielded your eyes. As you reached for the nightstand, you noticed that it was 9am and that you'd been dead to the world far longer than you'd intended.

"All you've got is this moment Twenty-first century's yesterday You can care all you want..."

Through the fog of confusion, you managed to find the volume button and turned the music down so you could collect your thoughts.

"Huh," You rubbed your tired eyes. You heard people chattering outside of the door and numerous car doors slamming. It was the most life you'd heard since your arrival to the small town. First things first, you needed to find your phone. You could've sworn that you'd put it on the nightstand, but it may have fallen in your sleep. You looked around, moving the pillows and the blanket. You jumped to your feet and pulled the blankets off, listening for the telltale clatter. When nothing fell out of the sheets, you groaned in frustration and dropped to your knees to look under the bed.

"Fuck..." you mumbled, "Did I leave it in the car?"

If you did, it was very likely dead by now. You looked down at yourself to see if you could get away with running out to your car and running back without being judged for your appearance. Rumpled denim short-shorts and a tank top wouldn't be the most risque thing to show up on the streets of a town like this. You decided to risk the judgement.

As you crossed the threshold and stepped onto the scorching hot motel pavement, you squinted through the sunlight to see the parking lot filled with cars and people. When you took a closer look, you noticed how old the cars looked, and how outdated people were dressed. You could tell the confusion was evident on your face as your eyes swept over the scene in front of you.

A chorus of excited voices chattered over one another as they walked in the direction of the hotel lobby--presumably for breakfast. The freeway was busy with traffic, which was a large difference from how empty it was the night before.

A few women around your age walked by you, one clad in a pink sundress with ruffles across the neckline and the other in a blue polka dotted dress, with hair teased higher than you knew was even possible. They were deep in conversation when you waved them down.

"Excuse me?" You asked as they passed. They stopped and regarded you, the blonder of the duo in the pink dress looked you up and down and frowned. You couldn't get a read on what that expression meant. But you powered through the urge to question it, "Hey. Sorry to interrupt. Is there a convention going on or something?"

They exchanged confused glances, then looked back at you.

"...A convention?" The polka dotted dress asked.

"I mean, everyone is wearing vintage stuff. The cars?" You motioned in front of you. You were confused what THEY were confused about.

The two women exchanged glances again and the pink dress squinted at you.

"What the hell are you talking about? Vintage? This is custom made." She turned to her friend and scoffed, "Cassie, is she crazy?"

You squinted back, "Are you playing with me? Are you guys in character or something?"

"You're insane. Crack is wack, you know." The pink dress said, guiding her friend away. "You'd think they'd be more selective about who they let into this place."

"Oh get over yourself," you called back. "It's a MOTEL in West Nowhere. Not the Ritz Carlton."

You'd be more upset about the microaggression--macroaggression, really--if you weren't sure you were surrounded by people who were in on a joke you didn't know about.

You decided to just get to your car, find your phone, and head back to your room so you could plan the rest of your trip accordingly.

But you couldn't find your car anywhere. In the sea of ancient red and silver cars, or cars with wooden paneling, you couldn't find your trusty 2018 Honda Accord anywhere in sight. You walked between the rows, growing more frantic by the minute.

"Where the hell are you?" you muttered in frustration. You decided to fish out your keys to click the unlock button, and the car that responded was...not your car.

It was a Honda. It had your plates. It was the same bright red color But it was NOT yours.

You backed away from it and looked down at the keys in your hand to see that it didn't match the ones you had last night.

"Cool, cool, cool, cool. Someone's just playing a trick on me." You muttered. You felt your breathing picking up and you turned on your heels to rush to the hotel lobby. Following the crowd of people, you heard bits and pieces of conversation.

"...and I told Clara that it's expensive to go to West Berlin. We're trying to save for college here..."

"...forced to take Benny to the mall. I dunno, I might just leave him at the arcade..."

Some song from the 60s played through the speakers in the lobby--which looked much more vibrant than it did the night before. And as you rushed to the front desk, you caught sight of the smiling portrait of Ronald Reagan beaming at you evilly from the wall that had an entirely different portrait just 9 hours before. The young woman behind the counter smiled curiously at you, as you absolutely had a look of both confusion and panic written all over your face. She wore a sky blue dress with huge shoulder pads, and her hair in a big, feathered style that you imagine took a very long time to do. You were impressed with her dedication to the bit.

"Good morning, sweetie." She popped her gum cheerfully as she shuffled around some papers in front of her. "How can I help you?"

"Hi, um...I need a little bit of help here. I can't seem to find my car. I thought I parked it in the spot designated for my room, but maybe I made a mistake. I was pretty tired last night."

She waved away the apologetic tone of your request, "It happens to the best of us. I wasn't in last night, so I won't be the best person to help you. But my cousin was. Let me go grab him from the back."

You thanked her profusely as she disappeared behind the office doors. And as your drummed your fingernails on the counter awaiting the blue haired boy from the night before, you thought about how worried your friends must have been. To them, you drove into the night and didn't show up the next day. They probably thought you were in a ditch somewhere.

You were deep in your thoughts when a blond man sidled up to the counter. A blond man who was absolutely NOT the person who helped you the night before. You felt hyper aware of the fact that you looked a mess. You were in last night's clothes, and you hadn't even washed your face, yet. And, still, his eyes raked over you like he was dying of thirst and you were a glass of ice water in the desert.

"Well, now...you're a sight for sore eyes. How can I help you, ma'am?"

He shot you a wide, flirtatious grin and leaned forward on his elbows. You forced yourself not to stare at the way his sleeves hugged his arms. Your car was missing. Now was not the time.

"Uh...hi. Hey. Um..." you mentally kicked yourself. Use your grown up words, Jesus Christ. "Could you please check to see what spot I was supposed to park my car in? I think I may have made a mistake, and I wanna double check."

He quirked a brow at you and leaned back slightly.

"When did you come in?" He pulled a massive leather bound book from under the counter and began thumbing through it.

"Around 11:45-ish."

His hand stilled over the pages and he peered back at you, curiously. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

He hummed and tapped his fingers on the pages again, "I was here all night long, and I don't remember you coming in. And trust me...I would've remembered you."

You pushed away the warmth in your cheeks to clarify, "Well, you weren't at the counter last night. It was a boy. He was kinda young. Had blue hair and tattoos."

The confusion on his face intensified, "Nobody here looks like that. Ginny would have a fit." He suddenly laughed, "Are you sure you weren't uh...imbibing?"

You didn't laugh. This wasn't funny. You just wanted to know where your goddamn car was. You pulled your ID out of your pocket and handed it to him.

"Here. See if you can find my name in the system. I obviously made a reservation here if I have keys and managed to park in the lot."

He picked up the card and laughed again. It was a loud, sharp guffaw that made you even more annoyed than you already were.

"Are you pullin' my leg?" He said, laughing again, "Did you get this from one of those joke shops by the freeway?"

"What are you talking about?" You said, leaning forward on the counter. At this point, you were stopping yourself from jumping over it to strangle him.

He pushed the ID back over the counter and tapped his finger at your birth year.

"You need to go to the DMV and get this sorted if this is real, Marty McFly. How the hell are you gonna give me an ID saying you're born almost a decade from now? C'mon."

Now you were looking at him like he was deranged. Almost a decade from now? You looked at your ID again, and it looked the same as it always had.

"Are any of you ever going to just break character and help me?" You asked in frustration. "I'm sick of this. You weren't doing this yesterday!"

"I didn't know you, yesterday." He responded, the mirth of the situation still evident in his face.

If you had the energy, you would've jumped over the counter then. Instead you took a deep breath and asked if you could borrow his phone. You weren't surprised when you were handed a rotary phone instead of a cell phone. Because of course he'd do that.

You dialed the first number that came to mind, begrudgingly, and listened as someone picked up on the second ring. You expected to hear your mother's voice, but your heart stopped in your chest and your hand trembled.

"Hellooo hello... this is Myra Lloyd. Happy New Year!"

You nearly dropped the receiver. The voice was as clear as day, but younger than you remembered. And you hadn't heard it in over ten years. You swallowed hard. You had to be dreaming. This wasn't real.

"...Grandma?" You whispered, gripping the phone in your fist.

"Hello? I think you may have the wrong number, dear." She said, in her vibrant sing-songy voice that you missed so much. You heard a teenager calling for your grandmother in the background, and she responded, "Oh! It might be her. I'll ask. Are you looking for Deirdre?"

Your heart squeezed at the sound of your mother's name and you immediately hung up. Suddenly everything sounded far away and all the air escaped from your lungs.

You stared at the phone in shock, and the man behind the counter waved in front of your face.

"Hey...are you alright?"

You couldn't explain to him that you'd just heard your dead grandmother's voice on the phone. Who would believe you? You wouldn't have even believed it yourself if you hadn't heard it with your own ears.

"What year is it?" You asked, refusing to look him in the eye. You silently begged him to give you the right answer to prove you weren't going crazy. To maybe give you an ounce of relief. Even if there was no explaining what just happened...

"It's 1989."

"...Oh."

It was all you could muster before you blacked out and hit the floor of the hotel lobby.

#Jake 'Hangman' Sersin x reader #glen powell x reader #Hangman x reader #This is my first time in ages writing for someone new so be patient with the baby #jae writes

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