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wntrs0ldier · 1 year ago

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An Offer II: Safe Haven · 02

pairing: mob!bucky x reader words: 5,3k warnings: smut, typical mafia (dark themes, language, violence, etc.), a/n: so i went MIA 👉👈...

series masterlist

series summary: The ride was bumpy, but in the end, you got your husband. Your marriage gave you protection, and your new husband shared with you his life, his Family, his wealth. His demons and his enemies. Only time can show whether it was worth it.

chapter sneak peek: Bucky leaned his chin on your shoulder. You didn't speak, absorbing this closeness in silence. For a moment, you forgot about the months of separation; about the fact that you weren't actually connected by true, deep affection – in that moment, it felt like you had known him forever.

The rays of the harsh morning sun broke in through the huge window, casting a bright glow directly on the bed. The beams of irritating light brushed your face, and you immediately regretted that last night the thought of drawing the curtains hadn't crossed your mind. But there was no room in your head for rational thinking or predicting the future; you were too excited, too overwhelmed for that.

Driven by your instinct to stay awake, instead of falling into further sleep, you lifted your eyelids with difficulty, and your eyes fell involuntarily on the figure lying next to you. For the first time in nearly three months, you had a man in your bed; or rather, it was he who had returned to his bed, and had no choice but to accept that you had usurped it. Eventually, you were both in your shared space, and for the first time you had the opportunity to wake up next to Bucky.

He was sleeping on his stomach, with only one leg under the covers and the rest of his body outside; half of his face was buried in the pillow, the other half was covered by his hair falling down. You admired him with fascination – your eyes ran over his broad back and the muscles it showed; over his strong arms, kissed by the Italian sun. He wasn't doing anything special, nothing spectacular – just breathing, slowly and steadily – yet you could watch him for hours. You feared, however, that he might sense this and wake up, and interrupting Bucky's sleep was the last thing you felt like doing. He had been working hard for the last few months and now he was finally being given a rest. You weren't going to deprive him of the comfort of sleeping in his bed, in a safe, familiar space, so you slipped carefully out from under the covers and headed to the bathroom.

Your sore feet still reminded you of last night – of the hours spent in the club, the alcohol consumed and the men looking at you. Bucky was right – some were looking at you with a strange longing, and at the time you hadn't wondered what it meant. Now, although the question was only just seeking a place in your mind, you were curious about something else: did they know that you belonged to him? You wore the ring, you carried his name, but you haven't yet had the chance to show yourselves in public even once. You assumed that it was the soldiers of the Barnes Family, not leaving your side, let everyone know that you had also become a member of this house. Regardless of whose wife you were, your new name was a kind of warning sign.

As the pleasant stream of warm water washed over your body, your mind was flooded with more questions. For the past few months you had been a wife, but without a husband around. What was your life going to look like from now on? Was Bucky going to fit into your mode, you were going to be forced to fit into his, or were you both going to lead your own separate lives, ignoring each other; your existing routines, habits and needs?

The water fell on the shower floor and crashed against the tiles with loud splashes; nevertheless, the characteristic click of the door closing reached your ears. You looked over your shoulder, spotting Bucky, and your breath involuntarily stuck in your throat. He was standing by the entrance; with his hair only brushed through with a careless, accidental sweep of his fingers, his boxers framing his hips tightly and such a hungry, raw expression on his face that it instantly made your heart beat faster. You forgot about the fact that you were completely naked; the thought of satisfying this primal need took over your consciousness. Anyway, he soon returned the favor – without taking his determined gaze off you, he removed his underwear and joined you in the shower. Or rather, he attacked you as if you were his helpless prey.

His huge, hard body collided with yours; his arms immediately surrounded you with the purpose of protection from any possible loss of balance due to this sudden, violent push. Bucky's lips – which had reminded you of their existence the previous night, of the pleasure that came from them, and which you still craved – pressed onto yours in a desiring kiss. His beard irritated your tender skin in that strangely pleasurable way, but the truth was that whatever he would do, it would bring you nothing but pleasure. You couldn't imagine doing anything other than simply surrendering to him – you wanted the same thing after all, and you couldn't let him leave you starving and lusting even for a moment; you needed his attention, you needed compensation – you needed him to reward you for those few months during which you had been dying of hunger.

“Fucking missed you, Y/N,” he muttered into your lips.

“Me? Or did you miss this?” you asked innocently, and although he smiled with mild amusement, there was something punishing hidden in that smile.

“I've thought about fucking you. Many times,” he agreed bluntly, and his hands slid through the sides of your body, from your hips to your ribs, making you shiver. “But I missed you. All of you. Even those stupid questions.”

You stretched your mouth in a wide, bright grin, and looking at him – so beautiful, so ravenous and all yours – you kissed him, placing your hands on his rough cheeks. Bucky's arms once again wrapped around your body and strengthened their hold even tighter than before. You moaned softly, crushed by his own body he pressed you to; you moaned because there was no way he could keep you any closer. Soon you felt the coolness of the tiles on your back – they were like a sharp sting on your heated skin, making you gasp shortly in surprise. Bucky stepped back slightly and stared at your face for a moment. His hand went to your neck, his fingers clenched carefully around it, and when you tried to pull away from the wall in order to get back to his lips, he held you in place without the slightest effort.

“What are you doing, Jamie?” The innocence and helplessness in your voice made Bucky hold his breath at first, then let it out with a loud gasp. As if he was savoring your softness, but in no way intending to take advantage of it. He knew you needed him as much as he needed you.

“I want you to stay here. For better stability,” he replied with calmness and patience; your heatedness fully deserved just such an approach.

“Stability..?”

Without taking his eyes off you, he knelt down. He carefully grabbed your ankle, and you obediently allowed him to lift your leg, which he finally put over his shoulder. You parted your lips, watching him with astonishment.

Bucky's eyes bore relentlessly into yours, his hands rested on your hips and his tongue slid lazily over your swollen, throbbing clit. You let out a shuddering breath, then sank your teeth into your lower lip. Bucky's hands clenched more securely on your body and his tongue began to rub against your knot – exploratory at first, since he was more than happy to learn your body's reactions and draw conclusions, and when he finally found the right rhythm, you knew your end was near, but you weren't about to deny yourself from being thrown into that abyss.

One of your hands found its way to his head; you slipped your fingers into his hair, and, whimpering in a desperate search for an outlet for all the pleasures building up inside you, you squeezed them there reflexively as Bucky sucked on your more and more sensitive clit. He closed his eyes, his fingers digging into your hips in a slightly painful, yet terribly satisfying way. You watched him from between half-open eyelids, and if at all possible, you got the impression that he was getting even more pleasure out of it than you were. And instead of weakening in intensity, he wanted more and more; he was no longer massaging your clit, expecting the desired reactions – he was devouring you for his own selfish fulfillment; he was devouring you like a starving man, and his appetite grew as he ate. You could feel his frustration; you could feel that he himself was left unsatisfied, and it was these desperate actions that pushed you to the edge. Leaning you against the wall earlier was a clever move - now it was keeping you safe, as your legs grew softer and softer until they finally refused to cooperate completely. Fortunately, there was Bucky under you.

Your chest rose and fell along with quick, short breaths. Not only were they coming out of your throat, but also the moans that accompanied them. For the past few months, not once had you thought the long wait would be worth it – you didn't think anyone could have given you such pleasure. Now it was growing in intensity in your lower stomach until it finally exploded, shaking your weak body with strong spasms.

“I've got you, baby,” you heard, and the soft tone hardly matched the character of what Bucky had been doing just moments before. But you didn't think about it. You weren't actually thinking about anything; you were fighting for consciousness with the effects of overflowing pleasure. And you were losing, as your legs finally gave up under its weight.

Bucky took your leg off his shoulder, but held it so that when he got up from his knees, it hung at the level of his hip. He put his free hand around his length, and again you felt strangely fascinated by this – he hadn't touched himself once; until now his hands had rested only on your hips. Yet, his cock was hard, wet with precum, twitching in need. It slid into you without any difficulty, but you still felt its thickness stretching you.

Your lips parted even more, letting out a hollow gasp, and Bucky moaned softly, closing his eyes for a moment. He didn't relish the sensation for too long – he started pounding into you, and unlike the previous times, he didn't begin with gentleness. He couldn't stop himself. He couldn't wait any longer; not since he finally had the chance to satisfy a need that had been piling up inside him for months – the need to fuck you. To fuck his wife.

You rested your hands on his shoulders, pressing your nails uncontrollably into his heated skin. You tilted your head back against the tiles, and this time their coolness did not bring you the same sobriety. And although you were once again intoxicated almost to the point of unconsciousness, your gaze wandered to the space between you – appearing there only when Bucky withdrew his hips. You watched as he thrust in and out of you, while Bucky observed your face; he absorbed your every grimace and every wince.

His tongue left you sore and swollen, so his rubbing cock was driving you crazy with every movement. Finally, his hips were slamming against yours so fast, and your position provided you with such a perfect angle that your consciousness began to slip away again.

“Did you miss me, Y/N?” he breathed, adjusting his grip under your thigh.

“Y-yes,” you cried out.

“How much?”

You forced yourself to look at his face, although your arching back made it difficult for you to do so. You were unable to put together a coherent thought; you were unable to speak it out loud.

“Huh? How much?” he inquired. His face, too, revealed the near end; his mouth wasn't able to stay closed for more than a split second, and his nostrils flared, trying to provide as much precious air as possible. “Show me how much you missed me. Let me hear it, baby.”

You couldn't take it any longer; every bit of you had waited far too long. And once again, that shattering feeling came over you; this time it shot into every part of your body. You let out a few short, loud moans, and darkness spread before your eyes. Bucky came right after you – seeing the look on your face, the pleasure spreading all over it; hearing those sinful sounds leaving your mouth, his body couldn't act any differently. He went still, making a single, low growl, caught up with a series of heavy breaths as his body relaxed and pressed limply against yours. He still held your leg around his hip, and with the rest of the strength he had, he put his other hand on the wall right next to your shoulder, giving you both support. For the time you needed to recover.

Shortly after, Bucky turned off the water, and then you felt his hands on your body again; one somewhere on your back, the other under your thighs. You were exhausted and still dizzy, but you embraced his neck loosely for a better grip. And when you ended up in your husband's arms, your body was finally able to rest.

This time, the bedroom was pleasantly dim. You've had a nap once or twice since leaving the bathroom; although you slept through the whole night, there were several things that contributed to absorbing all your energy.

You looked over your shoulder at Bucky lying next to you. Breathing slowly and quietly, he seemed to be asleep. You sat up carefully, and the mattress bending under your movements alarmed him. Not enough to wake him, but his fingers twitched nervously. If you had made another move, you would probably have snapped him out of this blissful state. So you waited for a moment, sitting still.

Finally, you lowered your feet to the floor, got up and moved silently to the bedroom door, mindlessly fixing Bucky's t-shirt – he gave it to you after the shower, since you needed something comfortable to put on.

“Where are you sneaking off to?”

With your hand on the doorknob, you froze, then looked back slowly. Bucky's eyes stayed closed.

“Nowhere,” you replied in a whisper; his not fully conscious state didn't require a louder tone. “Go back to sleep.”

Bucky let out a heavy sigh. You didn't want to give him a chance to say anything more, to get his mind going. So you left the room, quietly closing the door behind you. Having stepped into the kitchen, you involuntarily followed the routine you had developed over the past months – a thoughtless peek into the fridge, turning on the coffee maker, then back to the fridge, and only then did you consciously consider a meal. You reached for the eggs, and despite the coffee maker already working, you got yourself a glass of cold water.

You stretched, then rested your palms on the countertop, your eyelids still heavy, a bit swollen. This time you didn't despise the sun, but happily exposed your face to it.

Something told you to open your eyes. Having turned your head, you rested your chin on your shoulder. Bucky was standing in the entrance to the kitchen – he was watching you, leaning against the doorframe, and when you finally noticed him, he took a seat in a high chair by the kitchen island.

“Can't sleep without me?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Looks like it,” Bucky bit back. “Actually…” he began, and his tone as well as his expression indicated that he was going to say something sincere; to break out a little from the unserious atmosphere of your conversation. “I can't remember the last time I slept so well. I guess in…” His mouth curved into a half-smile as he vaguely thought about it, “three years.”

Your stomach knotted, forcing you to inhale deeply.

“Did I say something wrong..?”

“No, of course not,” you protested right away. “I just didn't expect that…” you paused, unsure of what to actually respond.

“That you would work on me like that?” Bucky's calmness took away the seriousness of the situation, but that didn't mean your heart accepted this position; it pounded hard, almost painfully. “Neither did I. I get why my body acts like the body of a horny teenager around you, but I don’t get this.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hold back an indulgent, amused smile.

Bucky slipped from his seat and reached for a cup to fill it with coffee. Watching him curiously, you leaned against the edge of the countertop. Until a while back, he was a stranger to you; you limited yourselves to brief glances and seemingly meaningless conversations, which in the end brought you closer together. Although you were still strangers to each other, in theory, Bucky was the closest person to you. Marriage didn't terrify you as much as it used to, because you ended up with him.

“What?” Bucky's voice brought you out of your thoughts. You must have been looking at him while drifting off.

“It’s… weird.” You squinted. He gave you a confused look. “You. Here,” you explained. “I’m not used to this. To having someone around,” you continued, coming to realize all this while making Bucky understand your thoughts. “We haven't- We haven’t really had the chance to... you know, live as a married couple.”

“Yeah…” he agreed, looking away.

You thought you were strangers to each other, yet you knew perfectly well that absent-minded gaze; the one combined with the thoughtless nibbling of the inside of his lower lip. You didn't want him to cast doubt on every decision that led him to this place.

“But we probably shouldn't think too much about it,” you suggested. “Do what you feel like doing. It's your home and…” You shrugged.

“My home and my wife?” Bucky tilted his head slightly, this time watching you with a somewhat challenging look.

You just smiled, considering it the only appropriate response to this gentle provocation, and turned around with the intention of continuing to prepare your meal. You managed to reach for the pan and set it on the stove when Bucky stood behind you. You heard his approaching footsteps, but rather thought he was going to put his cup in the sink. Instead, you felt his body almost against your back; he wasn't touching you, but his presence was nearly tangible.

“Is it okay if I hug you?” he asked in a low voice, and as your breath caught in your throat, his brushed your neck.

“I think so,” you didn't have to whisper, but your tone automatically matched his.

Bucky moved as close to you as possible; his torso was in contact with your back so tightly that you could feel the quickened, uneasy beating of his heart. His arms wrapped around your body at rib height, and your hands reflexively rested on his forearms. Bucky leaned his chin on your shoulder. You didn't speak, absorbing this closeness in silence. For a moment, you forgot about the months of separation; about the fact that you weren't actually connected by true, deep affection – in that moment, it felt like you had known him forever.

He placed a light kiss on your neck, making you shiver; your shoulder lifted up to your ear, trying to cover that area.

“That’s scratchy.” You chuckled quietly.

“I'll shave in a minute,” he muttered into your skin.

“You don't have to,” you protested right away. “I like how it feels. I don’t really mind. Besides…” You shrugged. “It suits you.”

You felt Bucky's lips, still on your neck, stretch in a smile.

“Leave it,” he spoke after a while. “I'll get us some breakfast,” he added, and only then did you realize what he was actually talking about.

“It's not like I was going to prepare a three course meal.” You raised your eyebrows. “Anyway…” you hesitated, letting out a deep breath. “I have to be at the gallery soon.”

Bucky groaned. “Today? Why?”

You turned around carefully enough not to break out of his embrace. You looked at his face – besides the obvious disappointment, from this distance you could see perfectly well how tired he was. You pressed your lips together, and as if that would make things better, you raised your hands to his cheeks. It appeared that you were right – the helpless displeasure in Bucky's eyes eased; he softened, relaxed under your touch.

“We are organizing a bigger exhibition. I started it while you were away, and I didn't know when you would return. I don't want to rush it,” you explained. Bucky looked at you carefully, as if to help himself process your words and come to terms with their meaning. “I also have a meeting scheduled with one investor today, so I need to be there.”

“Sure, I understand…” Bucky sighed. You were a little surprised by his stance – you thought he would appreciate a few hours to catch his breath; a few hours just for himself. Apparently, he liked you more than you assumed, and it honestly made you happy. “But I'll drive you there. And then I'll pick you up.”

“Okay.” You beamed in a way that teenage girls used to give to boys waiting in the parking lot of the school after classes were over. “I'll go get dressed.”

When you moved away from him, Bucky imperceptibly pinched your ass, making you giggle and quicken your step towards the exit from the kitchen.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You looked directly at Adrian, saw his lips moving, but no, you weren't listening to him. At least not for the past few minutes, when the conversation began to gently drift away from the subject of the gallery. Instead of concentrating on what at some point turned into a monologue, you kept returning to your last moments with Bucky – to him showing up in the bedroom shortly after you; he had settled back on the bed, leaning on his elbow, unceremoniously watching you get dressed. Although, you didn't rid of his t-shirt until you'd put on your underwear, Bucky seemed satisfied with the view – focused almost to the point of forgetting the rest of the world, he observed you slipping into a short dress; short enough that he didn't have to put particularly much effort into getting to you when you were both filled with desire all over again.

So no, you weren't listening to Adrian. You were thinking about a quickie before work.

“Of course I am.” You smiled playfully.

“Yeah? So what did I say?”

Adrian wasn't really your investor – he didn't benefit financially. You met him through Connie, so you trusted that relationship to some extent. And at the very beginning you hoped that Adrian – as a young, fearless man – would not have hidden motivations. It quickly became clear that he was interested in you, and that you couldn't draw a hard line. His money was a comfortable addition to the gallery's business; paradoxically, it gave you more freedom. You were young and the gallery was a relatively fresh venture to say no to anyone who had shady intentions towards you.

“The usual. Y/N, go out with me. I'm begging,” you said, making Adrian laugh. Fortunately.

“So maybe you should actually consider it?” He tilted his head. “And what are you thinking about so hard anyway?”

“About my husband,” you responded without hesitation. “You know I have a husband, right? You saw the ring.”

“The thing is…” Adrian sighed. “The last time we saw each other was when? Two days ago? And you didn't have the ring. I'm sorry, but I don't believe you've managed to get married since then.” He raised his eyebrows. “I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?”

You rolled your eyes.

“I think there is actually no husband,” he continued. “You just don't want to be nagged by men. You are one of those women who are firmly convinced that they can live without one.”

“Oh, Adrian…” you winced. “Such a pretty face, but what you just said... It ruined everything.”

“So you do like me.”

The buzz of the phone saved you from going any further on this topic. You glanced at the lit up screen.

I’m here.

You breathed a sigh of relief.

“Is this some friend of yours? You asked her to pretend to be your ‘husband’ and get you off the hook?” Adrian almost burst out laughing.

“Mhmm. Something like that…” you mumbled, at the same time replying to Bucky:

Can you come to my office?

You put the phone away, your gaze back on Adrian. “Do you want something to drink?” This suggestion was not only due to the fact that you preferred to treat your sponsor with appropriate courtesy; you didn't want to return to the subject of the husband he didn't believe in, and you couldn't bear to sit in silence and stare. “Because I do,” you confessed, mainly to get up from your seat and take at least a few steps away.

“I’d love to.”

From the cabinet you kept alcohol in, you reached for a bottle of an expensive whisky. “The usual, right?”

But Adrian had no chance to answer. He was overtaken by a knock and soon after, Bucky appeared in the entrance. Wearing the leather jacket you last saw that evening after your father's funeral, holding a helmet. Your attention, however, was caught by something else – the brief moment of confusion crossing his face.

“Jamie,” you uttered softly. He didn't immediately shift his gaze to you. “Jamie,” you repeated after a moment – way more conscious than the first time – having remembered that you were not alone, “this is Adrian Lancy, my investor. Adrian, this is James Barnes-”

“The husband,” Bucky said, an insincere smile stretching his mouth as he shook Adrian's hand. That same smile stayed on his face when he approached you. Placing his hand on your hip, he planted a brief but tender kiss on your cheek. “Hi, babe.” He raised an eyebrow, and you stopped yourself from snorting a laugh. Bucky intended to be painfully obvious.

“Want something to drink, babe?”

Bucky glanced at your lips, then smirked. “No, I’m good.”

He put his helmet down on the desktop and took a seat in your chair. At that moment he looked stunning – very bossy; you could easily imagine him taking the throne of the Underworld; becoming the head of his Family.

“So,” Adrian began, “you ride motorcycles, Mr. Barnes?”

“Among other things, yeah,” he confirmed without any desire to elaborate, therefore dropping the subject. “Aren't the working hours already over?” Bucky cleared his throat. “If I were insanely jealous I would think you are keeping my wife on purpose. To spend more time with her.” Again that fake, but not blatantly fake smile.

“Are you insanely jealous?”

A short, dry laugh left Bucky's mouth. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Holding the drink prepared for you – a few ice cubes poured over a relatively small amount of gin and tonic – you handed the other glass of whiskey to Adrian, then perched on the edge of the desk. You needed your sponsor happy, so in an attempt to make amends for Bucky's behavior, you turned a blind eye to the fact that in this position your dress showed a little more of your body.

“Well…” Having taken the bait, Adrian started again. “Y/N is not sitting here for free, so personally I don't see any problem. I pay for every hour.”

You didn't know if he intentionally used those exact words, but what you did know was that it took a really trivial reason for Bucky to stand up for you. And that ‘standing up’ was – in most cases – all about painful, harsh physicality. It wasn’t a problem, not for you, but it could be for your business.

“You'd better pay her a lot, Mr. Lancy.”

You gave Adrian an apologetic look, though he didn't seem offended. But looking at that unsettling, indefinable expression on his face, you would have preferred him to be.

He emptied his glass with one tilt, then got up from his seat. “I'll get going.”

You slid off the desk, and as the men shook hands again, you walked Adrian to the door. Usually you would have accompanied him all the way to the exit of the gallery, but this time you both decided not to get under Bucky's skin any deeper.

Having closed the door, you leaned your back against its surface. Bucky was standing by the desk with his hands in his pockets. He was looking at you with a softness you didn't think you deserved, but there was something else to it.

“You didn’t punch him…” You squinted curiously. “Why?”

Taken aback, Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Did you want me to punch him? I can still catch up to him-”

“No, it's not necessary,” you said, ignoring the tease in his tone. You tilted your head to the side, folding your arms. “I'm just wondering why you spared him.”

“You almost showed him your pants,” he replied, shrugging indifferently. You parted your lips, ready to express offense, but Bucky was right – indeed, you almost showed Adrian your pants. “I gathered he must be important for you. That's why I didn't want to blow it.”

You smiled with affection.

“I'm not sure how to feel about all this,” Bucky continued, squinting slightly. “I'm not surprised. Jealous, yes, but not surprised.”

“Meaning..?”

“I’m impressed by how you act on men. How you deal with them,” he said. “John Walker, now Adrian, and even... Even me. You wrap everyone you meet around your finger. But I knew that. I knew that from the very beginning,” he stated, frowning. “You're a fucking magnet.” He snorted quietly.

“Are you mad..?” you asked, your voice so soft it surprised him.

“No, of course not,” he assured immediately. “It's… pretty amazing. But they think they can say and do whatever they want. And that's the part that worries me. That one of these men will go too far, and I won't be around to stop them.”

You lowered your gaze. You didn't even realize when your fingers began to play nervously with the fabric of your dress. Bucky was right – you were able to deal with men in a way that would benefit you. But it wasn’t like that with him; you didn't want his money, you didn't want favors, you didn't care if he agreed to your every request. You just wanted to be liked by him. Tolerated by him.

“Do you need money, Y/N?” Bucky asked calmly. “Do you need Lancy’s money?”

Lifting your head so fast your neck almost snapped, you looked up at Bucky. A wave of unpleasant heat spread all over your body. You didn’t say a word about that, yet he knew everything. “No,” you lied.

“Are you sure? Because I have money. And now it's your money, too.”

“Yes, I know,” you replied, giving him the most beaming grin you could afford – hoping to dissuade him from any possible doubts. “Can you take me home now?”

Bucky also smiled, so you got the impression that he believed you, and as a result, wouldn't return to the subject. He grabbed your purse, took his helmet off the desk and walked to you. He watched you with the same cocky smirk when you tried to take your purse from him, but at first he didn't want to let it go.

“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Barnes?” You raised your eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he said casually, shrugging, then reached behind your back to open the door. “Mrs. Barnes.” He nodded. Ignoring the butterflies in your stomach – without much effect – you gave him an indulgent look.

a/n: feel free to share your thoughts, they are more than welcomed 🥰

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suddencolds · 11 months ago

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The Worst Timing | [2/?]

happy (late) new year :') after a month (and a lot of editing and dissatisfaction), i am back with part 2 of the 'yves has had too easy of a time' series (6.4k words). you can read [part 1] here!

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!

Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)

—

When they get to the hotel Aimee’s booked for them, it’s already late enough to be dark out. Yves helps unload their suitcases from the back, while Leon loads them up onto a luggage cart.

It’s an exceptionally nice hotel—picturesque brick walls, glossy windows all in a row, slanted red rooftops rising up into the sky. He’d looked at it briefly when Aimee consulted him about the bookings, but it looks even more like a castle in person, like something straight out of a storybook. Yves will have to remember to thank Aimee and Genevieve again for picking such a nice place for them to stay at.

They check in at the lobby. Yves makes sure the suitcases make their way up to Leon and Victoire’s room, which is on his and Vincent’s floor, but at the other end of the hallway. (“Don’t be late to breakfast tomorrow,” he tells them, sternly, and Leon—who has slept through his alarms for as long as Yves has lived with him—laughs. “I’m especially talking to you,” Yves adds, looking straight at him).

Then he wheels the luggage cart down the hallway. “I’m so ready to crash,” he says, to Vincent. “It’s been a long day. Are you tired?”

“I’ll be tired once I lay down,” Vincent says. He carefully extricates one of the key cards and holds it out to the door card reader.

The interior of the hotel room is a little colder than the hallway is. Vincent flicks on the light, slips the key card back into its designated slot, and leaves his shoes in a neat line at the door. Yves follows him in.

Their room is a standard suite—there’s a small sitting area just next to the entrance, a bathroom off to the side, and a door frame—though not a proper door—which leads to the bedroom. On the far end, translucent white curtains give way to a sliding door which opens up to the balcony. It’s a nice room, Yves thinks, with a nice view of the rest of the hotel, its pool and gardens, the circular sun umbrellas stretching out floors below them. It’s only when Vincent hesitates, standing in the bedroom, that Yves realizes what’s wrong.

The bedroom has a singular queen-sized bed, and nothing else.

Of course. It makes sense for this to be the living arrangement, if they’re really dating.

“I can take the couch,” Yves says, clearing his throat, which doesn’t feel any better than it did earlier.

Vincent turns to look at him.

“I mean, this whole pretend-relationship thing doesn’t have to extend to us sharing a bed.”

Mentally, he kicks himself for not having the foresight to predict this. Just because Vincent is fine with putting on a show in front of his friends—and in this case, family—doesn’t mean that Vincent will be fine sharing a bed with him when they’re in private.

“You can have the bed,” Vincent says. “The bed will probably be warmer.”

Whether that’s a comment about how Yves has been too cold all day, or whether it’s just an offhanded appraisal which has nothing to do with him, Yves doesn’t know.

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I don’t mind the sofa. Besides, hotels usually have extra blankets. I’m sure they’re just hidden in some drawer somewhere.”

He rummages through a few of the cabinets and looks through the closet until he finds what he’s looking for—a feather comforter, folded neatly on the top shelf. He takes it down, keeping it folded under his arm.

“See,” he says, flashing Vincent a smile. “I’ll be perfectly warm, like this.” Vincent still looks a little unconvinced. “You should wake me if you’re not,” he says. “I don’t mind switching.”

“Duly noted,” Yves says, even though he has no intention of waking Vincent for any reason.

“The couch probably extends into a pull-out bed,” Vincent says, already heading back into the living room. “It should be more comfortable. I can help you set it up.”

“I can do it,” Yves says. All this talking is not helping with his throat. Worse, somewhere over the course of the past couple hours, there’s a faint tickle that’s managed to settle into his sinuses.

“It’s the least I can do, if I’m taking the bed,” Vincent says.

Yves is about to say more, but he finds that he really needs to sneeze. He lifts his arm to his face, his eyes watering, his breath hitching—

“Hh-! hHehh’IIZSCHh-IIEW!”

“Bless you,” Vincent calls, from the next room over.

“Thanks,” Yves says, turning into his shoulder with a small cough. His breath hitches again, irritatingly. “hHeh-! HEHH’IiITSHHiEW! snf-!”

When he heads into the living room, Vincent is already almost done setting up the pull-out bed. Yves helps him lock down the legs of the frame.

“Thanks,” Yves says, fluffing out the blanket he’s holding so that he can lay it out over the mattress. “All set up.”

He looks the bed over. It looks inviting enough—a little smaller than the bed in the bedroom, the mattress thinner, but fluffy and clean regardless. Vincent steps past him to duck into the bedroom and emerges a moment later, carrying two pillows.

“Are these your pillows?” Yves says.

“They’re yours now.”

“I can sleep without pillows.”

“They gave me two sets, anyways,” Vincent says. “I wouldn’t have made use of these ones.”

“Okay.” Tentatively, Yves takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. From the doorway, he gets a limited view of the bedroom—he can see the curtains at the far end, the desk pushed up against the wall, and the very foot of the bed. “Do you think this is what couples do when they’re traveling and they get in a fight?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Vincent asks.

“It might as well be,” Yves says.

“If your family walks in and sees that I’ve banished you to the sofa, I don’t think I’ll ever be forgiven,” Vincent says, so seriously that it almost doesn’t register as a joke. Yves laughs.

“You can just say I snore,” he says. “Or, worse. Maybe I kick you in my sleep.”

“Do you?”

Yves doesn’t—at least, he’s been told he doesn’t—but it’s of no consequence. They’re not going to be sharing a bed. “Luckily for you, you won’t have to find out.”

He gets settled—sets his suitcase out on one of the side tables, sets out all his toiletries in the bathroom, puts the clothes he’s planning to wear for tomorrow in a neat stack, and hangs up the suit he’s going to wear for the wedding in the closet. He’d been careful folding it, but he’ll probably have to give it another good iron before the wedding date. By the time he has everything accounted for, the bathroom door is closed, and the shower’s running.

The hotel has left them a couple bottles of water on the nightstand but he heads downstairs to buy a couple more from the on-site convenience store on the first floor. Victoire had them exchange dollars for euros at the airport, which Yves thinks he might have forgotten to do in their haste. Even though she’s the youngest of the three of them, sometimes he thinks she is the one with the most common sense.

He strikes up a brief conversation with the cashier, in French that he thinks is fairly fluent but probably accented—it’s been awhile since he’s gotten any practice with it. His speaking is good, but there are some colloquialisms and some idioms that he’s not familiar with and ends up having to ask about.

By the time he gets back up to the bedroom, bottled waters in hand, Vincent is done showering, his hair still a little damp.

“I got us extra waters,” Yves says. “There’s a convenience store down on the first floor.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.” He looks nice, even with his hair damp, even though he’s wearing just a t-shirt and shorts to sleep, Yves thinks, and then immediately tables that thought.

“It was nice to stretch my legs,” Yves says. “And nice to have a chance to practice my French. My relatives are going to be disappointed in me if I sound worse than I did last year.”

“Are you fluent?”

“Fluent enough to hold a proper conversation. Not fluent enough to not sound like a foreigner. I grew up speaking French and English, but obviously in the states, there aren’t as many opportunities to practice French.”

“I don’t think you would have lost much of it,” Vincent says, as if from experience.

Yves laughs. “For my own sake, let’s hope not.”

When he steps into the bathroom, the mirror is still fogged up from the steam. He swipes a hand over the glass to clear enough of it so that he can see.

He looks fine, still, at least outwardly—a little tired, maybe, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by. There’s a faint flush to his complexion, too, which is strange, because he doesn’t feel like he has a fever. He’s just a little colder than usual, is all.

All in all, he still looks passable. At first glance, it doesn’t seem very evident that anything is wrong at all.

He takes a shower, cranks the water up until it’s almost scalding, and stands under the hot water, shutting his eyes. The warmth is a welcome change. It’s the first time today that he’s been really, properly warm—if only because he’s turned the water up a couple degrees higher than he usually has it at.

The water splashes over his shoulders. He leans his head back, taking in a deep breath of the steam.

It’s fine. It will be fine. He’ll drink tons of water, take all the vitamin C he can find, and sleep this off tonight. He’ll be good as new tomorrow.

—

When Yves blinks awake, it’s still dark out.

The first thing that registers to him is that he’s cold.

What started off as a slight headache has turned into something much worse—his head is throbbing, and even with the blanket, he’s freezing. The air conditioning in the room is on—he can hear the low hum of it through the vents—and everything feels unbearably frigid. Even the bedsheets, which are at the very least warm from his body heat, seem to always be losing heat, unpleasantly, when he shifts.

When he checks his phone, the time onscreen is 3:45 am. Too late to call the front desk and ask them to send up more blankets, probably—even if they are technically in operation, he doesn’t want to be that one asshole to ask for a favor at this time of day.

He’ll ask tomorrow, he thinks, at a more reasonable hour. It’s almost morning, anyways. Maybe if he manages to get back to sleep, he won’t feel the cold as much.

There’s a dull pressure to his sinuses, a slight tickle that seems only to sharpen as he rubs his nose. His breath catches, too quickly for him to do anything to attend to the subsequent—

“Hheh—! hHEHH’iISHHhi-iEw!”

Fuck. The sneeze is loud enough to echo a little within the confines of the living room. Vincent is in the next room over. Vincent is asleep, presumably, like Yves should be.

And Yves’s nose is starting to tickle again.

He raises the blankets to his face, presses his nose to them to muffle the next—

“hhEH— hehh’IZschhH-IIEW! snf-!”

The sound is marginally quieter this time, muffled into the cotton, but it’s far from silent. He hopes, desperately, that it’s quiet enough, or that Vincent is a heavy enough sleeper for it not to matter. There isn’t even a proper door between them.

He reaches up to swipe a hand over his eyes. How did this get so bad so quickly? His head feels heavy, and every sneeze that tears through him is harsh enough to scrape at his already-raw throat—whatever hope he’d had for sleeping it off seems to be diminishing with every passing minute.

He listens, for a moment, for anything: any shifting from the room over, any motion, any footsteps. But to his relief, there’s nothing.

His head is swimming. Worse, he still has to sneeze. The tissue box is on the nightstand in the bedroom Vincent is in, but Yves thinks that it would be too unwise to make a trip right now and risk waking Vincent up a good three hours before sunrise.

“hHh-! hhH-!...”

Fuck. He stays frozen like that, for a moment, one hand hovering over his nose and mouth. His nose tickles, badly, kept just narrowly on edge. It feels like one wrong breath would be enough to set off a sneeze, but sometimes it seems to evade him at the last second—he can’t seem to get his body to settle on something decisive. “hhHEh-!”

The sneeze is unexpected, when it comes, at last—loud and forceful and vicious.

“hehH’NGKT’shhH’EEW!”

A short burst of pain shoots through his temples. Yves can’t claim he’s ever been good at stifling, and this attempt is no exception. It’s not much quieter than the others, even muffled into his pillow, and the attempt to stifle has only made the pressure in his head feel worse.

“Hheh… hh-!” He sniffles. His eyes are watering so much he thinks they might spill over. “hHeh… hh-hHih-HEHh’DJJSHh’iEEW!”

This one he muffles into his hands, ducking forward into his chest. The relief he feels from letting out the sneeze is unfortunately short-lived. He’s nowhere close to done. He can feel it, in the tickle in his nose which refuses to let up, in the pressure to his sinuses which only seems to worsen with each sneeze.

For a moment, Yves contemplates spending the rest of the night just outside their room, out in the hallway. It will almost certainly be colder, he would be quieter there, at the very least—there would be a proper door and a wall between him and Vincent, and that’s something, isn’t it?

Before he can seriously consider it, he’s snapping forward at the waist, muffling another loud sneeze into the covers.

“hhHeh-iIDDSHHhh’YyiiEW!”

He finds himself coughing, after, muffling the coughs tightly into the feather blanket in an attempt to cough more quietly. He shivers, huddling deeper into the covers. His head is pounding. Every time he swallows, sharp, hot pain lances his throat.

He hears nothing from the room over, even when he listens carefully. This much is a relief—truthfully, he would feel awful if he were keeping Vincent up because of this. Yves has survived on less sleep—back in university, 6am crew practice meant waking up early even when he’d been up late to finish projects or coursework, or otherwise out late with friends—but the thought of keeping Vincent up makes something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. Vincent hadn’t slept at all during the flight. He must be tired, now. The last thing he needs—after the stress of being surrounded by strangers in a foreign country, after traveling for almost 10 hours straight, after being assigned to room with his coworker, of all people—is to be woken up at an ungodly hour just because Yves can’t keep this damn cold under wraps.

Yves thinks he should try to sleep too, if only because it means he won’t be awake to succumb to the next sneeze that threatens to tear through him.

But if he’s entirely honest with himself, he’s not sure if sleep is going to come to him anytime soon.

—

Yves doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to his 7:30am alarm so tired that he feels like he hasn’t slept at all

“Morning,” Vincent says, emerging in the doorway. He’s fully dressed already, his shirt crisply ironed, the collar upright, his hair neatly styled.

“You’re fast,” Yves says. His voice sounds a little hoarse—all the sneezing last night probably hasn’t done it any favors. But if Vincent can tell that it sounds off, he doesn’t say. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not really,” Vincent says. “We have time.”

“Give me a few minutes to get ready,” Yves says, hauling himself out of bed. “I’ll be out in five.”

He changes in record speed, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and stuffs everything he can see himself needing into a backpack to take down to breakfast.

When he emerges, Vincent is waiting for him in the hallway.

“How did you sleep?” Yves asks.

“Fine,” Vincent says. “You?”

“I slept well enough,” Yves says, before muffling a yawn into his hand. At Vincent’s pointed glance at him, he adds, “I’m just a little tired. It’s probably jetlag. It’s what, like, 2am over in New York?”

“1:42,” Vincent says, checking his watch. “Is your whole family going to be at breakfast?”

“I’m not sure if everyone’s up,” Yves says. “But Leon and Victoire will be. I told them to be downstairs by 8, so obviously they’ll kill me if I’m not there first.”

The breakfast lounge is on the first floor, a few hallways down from the reception desk. Yves saves a table for them.

He isn’t very hungry, for some reason. Still, he fills his plate with breakfast pastries and scrambled eggs and grabs a cup of hot tea while he’s at it. He really doesn’t want to lose his voice entirely before the ceremony. Even with his jacket on—which is probably even excessive, considering the temperature of the lobby—he isn’t as warm as he’d like to be.

Victoire joins them next. She waves to Vincent as she passes. “Hope you guys got some sleep,” she says innocently.

Yves says, “We got perfectly good sleep, thank you.”

“Morning,” Leon says, appearing in the doorway at 7:59.

“You’re really cutting it close,” Yves says, sniffling.

“It’s 7:59,” Leon says. “Whether I’m on time is a binary, not a sliding scale. I’m entirely on time.”

The table Yves picked can fit more than four, so they spread themselves out through the seats. “Mom and dad said they’re having breakfast at one of the cafes nearby,” Victoire says, shrugging her sweater off and leaving it perched on the back of her seat. “They said they’d report back if it’s anything life changing.”

“There’s a welcome party tonight,” Yves says to Vincent, “For everyone who’s flown in. You’ll get to meet them then.”

“Is there anything your parents hate in a partner?” Vincent asks.

“Don’t worry too much. I don’t think— hEHh…” Yves scoots back from the table turning away as he reaches blindly for one of the cocktail napkins he’d taken. “HEHh’DDJJSHh-iiEW! Ugh, sorry.” His nose has been running all morning—he’d made sure to take a generous stack, and stuff some of them into his pockets for later, but it’s been all of fifteen minutes and he’s already nervous that he might run out. “I don’t you could get them to hate you even if you tried.”

“Mom and dad met in college, at a bar,” Leon says. Yves, who has heard this story many times before, busies himself with eating, and tries hard not to visibly shiver. In a way, he’s grateful to the two of them for filling in the space for him—the less he strains his voice today, the better. “Mom was super drunk, and for some reason when she started talking to dad the conversation topic turned to, like, something super specific and not at all romantic.”

“It was whether or not it’s ethical to clone extinct species,” Victoire says, idly folding her napkin into a pinwheel. “Though this was before it had ever been done.”

“Apparently she was drunk enough to ask his hand in marriage mid argument, and he was drunk enough to say yes, because he thought it was a joke,” Leon says. “And it was a joke. But he proposed to her seriously a year later, and all she said was ‘at least you kept your promise.’”

“But now they’re happily married,” Vincent says.

Leon nods. “They’ve been happily married for almost thirty years now. Anyways, my point is that whatever relationship you have with Yves, you don’t have to try and impress them. There’s no need to overthink it.”

“I understand,” Vincent says. “My parents got married because my dad did well in a business competition at the time, and my mom thought he was going to make a lot of money.”

“And how did that turn out?” Victoire says, interested, propping her head up on one hand.

Yves watches Vincent cut a pastry into four even pieces. “Better than you might expect,” Vincent says.

—-

The welcome dinner is held at a local restaurant—Aimee and Genevieve have rented out the outdoor space for seating. The table—a long table that seats thirty, or so—is set with tall, elegant white candles, all in a row; wine glasses with delicate stems; vases spilling over with flowers—lilacs, pink and white roses, orchids.

Above them, string lights are strung up in neat lines. When Yves sees Aimee, he doesn’t drop all of his things to run over and hug her, but it’s a close thing.

“Yves! You made it,” she says.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he tells her, in French. “God. Did you plan out all of this? It looks gorgeous.” “Genevieve did a lot of it,” she says. “She has a good eye for decorations.”

Genevieve is off to the side, talking to someone who Yves recognizes as her sister—Yves follows Aimee’s gaze over to where she’s standing. When he looks back, Aimee is smiling in a way Yves has never seen her smile before—the sort of fond, private smile that he feels like he isn’t sure he’s supposed to be seeing.

Yves is stricken, for a moment. It’s so clear that she’s in love. It shows all over her face, plainly, the kind of love that’s uncontestable; the kind of love that makes love, of all things, look simple. Has he ever looked like that, to someone else?

“How have you been?” he asks. “I imagine preparations have been hectic.”

“Never better,” she says, turning back to face him at last. “You’re right—it’s been exhausting. But I feel like the adrenaline is carrying me through, you know? Like I’m so happy this is happening.”

“You two deserve a perfect wedding,” Yves says, and means it. He clears his throat, sniffling. It’s a little cold out, even though the sun hasn’t gone down yet; he really hopes his nose doesn’t start to run visibly. “If you ever need any help—with last minute preparations, or if anything comes up, or if you need someone on transportation or moving things—let me know. Even if it’s like, 3am or something. My hands are completely free.”

She laughs. “Thank you, that’s so kind of you to offer! It has been hectic, but I haven’t been up at 3am this week, thank God.”

“I hope to keep it that way.” Yves turns away from her, raising an arm to muffle a fit of coughs into his sleeve.

Aimee takes a step forward, her eyebrows furrowing. “Are you okay? You sound a little off. And you’re coughing.”

And Yves thinks: she can’t know. He has his toasts to give at her wedding. He has the wedding rehearsal tomorrow and the wedding ceremony on Saturday to attend. If Aimee finds out he’s coming down with something, she’ll probably tell him to sit things out—to get some proper rest, to disregard virtually everything she has planned, and to not leave the hotel room until he’s feeling a hundred percent better—even if it’s at her own expense.

Worse, she’ll be worried for the entirety of his illness, he’s sure. As if she doesn’t have enough on her plate already, between the setup and all the accommodations and the last minute changes.

Aimee deserves a perfect wedding.

That’s the bottom line in all of this. This is a once in a lifetime thing for someone he cares and cares deeply about. Yves is not going to ruin it. He’ll get through the next few days, even if it means pushing himself a little past his limits. He can crash afterwards, on the plane ride home, after all the festivities are over and everyone bids farewell.

“I’m fine,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I’m—” This is really the worst possible timing. He takes a few steps back, craning his neck over his shoulder. “hH-! hHhh’kKTSSH-IEEW! snf-! Ugh. I’mb just getting over a slight cold.” Getting over might be a bit of a stretch, and a slight cold might be even more of one, but other than that, it’s not entirely dishonest.

Aimee frowns at him. “Bless you. Does your throat hurt? There are cocktails on the side table, if you want anything to drink. Wine, too. I can get something for you if you’d like.”

“Nice try, but there’s no way I’m letting the bride go and get things for me,” Yves says, grinning. “Do you want any cocktails?”

“I need to be sober until I’ve officially said hi to everyone,” she says. “Can’t make a fool of myself just yet. Speaking of which, where’s your boyfriend?”

Yves waves Vincent over. “Come say hi!” he says, in English.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Vincent says, in slightly accented French, which is a surprise. He seems to hesitate, thinking hard. “Congratulations on your wedding.”

“Oh my gosh!” Aimee says in English, pulling him close for a hug. Vincent hugs her back. “It’s good to meet you too, Vincent. Thanks for always looking after Yves. I’m glad to have someone keeping him out of trouble overseas.”

“Thank you for having me here,” Vincent says, hugging her back. “I know it was really last minute with the flight and everything. I hope it wasn’t too stressful for you.”

“It was no trouble at all!” Aimee says. “Yves is like a younger brother to me. Last summer was pretty rough for him, I think.” she doesn’t mention Erika, but Yves is sure Vincent knows what she’s referring to, regardless. Aimee smiles, a little wistfully. “I’m just so grateful that he met you. I’m glad to see him happy again.”

“I don’t think I can take credit for that,” Vincent says, blinking.

Aimee smiles warmly at him. “He’s the happiest he’s been in months,” she says. “I think you are selling yourself short.”

After Aimee asks Vincent how his stay has been (good, Vincent says, it’s actually my first time in France, to which Aimee excitedly lists off places he absolutely has to see while he’s here) and Vincent asks Aimee how the wedding preparations are going (nothing’s gone terribly wrong yet, Aimee laughs, which I suppose is all I can ask for), they find their way to their seats at the table. Someone has set out little name cards with all of their names written in calligraphy. Yves realizes, faintly, that the handwriting isn’t Aimee’s. Maybe it’s Genevieve’s, then.

“I didn’t know you knew any French,” Yves tells Vincent, in English.

Vincent looks away, a little sheepish. “I took a crash course into it when you mentioned the wedding would be in France,” he says, which Yves finds somehow disproportionately endearing. “I know maybe five sentences total, plus a few common terms.”

“Five sentences is impressive given that you had, what, just a few weeks to learn them?”

“I’m not sure if they are very coherent,” Vincent says. “The vowels are different from English. I’m still trying to get the hang of saying them.”

Yves is about to respond, but he’s cut off with a sharp, unexpected gasp. He pitches forward, raising his elbow up to his face just in time to muffle a—

“Hh… HhEHH-!’IihH’DZSCHh-IIEW!”

He’s glad, for once, that he’s not wearing the suit he’s planning on wearing for the wedding. His nose is running again, which is embarrassing, especially because he can still feel Vincent’s eyes on him.

“À tes souhaits,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs, rummaging through his jacket pockets for one of the napkins he’d taken at breakfast to blow his nose into. “Merci. Is that one of the common terms you learned?”

“No,” Vincent says. “I looked it up last night.”

“Last night?” Yves asks.

For a moment, he’s afraid that Vincent might reveal to him that Yves had kept him up last night, after all, despite all of his efforts to keep quiet.

“On the car,” Vincent clarifies. “During the trip to the hotel. I was just curious.”

“Oh,” Yves says, relieved. He blows his nose into the napkin he’s holding, which he’s sure he has reused at least a couple times already—but with his nose running so much, he doesn’t exactly have the luxury to be picky. “Well, you’ll be an expert at saying that phrase by the end of this trip, at the very least.”

It’s easy to lose himself in the throes of conversation, after that. Aimee and Genevieve have arranged it so that he and Vincent are sitting directly across from his parents. Leon is right—his parents have never really been the type to subject the partners he’s brought home, over the years, to any sort of interrogation. It’s a fun night, especially after everyone’s a couple drinks in.

“I think it’s a good thing that you guys are in the same line of work,” Yves’s dad says, conversationally. “Yves won’t have to explain why he’s always working overtime.”

Yves’s mom says, “Isn’t that a bad thing? We shouldn’t be encouraging their workaholic tendencies.”

Yves neglects to mention that he’s pretty sure Vincent (who worked the entire flight here)’s workaholic tendencies will persist, even without any encouragement.

Vincent tells them how they’d met—it’s the same story as he’d told the first time they’d done this, during Margot’s new year party a few months back, but Yves’s parents seem to find it extremely entertaining.

Yves’s mom says, “I told you Yves was the one who asked him out.”

Yves’s dad says, “I didn’t know if he had it in him.”

Yves’s mom says, “I remember hearing him say something about having an attractive coworker. It wasn’t that much of a logical stretch to assume he’d make a move at some point.”

(Yves thinks he sees them exchange a twenty dollar bill under the table, but he can’t be sure.)

Vincent practices his French with Yves’s parents—Yves fills in for him when he stumbles on a word, or when he hesitates, wracking his memory for a term he can’t quite translate.

“A fantastic attempt,” his dad says, when Vincent is done talking. “I can’t believe you learned so much in just a few weeks. I can only hope you’ll keep learning..”

“I will,” Vincent says. “Maybe next time we can have this conversation entirely in French.” There’s no uncertainty to the way he says it. Yves doesn’t mention that there’s a real chance Vincent won’t see them again, after this. It’s not a thought he particularly wants to confront.

At some point, Leon rises to his feet and shouts, in French, “Let’s toast to Aimee and Genevieve, everyone’s favorite couple!”

They all stand and raise their glasses. Yves finds he feels a little unsteady on his feet—maybe he’s had too much to drink. He feels warm, through the flush of alcohol in his cheeks, despite the evening chill.

He’s marginally worse at covering when he’s tipsy—and worse, too, at anticipating that he’s going to sneeze in the first place. At some point during the night, someone—maybe Vincent, or maybe one of Aimee’s friends from work that are seated nearby—sets down a stack of cocktail napkins in front of him.

Yves just hopes whoever’s put it there knows how grateful he is. The night is getting colder, even though he can’t quite feel it, and his nose is running so much that he finds himself grabbing a new napkin every couple minutes to blow his nose. It’s strange, he thinks, how such a small thing can be so comforting.

At some point, too, Vincent takes the glass of wine out of his hands and switches it out with a different glass. Yves thinks it might be a cocktail, at first, but when he takes a sip, he finds it’s just orange juice.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Vincent says.

“I haved’t had that much,” Yves says. But come to think of it, his head feels hazy in a way that suggests he’s just a little drunk. “Just a couple— glasses— hh-! hHhEH’IIZSCHh’iIEw! snf-!” He barely manages to cover that sneeze in time.

“Bless you,” Vincent says.

“Ugh.” Yves reaches for another napkin from the stack. He feels a little dizzy, now that he’s paying attention. “I swear, my toleradce - snf-! - used to be a lot better before I graduated.”

Vincent hides a laugh behind one hand. Yves is too tipsy to pretend he doesn’t find that a little endearing.

“What?” he asks, faux-affronted.

“Nothing,” Vincent says. “I should’ve known that you went to parties and drank irresponsibly.”

Yves laughs. “Along with every other college student in the world.” He turns aside to muffle a cough into his sleeve. Perhaps he hasn’t been especially conscientious about saving his voice this evening—with all the talking he’s been doing, it will probably sound even worse tomorrow. “What, don’t tell me you’ve ndever gotten irresponsibly drunk!”

“Once or twice,” Vincent says, which is a bit of a surprise—he can’t imagine Vincent being drunk enough to lose the air of… well, composure isn’t the right word, perhaps. Professionalism? Self-assuredness? But maybe even drunk Vincent is professional and self-assured, all the same. Yves wonders, faintly, if he’ll ever have the chance to find out.

—

Dinner winds down slowly. Yves helps Genevieve collect all the name cards, gathers everyone’s plates to set them in a couple neat stacks at the end of the table, says hello to the relatives he’s closer to, and strikes up a conversation with some of Genevieve’s friends, who look to be just a few years older than he is. They talk first about the planning she’d kept them in the loop about, and then about the planning that she’d pulled off behind the scenes. Yves tells them about the many aesthetic and managerial decisions Aimee had consulted him for early on over text. The common consensus seems to be that Aimee and Genevieve are vastly overqualified when it comes to making sure that everything is logistically sound.

“Do you want to head out soon?” Vincent says, after some time, when Yves returns to his seat and some of the other guests have begun to filter out.

“That might be a good idea,” Yves says.

He says his goodbyes—to his parents, to Leon and Victoire, to Aimee and Genevieve, whom he’ll see tomorrow. Then he follows Vincent out. The hotel is a fifteen minute walk from where they are—some of their relatives have cars, but they’d walked here, and Yves thinks it’d be more work to try to coordinate a ride with someone.

Everything feels bright, Yves thinks, blinking.

“You’re cold,” Vincent says. It isn’t a question.

Yves realizes, faintly, that he’s shivering. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t feel it that much.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

“I’m ndot drunk.”

“Tipsy, then.”

Yves can’t argue with that. “Just a bit. I’ll probably— hhEh-!” He turns aside to direct the sneeze over his shoulder, away from Vincent. HH-! hHEHh’iIITSHh-IIEw! Snf-! —sober up soon.” The end of the sentence catches wrong on his throat and suddenly he’s coughing, a little harshly, into his wrist. The coughing fit is harsh enough to leave him faintly lightheaded, which is a surprise to him.

He thinks it shouldn’t be visible, but Vincent reaches out and grabs his shoulder to steady him. For a moment, Yves contemplates how nice it would be to lean into his touch.

Then he catches himself. He’s tired, but not so tired that he can’t sustain a short walk from the dinner venue to the hotel. It’s dark, but they don’t have any early obligations tomorrow, and it’s not late enough that he won’t have time to shower, get changed, and get a good night’s sleep, with time to spare.

Yves shifts out of Vincent’s touch. “Sorry about that,” he says, with the most convincing smile he can muster. He’s sure Vincent would be understanding if he brought it up, but truthfully, it feels like a waste of time to say anything at all.

Vincent doesn’t reach for him again, but his eyebrows furrow. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“You almost fell,” Vincent says.

“I just tripped. The roads aren’t very even, and it’s dark.” They’re standing in the middle of a small, winding cobblestone street. None of the roads around here are very flat for very long.

“Are you saying that because you believe it?” Vincent says. “Or are you saying that so that I stop worrying about this?”

Yves stares at him for a moment too long. He’s sobering up a little.

For a moment, he contemplates telling Vincent everything—about how tired he��s been, all day. About how much it’s taken out of him to keep up this front, the whole day; about how he feels worse than he did waking up this morning—tired and cold and congested, a little unsteady on his feet. If he’s not mistaken, he thinks he might be running a slight fever; it’s hard to tell through the jacket, through the brisk evening air.

Maybe Vincent would understand. Maybe Vincent would insist that he get some rest, tomorrow, before the wedding. Maybe Vincent would tell him that this is all going to be fine—that this wedding that Yves’s been looking forward to for months, that he desperately doesn’t want to mess up, is going to be perfect, just as Aimee and Genevieve has planned it, even if he isn’t feeling his best.

But this is not Vincent’s problem to solve. Yves’s bad timing and his unfortunate circumstances are not Vincent’s responsibility, and Yves extended the invitation because he wanted Vincent to have fun on this trip, and no part of that entails having to look after Yves. Vincent has always been reliable, but Yves can’t start to expect things out of him—to take his kindness as a given, to take more than Vincent is willing to give.

He already asks more than enough of Vincent, as it stands.

“I’m fine,” Yves says, a lie, as easily as any other lie he’s ever told. The smile that follows comes easily, too, though he’s not sure if Vincent can see it in the dark, can’t tell if it’s more to fool Vincent or more to fool himself. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

[ Part 3 ]

#sneeze fic #snz fic #snz kink #snz #i edited this for a week straight #and now i have given up officially #i hope this doesn't feel too much like a filler/otherwise uneventful 😭#next chapter i promise yves is in for a bad time #yvverse #my fic

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jessicas-pi · 3 months ago

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for the three sentence prompt, could you do sabezra in a mythical creature au, whether it be the mer one or another variety if you want?

so i DID start writing some mer-fic but then I realized it actually worked a lot better as part of a current mer-WIP I have going, and I also had another idea and uhhh long story short this is kind of a continuation of this one!

Ezra perched cozily in the window seat, carved into the soft golden-toned wood that made up the walls, ceiling, and floor of the room. Spiderweb-fine curtains (that may or may not have actually been made of spiderwebs, he wasn't sure about that) fluttered as a light breeze brushed through the window, bringing in the scents of flowers and the distant chatter of hundreds of voices.

In the middle of the room, the Seelie stood, watching him just as intently as he watched her.

"You know," she huffed, breaking his gaze and crossing her arms, "I was really expecting more of a reaction to all of this!"

Ezra tilted his head indifferently. "I mean, I've always wondered if you'd have wings or not, so that answers my question, I guess."

Her pink-violet wings, which looked like something between bumblebee and dragonfly, twitched at this. "These are a little creation of my own, actually," she said, a pretty smile pulling at the corner of her mouth as she shrugged one shoulder. "I liked how your modern, storybook fairies had wings, so I gave myself some. Started a fad, actually."

"Modern fairies?" Ezra repeated. "Fairies have had wings for a long time."

"Yes. Well. They didn't when I first visited your realm. But that was..." She paused to think. "About five hundred years ago, more or less."

"You're five hundred years old?!"

Her smile grew. "Time is flexible in the space between realms. If you counted the days I've been alive, they would add up to just under nineteen years. But... I have been visiting your realm since about 1361, so..."

"But---I thought you said five hundred years ago, you first came?"

She looked at him curiously. "Is it... not... 1855?"

"It's 2024!"

"...oh." She chuckled nervously, and if he wasn't mistaken, she might have even blushed at her mistake. "I---I lose track of time, sometimes."

"I'll say you do," someone snorted as a door that Ezra hadn't seen---it blended smoothly into the wall---was thrown open. A new Seelie sauntered in. "Because you missed dinner. Again."

She startled at the unexpected entrance, and glanced at Ezra for a split second. It was enough, apparently, because the new Seelie looked over his shoulder, right at Ezra.

He stared at Ezra.

Ezra stared at him.

"Hi...?" Ezra ventured.

The new Seelie looked over at the first one and stated, "I'm telling Mom you brought a human home."

"I'll kill you," she replied without missing a beat.

Ezra held in a laugh at that. "So, I assume this is your brother?"

The pretty Seelie gave him a look that was dripping with exasperation.

"Unfortunately, yes." She took a deep breath, then sighed. "Brother, I'd like to introduce you to... Jabba-the-Hutt-Lando-Calrissian-Brom-Titus-Dev-Morgan."

"The third," Ezra added, deadpan.

part one || part two || part three

#there's a whole long backstory as to why Ezra decided it was a good idea to follow a seelie through a circle of mushrooms #but in the end it's basically: he's a homeless orphan who decided the best way to find housing was to get kidnapped by the fair folk #(as opposed to just asking any of his friends for some help because he's too stubborn for his own good)#his plan is basically reverse stockholm syndrome. he's gonna make his kidnapper utterly adore him.#and y'know what? it works.#sabine (30 minutes ago): I'm gonna kidnap a human and be mean to them for my own amusement >:)#Sabine (now): i've only had Ezra for half an hour but if anything happened to him i'd kill everyone in the summer court and then myself #thanks for the ask! :)#sabezra #fantasy au #modern fantasy

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saturnicos · 8 months ago

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— 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 | [megumi fushiguro x reader]

1 | 2 | 3 . . .

sinopse: a new year begins at the Jujutsu School. this first year seems to be busier due to the addition of a perhaps powerful novice sorceress and an unexpected vessel of Sukuna.

[t.w]: none

[c.w]: reader's gender not mentioned but implied to be female

[a/n]: the beginning always gives me writer's block, damn. maybe a little ooc at first, I hope to work on a fluid dynamic with the quartet :) also, english isn't my native language and sometimes I need to use a translator for descriptions with more difficult words, so let me know if there are any grammatical/interpretive errors!

You stared at the paper with the address written down in terrible, smudged handwriting on crumpled paper, looking away from the large structure in front of you. The intention of the Jujutsu School was to resemble a religious school on the outside so that it would go unnoticed by non-sorcerers, but something seemed so... Outside, you couldn't help but stare at the facade.

You waited patiently outside just as you were instructed in the admission letter, however, even though you had been here for twenty minutes, no one had appeared at the entrance.

— Good morniiiing...? — you hum audibly, leaning into the doorway, hoping someone passing by could hear you. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

You started to get upset until you felt a heavy hand resting on your shoulder. You felt a chill spread down your spine until you saw a head of silver hair lean over your other shoulder.

— What's up, newbie? — he spoke with a high, strident tone that made your eardrum hurt, while he smiled from ear to ear. The said one was Satoru Gojo, a sorcerer of the highest rank, known throughout the jujutsu community, whether this reputation was good or bad, but it exists.

Your eyes widened in genuine surprise, startling and jumping to the side to get away from the contact. The sorcerer, however, stood still with the same smile as he held out his hand, asking for the paper.

He read it quickly and then stuffed the paper haphazardly into his pants pocket, heading inside the institution, signaling with his hand for you to follow him. Confused, you switched hands with the suitcase you were carrying and followed him.

— Aah, introducing the school to the freshmen is so boring... — Gojo uttered audibly in protest, while also containing a humorous intonation.

— Next, newbie! You are free to explore the campus after settling into the dorms, there you will have all the information about classes and stuff, you know? — the sorcerer asked after finishing his monologue, resting his hands on the back of his head with a smile as he approached a large installation made of wood. You just nodded.

The supposed balcony of the facility — which you assumed to be the dormitory — was beautiful, adorned with some plants on some doors while being completely open, allowing in the light salty ocean breeze that bathes Japan. In addition to the beautiful structure, each door contained a silver plaque that spelled out the name of its designated resident.

— Hm, hmm, here. — Gojo promptly stopped, pointing to the sign on one of the last doors in the corridor that corresponded to his name. — This part of the dorm is exclusively for freshmen, people just like you, so don't forget to say hello.

Not so subtly, the sorcerer turned around and headed towards the exit, leaving you standing still, with no further information or guides on where to go. Without a defined direction, you just turned the doorknob and entered the room. It was a simple and slightly clean place.

The floor followed the same pattern as the wooden planks on the porch; there was a window — which at the moment was lightly covered by a beige curtain — facing the door, on the right there was a large wardrobe with a mirror, on the left there was his bed and a chest of drawers, which was adorned with a simple lamp.

It wasn't the most beautiful place in the world, but it was cozy, so you wouldn't complain.

You arranged your room to your liking throughout the morning, moving some furniture around, storing your belongings in the wardrobe and you even had time to decorate the walls of the room with some posters that you had brought in your suitcase.

Proud of your achievement, you finally stopped to see the schedule grid pinned to a bulletin board near your bedroom door.

Today's schedule consisted of combat improvement and general training, made up only of the general subjects taught in traditional schools, nothing related to jujutsu — yet. Looking more closely, the school days were more content, in addition to specialization subjects in sorcery, in common subjects that brought some knowledge in jujutsu practice.

In a few minutes you put on your uniform — made according to your requests to facilitate your mobility in combat and help you quickly use your skills —, threw your backpack over your shoulders and left your room, locking the door and putting the key in your pants pocket.

As soon as you put the key away, you looked at the landscape of the institution's field and remembered a small but extremely crucial detail: you didn't know the campus and, therefore, didn't know where the main building was.

As if some divine being had heard your low whine and despair about being late, the door next to yours opened, a figure with messy black hair coming out of the room also with a backpack.

— Good afternoon, excuse me? — you were ready to call the boy, walking hurriedly towards him while your eyes lit up with the possibility of having a free guide. — I'm a freshman and I don't know exactly where the main building is, could you give me a horizon?

— Just follow me. — he replied in a stoic and monotonous way as he headed towards the exit of the dormitories, without looking back.

You promptly quickened your pace to walk side by side with the boy, a painful silence filling the air as you took a stone path that you were unfamiliar with, the only current sound was that of gravel being trampled and birds chirping.

— I, huh, am Y/N L/N. — you said, trying to force an inviting smile as your gaze wandered from side to side. The boy also didn't escape that same feeling of restlessness and discomfort, but at least he felt relieved that it wasn't an introduction with a handshake.

— Megumi Fushiguro. — he was quick to respond, maintaining the same low and stoic tone of voice, without much emotion present even in his expression or gestures. The weight of the silence felt as heavy as a rain cloud about to collapse, and even Megumi was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable at how strange the air felt. He might regret it later, but he decided to continue: — I'm also a freshman.

— Ah.. you seem to have been here longer however, since you know the campus. Hey, does this mean maybe we're in the same class? — Your tone of voice increased slightly, but not so loud that it was noticeable.

A first wave of relief came from knowing that perhaps you would have started the year with someone you could call a colleague, since, for you, making friends was not a very simple task.

The second wave of relief came when a relatively large structure was visible in his field of view; Megumi signaled it as the three year class building.

The classes aimed at general training went well, in short. It didn't differ much from the type of classes you took when studying at a non-sorcerers' institution, the only most notable characteristic was the preference for topics that would add fundamentals to sorcery.

The combat improvement class, however, was more complex and focused on the practical part, different from the general training that covered theory. As it was the beginning of the school year, nothing too complicated was covered during practice, just corrections of basic mistakes that most people make when fighting hand to hand. In addition to the fix, there was also an introduction to the use of cursed weapons and the benefit of choosing to fight with them instead of head-on combat.

This is also why Gojo was sitting on the floor, just like a child would be when playing with Legos, while he was selecting a weapon that might be suitable for you.

— I think this one might work. — he said enthusiastically as he stood up and extended a slightly curved katana smaller than the common models to you. It was a simple metal katana with a hilt adorned with shades of black and navy blue, but it exuded cursed energy.

— The weapon isn't always suitable for the sorcerer, several of the weapons we have don't fit the students, like Maki from the second year, for example, so try it out. — Gojo encouraged you as he rested his hands in his pants pockets, watching you from beneath the bandana that covered his eyes.

Apprehensively you held the handle of the katana, breathing deeply as you concentrated your cursed energy on the metal and focused on a target to hit: a tree located in the middle of the courtyard where the training took place, close to you.

In a fraction of a moment, you held the handle of the katana with all the strength you could and slammed the middle of the katana against the trunk vertically, not cutting the tree, but exploding the area hit, leaving the trunk with almost no support to support the weight. from the foliage and branches above. Poor tree, you lamented.

— Wow, good attack, freshman! — Gojo shouted in a vibrant tone, clapping his hands as he approached to see the damage done to the wood. — You need to practice your aim more, but it was good for a first time, it seems like you got lucky the first time with that katana.

After that, you gathered your materials in your backpack, in addition to storing the katana in a leather sheath for safety reasons, ready to return to the dorm since you now knew the right way.

— Y/N — Megumi's voice echoed in the room, making you turn around and see him slowly approaching with the same expression of indifference that, at this point in the championship, seemed to be the standard. You wondered deep down if he had any more visible emotions. — Don't know the way to the cafeteria? It's already dinner time.

— Oh, no, I don't know the way to anything other than the dorm and the exit. — you replied awkwardly as you tried to balance the weight of the backpack and the katana on your waist, finally finding a good way to walk with your things. Despite the dry tone, his voice didn't necessarily contain any type of negative emotion.

— Gojo has a mission prepared for us this early hours, by the way. He said he would specify when we left. — he continued with a brief monologue as he began to slowly walk in the opposite direction of the dormitories, to what you assumed was the path to the general dining hall.

Along the way, something notable was also how he seemed subtly looser. Not in dialogue, but in having taken the initiative to present some small topics of conversation, even if about the grade or comments about the jujutsu school in general. If it differed a little from the vision he initially presented — not that there had been a big enough change worthy of comparison —, you assumed that perhaps it was due to the performance in the combat improvement class; maybe he had a good impression.

Shaking your head to get rid of any thoughts that clouded your mind, you focused on looking at the visually beautiful structure that approached, thinking about what you would have for dinner at the same time that butterflies rose in your stomach at the thought that in not long it would be time for your first official mission.

[a/n]: it's been a while since I wrote long fanfics, so I'm sorry if it seems a little fast

anyway, thanks for reading this far <3

#jjk x reader #jjk #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro

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notsocheezy · 1 month ago

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Brain Curd #228

Brain Curds are lightly edited daily writing - usually flash fiction and sometimes terrible on purpose.

I awoke with a start from yet another of those dreams. Those dreams, unyielding, in which he is with me. I have always hated those dreams.

Whether I find myself in a diner, or a grocery store, or strolling about my home town, he is always there, whether overtly or lingering in the shadows, hiding beneath the mask of someone else. He relishes being an unwelcome guest in my subconscious, drawing me to his flying monkeys and wannabes.

Long since incapable of finding pure love, I lay alone in my bed, groggy, having slept the night before to the sounds of YouTube on autoplay. Perhaps the only white noise worse than silence. My eyelids are heavy with the burden of lost rest, never to be clawed back from the unmerciful crawl of time.

I force myself out of bed and peek through the curtains. Orange-tinted storm clouds fill the sky. It must be Halloween. I yawn and head for the kitchen to boil a kettle.

I pour my cup of tea when suddenly the doorbell rings. What time is it? I ask myself, to which I reply, time to get a watch. The microwave clock reads half-past four PM. I suppose I slept in.

I look through the peephole and don’t see anyone. I figure it might be neighborhood children playing a prank, but it could be a package I ordered and forgot about. I unlock the door and open it, but it takes a moment to register what I see: my father, in the flesh.

I rub my eyes. This can’t be happening, this can’t be real - but when I open them again he still stands before me. He’s not supposed to be here, not even in my dreams. I pinch my arm, I bite my tongue, but nothing seems to wake me up. I am already awake.

“Trick or treat!” He says, holding out his arms, waiting for a hug.

“How did you find this address?”

“It’s almost my birthday! Didn’t you want to see me?”

“No. You aren’t welcome here. Please leave.”

I close the door but he sticks his foot in it, the sole of his open-toed shoe only barely damping the hit. He doesn’t flinch.

He pushes the door back open and leans inside. “Do you know what it took to get here? I’m not going back.”

Part of me is afraid of what he’ll do if I let him in, but the other part is afraid of what he’ll do if I try to keep him out. That’s the part that wins the argument. I open the door again.

“I’ll make dinner.” He says, as he looks around inside, scoping out a place to turn into a nest. He sets his backpack down on the couch, and I can smell sulfur on it from all the way over here by the entrance.

“I just woke up, actually, so dinner seems premature.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll make pancakes for dinner. You’ll love them, I promise.”

This is an uncharacteristic sort of compromise from him, and I get to wondering if this really is my father. After all, I haven’t seen him in five years, and he seems to look exactly as I remember him. The thing is, I’m not sure I remember what he looked like last time I was in the same room with him. He almost looks more like he does in that photo I keep stashed away at the bottom of a drawer, the one we took when I was ten. He doesn’t act much like I thought he did, either, but I suppose I haven’t known him for some time. Maybe he changed?

We stopped talking for the obvious reasons (those are the ones I can tell people who ask): he didn’t support me going to college, or my transition, or any of my passions beyond making him happy. But there were also the less obvious reasons: The chill I felt down my spine when we were alone, a sense of unease to hear his voice, fear when he was even slightly angry. The little reminders of childhood that I’ve learned draw me to other people who end up hurting me. Battle-worn red flags of heritage.

My teenage memories are molded swiss cheese, incomplete and green with envy of the children who were allowed to grow up without a father like him. Whether their father was a good man or a dead man or both, they were better off. I knew even then that the most I had to look forward to was writing and delivering the eulogy.

And now here he was, a trespasser in my home, standing at the stove, burning vegetable oil onto my carbon steel pan. The fishy stench of it chokes my uvula. I want to vomit. He always told me he’d haunt me after he died and here he was, haunting me not only in my dreams but in waking life as a shambling zombie of a parent that never was.

Was… was he?

I ran to my computer and checked the local obituaries of my home town. I scrambled to find anything, anything from the past year, then the past two, desperately searching my brain at the same time to try to recall when it was that via text he threatened (no - ‘promised’) to keep his death a secret from my mother and I. Then I came across the name. There it was, the obituary.

He was presumed dead on his birthday four years ago. The body was never found. There was no service. Nobody would have come anyway. And something - be it a mischievous fae or a demon or the man himself - was piloting his decaying body to make a pancake dinner.

He pushed open the bedroom door and presented the plate. “I hope you like them. I made them with love.”

“I’m not hungry,” I replied, sick to my stomach at the mere suggestion of more of what he called love.

He looked at my monitor and the smile melted off his face. “I keep my promises.”

Please comment, reblog, like, and follow if you enjoyed - I'd love to know what you think! Happy Halloween!

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wigetta129 · 3 months ago

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Asylum AU Octonauts

Hey Octonauts fandom, how are you? For a while now, I've been thinking about this Octonauts Asylum AU. Honestly, I love these kinds of AUs, and I've seen many from different fandoms, so here’s the idea I had in mind. I hope you like it! And by the way, I already have several episodes done, but since it’s about neurodivergence and mental disorders and stuff, I was a bit indecisive about whether they were well represented. As a neurodivergent person, I really worry about this because there are so many stereotypes, and that really pisses me off.

Well, here’s a bit of context: Barnacles is a Navy veteran, and because of that, he’s dealt with trauma, plus his somewhat complicated childhood has only made his conditions worse. So, what do you think about this AU I’m working on?

TW: Mental health, intrusive thoughts, mild self-harm, mentions of suicide. ************************************************************************

"Agh," you groaned, making a sudden, sharp movement with your neck—a habit you couldn't help but indulge in.

You clasped your hands together and began cracking your knuckles, a small ritual that brought you some semblance of calm amidst the anxiety and stress that typically plagued your days. But today... today wasn't just any day.

You found yourself in an asylum—at least, that's what people insisted on calling it: an asylum. It wasn't your first time here, either. How many times had it been now, two? Three?

At present, you were in the room assigned to you by the staff, though in truth, you'd expected something more fitting for an inmate—a padded cell with a straitjacket, rather than this ordinary room with walls that wavered between pale blue and white, and casual loungewear that resembled something you’d wear at home.

You were perched on your bed, waiting for the dawn to break. Why the dawn? The answer was simple—you hadn't slept a wink all night, barely managing an hour at best. Your father had taught you how to tell time by the position of the moon and the sun, so it wasn’t hard to estimate that it must be around 5:24 in the morning. Yet, with winter in full force, daylight was still a distant prospect.

You got up from the bed and headed to the bathroom, intending to relieve yourself—or "relieve" yourself, as it were. After all, what else was there to do while waiting for daybreak? You slid back the curtain that blocked the entrance and went over to the sink, twisting the tap to drink from the faucet. The thirst was gnawing at you.

Once your thirst was sated, you wiped the leftover water from your hands and splashed some on your face and hair. Too bad there wasn’t a mirror; you would have liked to see how disheveled you looked.

Rubbing your eyes, you returned to the center of your room. It was chilly, but you couldn’t complain—the hospital socks they’d given you kept your feet warm, though you would have appreciated a pair of thicker pajama pants. But hey, you can’t have everything in life.

There was a rectangular shelf holding your clothes and a few glasses, some filled with water, others stocked with hygiene products like shampoo or soap. Not that you cared much about your physical appearance—it wasn't a priority to worry about body odor. Though you had bathed yesterday, more out of obligation than any real desire to do so.

Okay, so… the door to your little hospital cave had a lock, indicating whether it was secured or not. Usually, they were left unlocked so that any nurse or orderly could come in at will, like during sleep hours to check that all patients were safe and sound—an infuriating habit.

Then again, what could you expect? This place was for the mentally ill, not exactly the kind of people you could trust with enough privacy to hurt someone—or worse, themselves.

Wait, there was something on your right wrist. Something plastic. You glanced down and… oh, it was just your barcode wristband with your name, sex, and age.

Barnacles Carver Age: 27 Sex: Male

And an obvious string of barcode numbers beneath that. You already felt like a slave ready to be auctioned off at any moment.

You began gnawing at what little remained of your nails—because really, what else was there to do in this semi-spacious psychiatric room? You approached the shelf and picked up a white glass filled to the brim with ice. Whenever patients asked for water, nurses or doctors always delivered it more ice than liquid. Not that it mattered—it was all just water in different forms.

The ice had been sitting out for quite a while, yet some of it was still solid. You grabbed one that wasn’t stuck and, with a single bite, it turned to water in your mouth. As you crunched on the ice like popcorn, you wandered back to your bed and sat, legs crossed, occasionally stretching your arms or moving them in random directions.

By the time you looked back out the window, the glass was nearly empty, save for a few small ice chips floating in a pool of water. You placed it on the floor and laid back down again. Still no trace of sleep. But it was either this, or running circles around your room while talking to yourself. You already had thoughts that could be considered twisted by the average human, but to you, they were normal, even fascinating in a way.

Wars, death, murder—anything that involved leaving this world intrigued you. You’d seen things no one should ever witness, but you had seen them anyway, forced to.

Before coming here, you'd been reading about José Luis Calva Zepeda, a Mexican cannibal and serial killer. Though he didn’t have many victims—two at most that were known—you were deeply fascinated by him. He had been a poet who never managed to publish his novel, "Cannibal Instincts or 12 Days." You were particularly interested in how he had killed his victims and the contents of those writings. What a shame the novel never saw the light of day.

Your hand began to itch, so you scratched at the affected area. It didn’t take long for your battered nails to make contact with the rough, damaged skin between your wrist and knuckles. A few moments passed before you felt satisfied and looked down at your reddened hand. Damn, you should’ve been more careful to avoid this.

Still, it wasn’t the end of the world. Some small linear scars might remain, but that would only add to your time here. Not that you cared much anyway. After all, where were you going to go with Bianca?

Oh, wait… she was the reason you were here.

Well, wandering the streets was always an option.

#the octonauts #octonauts #octonauts captain barnacles #captain barnacles #octonauts barnacles #octonauts au #asylum au #asylum #au #neurodiversity #mental health #mental illness

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darlingvernon · 2 years ago

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day 24: nutcracker | lee seokmin.

↳ the one about seokmin inviting you to his performance

◇ lee seokmin x female reader ◇ angst | happy ending | friends to lovers ◇ warnings: none ◇ 731 words

authors note: sorry for the delay but this is for day 24 of @svthub december prompt challenge: nutcracker. please let me know what you think. i hope you guys enjoy!

The drive to the theatre is quiet. Staring out the window watching the city architecture go by, you flip the invitation card over and over in your hand. It’s been weeks since you last saw Seokmin, avoiding him like a plague after he confessed his feelings for you, yet he’d sent you an invitation to watch him perform on ‘The Nutcracker’ tonight.

Day by day and even up to the last minute, you contemplated whether you should attend or not, but as soon as the taxi arrived at your apartment, there was no hesitation for you to get in and make your way to see him. With a scoff, you wonder why you bothered to worry about it at all.

“Miss, we’ve arrived,” the driver announces as he pulls up to the entrance of The State Theatre. “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

Grabbing the bouquet from the seat, you offer him your thanks before stepping out into the cold night. Taking a deep breath, you put one foot in front of the other and make your way towards the entrance of the building. The hostess ushers you to your allocated seat once you hand her the invitation and of course, Seokmin chose to seat you front and centre. He definitely would’ve known if you decided to skip the performance.

The theatre is abuzz as the seats fill up and in no time at all, the lights dim and the curtains draw open, signalling the start of the play. Despite the costume, Seokmin instantly lights up the stage as soon as he appears. Unable to look away even if you wanted to, you spend the whole night watching him and only him. He’s beautiful, splendid, amazing and he’s… he’s the love of your life.

When the performance ends and the curtains close, it breaks your connection with Seokmin. Suddenly, your chest feels tight and your heart feels hollow and it leaves you wondering if this is how it feels to no longer have him in your life.

Is this something you can accept? Is this something you can handle? Is Seokmin someone you can live without? Can you stop loving him?

Before you can begin to answer any of your questions, the curtains draw open again revealing Seokmin and the other performers for their final bow. As soon as his eyes find yours, it feels like a weight in your chest has been lifted and your world is bright again. The smile he throws your way has you weak in the knees and suddenly everything makes sense.

Now, you know what you must do.

A while later, you find yourself standing outside of Seokmin’s dressing room to meet him like he’d requested. Raising a closed fist, you only allow yourself a moment’s hesitation before knocking on the door. The door swings open, revealing Seokmin and his smile that can rival the sun and you want to kick yourself for being so silly.

“You made it!” he greets happily as he ushers you through the door.

“Well, you asked me to come,” you reply, handing him the bouquet. “You were amazing out there, Seokmin. I’m happy I got to see it. Thank you for inviting me.”

“It means a lot to me,” Seokmin smiles. “Thank you for coming.”

Fiddling with the belt of your coat, you bite the bullet and ask, “Why aren’t you upset at me?”

Tilting his head adorably in confusion, he answers your question with one of his own. “Is there a reason that I should be upset?”

Taking a deep breath, you push on. “I didn’t answer your confession and I avoided you for weeks.”

Running a hand through his soft locks and resting it at the back of his neck, Seokmin replies, “I guess I should be upset about that latter part but I’m not upset that you didn’t answer my confession.”

“Why not?” you press further. “Aren’t you scared about how I feel?”

“No, because I know how you feel about me,” Seokmin answers confidently, holding your gaze. “I know that you love me and that you truly care for me. So, I’m not scared, I’m just waiting for you not to be.”

“I’m not scared anymore,” you declare, voice firm and unwavering. “I love you.”

Whistling in relief, Seokmin laughs before closing the gap between your bodies and kisses you.

“I love you, too.”

[ Challenge Master List ] - link to be added at a later date!

pls do not copy/repost my work

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tenebraevesper · 1 year ago

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Five Nights at Freddy's: Salvaged, Night 32: Freddy's Horror Show

''Constructed in the 80s with the purpose to preform, mechanic animals powered by children's souls reborn. With the revving of an engine, and the grinding of their gears, they can make you fall in love with fear. Who dares; prepare for a night all alone by the phone. Jumpscares and nightmares, when you find what's in store, you'll be slamming the door.''

– Built In The 80s by Griffinilla and Toastwaffle ft. Caleb Hyles (Five Nights at Freddy's)

xXxXxXx

There were sounds of cheer and clapping as the music had started. The red curtains unveiled two animatronics, one being a golden bear with a purple top hat and bowtie, holding a microphone; and the other being a golden bunny with a purple bowtie, holding a guitar. Their eyes were glowing as they started to sing on the stage, surrounded by children. They had a birthday party and the place was packed, as the birthday boy seemed to have invited his entire class to the party.

His dark eyes gleamed as he observed the area close to the stage, his chest swelling with pride. He adjusted his purple uniform, ready to deal with the chaos that would probably unfold soon. He already had enough experience to know that there would be some incredibly obnoxious parents dragging around their screaming children. Nevertheless, while he knew how to handle them, he completely loathed the kind of entitlement he'd encounter here. It didn't help that Henry would often ask him for help when it came to dealing with those issues, even though it was clear that he wasn't exactly the most social person to be around.

William sighed, standing in the corner of the room with his arms crossed and observing what was going on. While he knew that he had to be here in case something happened, he'd rather be in the back room, surrounded by animatronic parts. He glanced at the golden bunny animatronic on the stage, smiling. Creating those robots was something he was quite proud of, even if they had only served for entertaining people. They were certainly unique, especially considering they had a rather interesting feature not many people were aware of. He narrowed his eyes as he thought about it, feeling somewhat amused.

In a way, they're also here to entertain me.

xXx

Springtrap stared at the dark building curiously, while Sam walked ahead, looking quite excited. It seemed that no one was inside, with Springtrap hoping that they wouldn't get interrupted for the remainder of the night. He was wondering just how much work they had done on the new building and how long this location would last before another tragedy occurs. He wasn't really optimistic about it, but he figured that he would have to wait and see whether he was right about his assumptions.

He followed Sam to the back entrance, which she had already unlocked. She turned on the flashlight she took out from her bag, with the two walking inside, anticipating what they might see. They weren't disappointed.

''Ha, they're back!''

Sam was grinning, staring at the stage in amazement. Even Springtrap looked stunned, although it was more because this was the first time he saw the familiar, child-friendly animatronics outside of Hell. Illuminated by the dim stage lights, Freddy Fazbear, Bonnie, Chica and Foxy were back to entertain the new generations, while still keeping the secrets of their past.

As he stepped closer, Springtrap noticed that, while they looked quite similar to their incarnations from the 90s, there were some obvious differences. To start off, the suits were brand new, the fur clean and neat and their eyes were almost glowing. They didn't have that stocky build anymore and were more proportionate, especially Chica. He knew that the only reason why the animatronics were like this was because Fazbear Entertainment had to start from scratch, as any parts they had salvaged from Henry's location were unusable.

''They seem to have put a lot of work into them,'' Springtrap said, stepping closer to them. He could see bits of the endoskeletons where the joints connected and they seemed to be in an amazingly good condition. However, he was still a little suspicious as this was Fazbear Entertainment, after all.

''What are you doing?'' Sam asked as he suddenly got on the stage.

''I just want to see something,'' Springtrap replied, standing between the animatronics and trying to figure out how to open the suits. Sam rose an eyebrow, looking a little exasperated by his antics.

''I should've expected that you'd be more interested in the mechanics of the animatronics rather than the characters themselves,'' she said.

''Don't worry, I'm not going to tamper with them,'' Springtrap replied, his eyes suddenly glowing purple when Freddy's torso popped up open, with the endoskeleton, as well as all the wires and other pieces being completely visible. He grinned, briefly glancing at Sam. ''Do you want to join me?''

She shrugged, knowing that she didn't really had anything to lose, and got up on the stage from the side, moving away the purple, silver star-covered curtain that was blocking her way. She looked curiously at Freddy's torso, pointing her flashlight at it. Springtrap reached inside Freddy's chest, carefully moving away some of the cables that were covering the circuit boards, his actions reminding Sam of a bizzare version of a surgery game. She almost expected to hear a buzzing sound the moment he touched any of the metallic parts. Sam then noticed Springtrap frowning.

''Is something wrong?'' she asked.

''Give me a moment,'' he muttered, focusing on one particular circuit board, trying to figure out how to remove it, or at least getting a better look at it. He reached for it, but he couldn't take it out as it was attached to the endoskeleton via several wires. However, he could turn it around, noticing something carved on the plastic. Sam pointed her flashlight at it, illuminating it. ''It says HW: Freddy Fazbear (Copy).''

''Well, it was obviously made for Freddy, but what does HW mean?'' Sam asked. Springtrap shrugged.

''I have no idea, but maybe there are some documents lying in the office that have some information on the new animatronics,'' he said as he closed Freddy's torso, hearing a click sound. He then moved on to the other animatronics, with each having a similar circuit board featuring their names and the sign HW. ''Wasn't there something about the animatronics having been delayed due to technical difficulties?''

''Now that you mention it, maybe this has something to do with that,'' Sam said. Springtrap glanced briefly at her, then turned to the animatronics.

''It is possible,'' Springtrap muttered, looking over to the other side of the room. There was a huge gift box at the prize corner. He frowned.

''A marionette?''

''I thought about calling it The Puppet,'' Henry said as he looked at William, showing his partner the green bracelet that he was holding in his palm. ''Aside from entertainment, it is also here for security purposes.''

''Really?'' William rose an eyebrow as he took the bracelet, examining it. ''How is this supposed to work?''

''The bracelet emmits a frequency that is registered by Puppet, who then proceeds to bring the kid inside in case they left the restaurant,'' Henry explained, looking proudly at the marionette-like animatronic. ''Not to mention, Puppet also gives out gifts at the prize corner.''

''That's quite impressive,'' William said as he gave him the bracelet back. Henry smiled.

''It shouldn't be impressive as much as it should be practical,'' he replied. ''I just hope that it will work as planned, since I made it for Charlie.''

Only that it didn't work the way you intended for it to work. Springtrap frowned at the memory, noticing the strange look Sam gave him. ''Anyways, there are still other things to investigate…''

''Right,'' Sam muttered, looking at him suspiciously. The two then went to the prize corner, with Sam leaning over the counter to get a better look at the gift box. Springtrap, on the other hand, looked a little reluctant. ''I wonder whether Puppet has already been put inside the box.''

''It seems that it is,'' Springtrap said, pointing at the almost invisible strings right above the ribbon on the top of the box and looked up at the metal plates on the ceiling. ''Once it opens, the Puppet would rise from the gift box and those plates would keep it in control. It seems that they won't let it move anywhere outside the prize corner.''

''They have a good reason for that. After all, Phone Guy said in one of his calls that Puppet is different from the other animatronics, that it can think and that it can go anywhere, although that was mostly because of Charlie,'' Sam said. ''This Puppet, however, isn't haunted, so I doubt it'll go anywhere, even with the restraints.''

''I agree,'' Springtrap muttered, staring at the gift box. The shelves behind it were empty, but he was quite sure that, once the place opened, they would be full with prizes like plush toys or figurines. He could imagine Puppet giving them away, while also keeping a watchful eye on the rest of the restaurant, making sure that nothing bad would happen… This Puppet isn't Charlie!

His eyes glowed in a soft purple as he suddenly remembered the monitor installed on his desk, as well as the dark corridor in front of him. His heart was racing as he checked the monitors for the animatronics. It all had started with Puppet, who would look up from the box, staring at the monitor, as if knowing that he was there and that he was observing her and the others.

Then, Toy Bonnie got off the stage, trying to reach the office. He tried to keep him away, armed with only a flashlight he brought from home, but found out soon that Toy Freddy, Toy Chica, Balloon Boy and Mangle were following Toy Bonnie's example. The only reason the Withereds never went after him was because he had the sense to lock the door that led to the room they were left at.

It didn't take him long to figure out that this was because of Puppet, that she was the one who sent those animatronics after him, knowing who he is and what he had done. She wanted him dead and was willing to do anything to achieve that goal.

Nevertheless, he knew how to play this game. He knew how to survive the night and how to deal with the animatronics. During the week he had been assigned the night shift, he had managed to sneak upon the Toy Animatronics and tamper with their recognition system, so they wouldn't only go after him, but after every adult in this place. Not only that, but he had also managed to secure a position as a day shift guard. Now, all he had to do was to wait one more night, and afterwards, someone else would be targeted by the animatronics.

However, that last night, something had changed. William still saw the animatronics moving, Toy Freddy having reached the corridor and staring at him, his eyes completely black. As he tried to find a way to ward him off, suddenly, everything became silent. He turned the flashlight on, only to illuminate an empty hallway. His flashlight flickered, turning off due to the battery dying. He cursed, quickly checking the cameras. All of them were covered in static, so he couldn't find the animatronics. Then he heard the music, recognizing the little familiar melody as Pop Goes The Weasel.

He stood up, knowing that Puppet had somehow cleared the area to come after him personally. He had no idea how she even managed to free herself, but he figured that the other animatronics had probably helped her removing the heavy box he had left on the lid in order to trap her inside the gift box.

William waited, anticipating the animatronic lunging at him, but nothing happened. Everything was silent, with him realizing that the melody had stopped playing. He took a deep breath, checking his watch, which showed him that it was 6 AM. He grinned at first, but the smile quickly turned into a frown as he knew that he still had no idea where Puppet was. Maybe it was 6 AM, but there was nothing preventing her from coming after him.

He waited for another minute, not wanting to enter the dark corridor without some kind of light source, and checked the drawers at his desk for spare batteries. He found them and quickly inserted them into the flashlight, then pointed it at the corridor. He felt a pit in his stomach when he saw that Puppet was sitting on the ground, leaned against the wall, being only steps away from actually entering the office. It seemed that the programming had overridden the control the soul had over the animatronic, but he had no idea for how long this would be. He knew that Puppet could get up any moment and attack him.

Carefully, he walked around Puppet, briefly glancing back at her, his eyes dark and cold and expression unreadable. She didn't respond, so he left quickly, finding his way back to the exit. The animatronics were back on their respective stages and he knew he'd soon see the other members of the staff. He knew that he should be relieved, but all he felt was anxiety. He knew that there was someone here, waiting for him and his demise.

It didn't take long for me to leave that location. I never regretted it. Springtrap sighed.

''William?'' He was startled when Sam had suddenly addressed him, having almost forgotten that she was standing right next to him. There was a mix of worry and irritation on her expression. ''What's wrong?''

''I was just remembering things,'' Springtrap replied. ''Nevertheless, you're right. These animatronics aren't haunted, as there wasn't anything left that was worth salvaging. Henry made sure that that would be the case.''

''It sounds as if you're trying to assure yourself that they're not haunted anymore,'' Sam remarked. Springtrap remained silent. ''If you need a little more time to think about this, I'll understand.''

''Thanks, but I don't want to leave you to explore on your own,'' Springtrap replied. ''Maybe we can talk about this later.''

Sam nodded, then looked over to the arcades. She looked a little disappointed, with Springtrap assuming that she hoped that she could play a few games. He was somewhat amused, only to notice Sam going towards a corner close to the kitchen. Curious, he followed her to a table which had a cardboard cutout of a beaver wearing a sombrero and holding a mandolin. Springtrap stared at the mascot in disbelief, while Sam looked strangely excited.

''Awesome! They're bringing back El Chip's Fiesta Buffet corner,'' she said, turning to Springtrap, who was stunned. ''Right, I didn't tell you about it. When I went to Henry's location, they had this buffet-style table with Mexican food and the El Chip animatronic. However, that was supposed to be some kind of one-time event. The tacos were pretty good, though.''

''Seems like I missed out on a lot of stuff while wandering through that maze,'' Springtrap said, crossing his arms.

''No offense, but it was a good thing you never saw the actual location,'' Sam replied.

''True, but you could be tell a bit more about it. I'm curious about how Henry and Mike managed it,'' Springtrap told her. ''After all, you did mention that it was surprisingly successful for a Freddy's location.''

''Sure, why not,'' Sam replied. ''Although, I first want to see the rest of this location and whether they had changed anything else.''

Springtrap watched her walking away, looking around for the next thing that would grab her interest. Considering how she behaved now, he was wondering how she would react when this restaurant finally opens. Even though she was a teenager, she reminded him of a small child, running around to see if there were any secrets that the grown-ups had hidden from her. Still, he didn't judge her for this behavior. After all, when he and Henry had opened Fredbear's, they wanted a location where both adults and children could enjoy themselves.

If anything, it will be interesting to see how people treat this location and how Fazbear Entertainment will handle it. His eyes started to glow in a faint purple. Nevertheless, they cannot change what had happened, even if they do try to cover it up. On the other hand, as Sam pointed out, people might come here because they know about the rumors and are curious.

xXx

Connor wiped the sweat of his forehead, looking at the finished Freddy animatronic. It took him hours to repair that thing, especially as he had to search for fitting parts, but somehow, he managed to do it. Not only that, but he had also managed to improve on things he missed when he put those animatronics together the first time. Rest assured, the animatronic was ready, but the one thing that was missing were several key features that were necessary to keep it functioning. His plan was to repair the endoskeletons first and then work on the AI and other features that needed to be polished.

He looked at the parts that were strewn across the floor, feeling tired, but satisfied. He knew he'd be spending the entire night here, with maybe a few hours of sleep. However, he felt that it would be worth it. He knew that this would work.

Sometimes, you need to push yourself to your limits to achieve something extraordinary.

He could hear the scraping and banging coming from down the hallway, rolling his eyes and sighing.

''Sorry, Bran! I'm not going to let you out!'' he yelled.

He had actually taken the attack in stride, figuring that Bran was angry about the imprisonment. However, he hoped that he would eventually calm down, which is why he locked him into that room after activating the animatronic. He currently had no time dealing with Bran, as he needed to fix the animatronics, but he knew that he'd have to confront him later. He was actually glad that Afton had managed to get Bran to walk and even try to speak, but he figured that he could help his old partner even further. He grinned.

It won't take much longer until everything's ready. Once I'm done with this, there's only one more thing I need to take care of.

xXx

He could hear them. He knew that those voices belonged to the children and the adults that would visit this place. He knew that this wasn't just a trick made by some security guard, as he had seen the location open. He had seen the people who came here to eat, play and be entertained. Unlike the horror attraction, this place seemed to have lived up to its potential.

What a deceptive calling. I knew it was a lie the moment I heard it, obviously. But it is intriguing, nonetheless.

After having brought here, he found himself in sitting in a small, poorly lit room, staring at a man covered in bandages, wearing a low baseball hat that obscured his eyes. There was something strange about him, something about the way he acted, but he wasn't sure what it exactly was. The man was tense, although he wasn't surprised about that. Who wouldn't be tense about having to monitor a salvaged animatronic that might lash out at him at any moment given?

Nevertheless, even though it angered him, Scraptrap had to admit that the electric shocks he got were deserved. Still, it was a small price to pay for entering a place like this, a place where he could start his reign of terror once again.

How can I resist, a promise, such as this.

All he had to do was to find a way out of this maze made out of hallways and air-vents in order to reach them. Then, no one would be safe.

xXx

Springtrap's ears twitched slightly, his eyes still closed. He had been sitting on the floor, leaned against the wall next to the stage, trying to calm down. Honestly, he didn't really like being constantly reminded of what had happened, seriously regretting what he had done, but the memories just kept pouring in. There was no way to escape them, as they were part of him. At least his headache somewhat lessened.

''You won't mind if I join you?''

Springtrap opened his eyes, seeing Sam crouching in front of him, her head tilted as she looked at him. She seemed to be concerned about him.

''Of course not,'' he said, with Sam sitting next to him. ''So, have you found anything interesting?''

''Besides the animatronics and the El Chip cardboard cutout, no,'' she replied. Springtrap's eyes suddenly glowed in a faint purple as he grinned.

''Have you considered taking the job as a night guard once the location opens?'' he asked.

''I somehow doubt that I'll be able to qualify as one, even if the new manager doesn't care about hiring an underage teenager as a night guard,'' Sam replied. ''Whether I'd accept the job, though…''

''Knowing you, you would,'' Springtrap said in a deadpan tone. Sam smiled sheepishly.

''Well, while the reasonable me screams that I shouldn't accept, the other side is already asking for the uniform and the keys,'' she said. ''At least I might have a better chance of surviving than the other night guards had, as I'm aware that it is possible for the animatronics to become haunted instead of simply malfunctioning.''

''Not to mention, you already have the keys for the building and you were here several times, checking on the place,'' Springtrap pointed out.

''True,'' Sam said, shrugging. ''Despite how insane everything is, I'm still happy to be part of it.''

''You know, you shouldn't say things you might regret later,'' Springtrap told her, noticing the affronted look on her expression.

''I don't think I will regret this,'' she replied in a more serious tone.

''Sam, I didn't want to offend you, but I'm just talking from experience,'' Springtrap said. ''You know well that I've said a lot of things I wish I could take back.''

Sam gazed at him, then looked down, falling silent. Springtrap was surprised to see that she didn't protest, but he was aware that she did take his advice seriously. Then, she looked up to him with a soft smile.

''I understand what you want to tell me, but that still doesn't change my opinion,'' she told him in a warm, but firm tone. ''I am not regretting befriending you, William.''

Springtrap wanted to protest, but he knew that he couldn't win this argument. Even though he was aware that their friendship could affect Sam's life negatively, he had to admit that he didn't really regret either being friends with her. This wasn't anymore a matter of what might happen or what the consequences would be, but rather what both of them wanted. Was he really supposed to constantly fear interacting with her and make her happy through innocent means like talking to her? He didn't want to hurt her, but being afraid that something might happen made him quite frustrated.

''You know, I won't let you regret it,'' Springtrap said, with Sam giving him a curious look. He shrugged. ''In a way, we're both right. I mean, I'm trying to warn you that not everything is as it seems and to be careful, while you're pointing out that none of us is doing anything wrong. I just hate how frustrating it can get trying to reason whether a decision I made was good or bad.''

''I understand that,'' Sam replied. ''You're under a lot of pressure and you're trying to do everything to make the best out of your current situation.''

''I guess we both need to build up more confidence, else we'll get mentally destroyed by our fears and insecurities,'' Springtrap said, glancing at Sam, who nodded.

''Well, if it does make you feel better, I do agree that you did deserve being stuck in Hell for what you had done,'' Sam said, with Springtrap almost facefaulting.

''That is not what I meant when I told you to not say things you'll regret,'' he told her, feeling irritated. Sam was just grinning sheepishly, while Springtrap rolled his eyes. However, it did seem that both were in a much better mood than they were before. They was silence for a moment, with Springtrap giving Sam a determined look. ''You know, I don't think I had really told you everything about myself or what I had done.''

''Yeah, because you made it clear that there were things you were uncomfortable talking about,'' Sam said in a deadpan tone, with Springtrap feeling that he messed up again.

''I know,'' he muttered, then shook his head, getting a grip on himself. ''All I wanted to say that it is easier to deal with these overwhelming memories if I have someone to talk to about them.''

''Okay, then,'' Sam said, giving him a curious look. ''What do you want to tell me?''

Springtrap looked a little reluctant, suddenly feeling anxious. Only because he knew he had to talk to someone about what had happened didn't mean that he wouldn't feel uncomfortable about it. He sighed, feeling like an idiot.

''I believe that I had already told you that I had worked as a night guard at Freddy's at some point in my life,'' he said, glancing at the prize corner. Sam followed his gaze.

''In other words, you had to deal with the Toys, the haunted Withereds and Puppet,'' she said. ''I can already imagine how that went.''

''Well, it wasn't a complete disaster, as I had managed to lock up the Withereds and block Puppet, but I couldn't do much against the Toys, though. Tampering with their recognition system didn't help much either,'' Springtrap explained.

''Still, you survived,'' Sam pointed out.

''Not that it mattered in the long run,'' Springtrap said in a deadpan tone, tugging lightly at his purple bowtie, with Sam giggling at the irony. ''Nevertheless, at some point, I had figured out that it was the Puppet, or rather, Charlie, who sent them after me in order to kill me. The most I could do is to leave for the day shift and let someone else take over.''

''Right, and if my theory was correct, that someone not only had to deal with a bunch of homicidal animatronics, but was also probably the victim of The Bite of '87,'' Sam said. Springtrap shrugged.

''I wasn't around at that point, so I cannot confirm anything about that Bite,'' he replied. ''Even if it weren't for the murders, Freddy's might've closed because of that incident.''

''The only problem with that is the fact that the reason the animatronics were so aggressive towards adults was because you had tampered with them,'' Sam pointed out, with Springtrap looking stunned. ''Let's be honest here – you are the person that is responsible for literally everything that went wrong at Freddy's. It doesn't matter whether your involvement was direct or indirect, there would always be something you had done that influenced the outcome in some way.''

''I am aware of that, but do I really need to claim responsibility for everything?'' Springtrap asked in a frustrated tone, his arms crossed. ''I had already admitted to the murders and everything that had led up to that, but there are certain things where I draw the line. Fazbear Entertainment trying to covering things up is not one of my problems.''

''I know,'' Sam said in a calm tone, pointing at the animatronics on the stage. ''If the animatronics start to act weird again, you wouldn't be at fault, but there's no doubt that someone would attempt to blame you for it.''

Springtrap was fuming, but had to admit that, considering what he had experienced in the past week, Sam was right. Somehow, he would always be to blame for this horror show even if he had no control over what had happened. He then glanced at the stage.

''Have you ever wondered what would happen if certain events had never occurred?'' Springtrap asked in a quiet tone, looking at Sam.

''Do you mean the murders or something else?'' Sam asked.

''Pick any event you want,'' Springtrap replied. ''No matter what it is, I'm pretty sure that things would've ended up playing out differently.''

''Maybe, but some events, like your demise at Henry's location, probably wouldn't,'' Sam said, with Springtrap looking at her curiously. ''Even if you didn't enter it, I'm sure that Henry would've found another way to burn you to ashes.''

''Or, imagine that I did find a way out of that maze and into the main area, and I met you then. I think that I'd just be thinking about trying to lure you away in order to kill you,'' Springtrap said, frowning.

''Not that you tried to do that the first time we had met,'' Sam said in a deadpan tone, with Springtrap sighing and lowering his head in resignation.

''I'm sorry,'' he said as he glanced at Sam, a look of defeat on his expression. ''Honestly, I hate myself for even telling you that.''

''Don't worry, I'm not too upset about it,'' Sam said, trying to cheer him up. ''Besides, I know you don't want to hurt me.''

''You know, it may be ironical, but it seems that that mental breakdown I experienced in Hell was indeed necessary. At least, it helped me to reflect on several things, even though I needed outside help to move on,'' Springtrap said. ''I know that I'm just repeating myself here, but I seriously don't deserve your support, even though I do appreciate it.''

''Of course you don't deserve her support! You're basically telling her you want to murder her!''

''Not again,'' Sam groaned, while Springtrap just frowned.

''I am quite sure that I made it clear that this was never my intent,'' he said.

''It doesn't matter,'' the kid replied. ''You two just said that you always end up responsible for everything that went wrong here. Also, don't tell me that you care about her, because if you did, you would just leave.''

''I am not leaving,'' Springtrap said firmly, his eyes glowing purple.

''Then, once Freddy's opens, people will be in danger because of you,'' the kid replied, with Springtrap feeling furious. ''It doesn't matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS be a murderer!''

Springtrap's eyes flared up purple, with Sam giving him a concerned look. He understood that she was worried about him, that she wanted to comfort him and that she wanted to tell him that everything would be fine. He was frustrated, but at the same time, he felt desperate. He knew that he couldn't deny that the kid was right about what they had said.

It doesn't matter what I do… I'll always be a murderer…

xXx

''Follow me.''

He looked at the little girl as she wiped her tears off, giving him a look hopeful look Her parents had told her that her best friend was gone, having been hit by a car, but she wished that this was just a lie. He told her that he had found her puppy, safe and alive, and that he could show him to her. Somehow, she trusted him, having been accepting his gifts, which consisted of tokens, and advice, whether it was about the game she had been playing for the past days or the fact that her parents might've lied to her about the fate of her dog.

''Where is he?'' she asked. He just beckoned to her to come closer, to follow him to the far back of the restaurant. She was a little reluctant, as she had never been at this part of the restaurant, nor did she believe that she should be here. Still, Spring Bonnie wouldn't lie to her, would he?

''He's here,'' he said calmly, pointing at a dark room. There was an undertone of excitement in his voice, but she thought that this was only because he was eager to show her the puppy he had found. She smiled as she looked at him and entered the room. Spring Bonnie followed her inside, the man inside the costume having a wide grin on his expression.

Then, the door closed.

Links:

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#Five Nights at Freddy's: The Untold Story (Masterlist)

#Five Nights at Freddy's: The Untold Story #Five Nights at Freddy's: Salvaged #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #william afton #springtrap #henry emily #drawkill animatronics

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thistooisyuri-ttv · 1 year ago

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(Prompt)

69. Dirty Imbecile - The Happy Fitz

The cold embrace of stone is soothing to the blistered and bruised, the nice fresh air, filling lung, after lung, after lung, after lung. The trees offer a gift of shade from this wrathful light piercing the skin, dragging its claws up and down, ripping out the eyes. This is nice, this is where I belong, isn't it.

It’s not long before the putrid and gruesome curse fills the mind, squeezing the skull till all that's left is the memory of last night. Not even the spirits that warmed the belly then will help now. Perhaps what's needed is some modern medicine, a flick of the wrist if you want to be literal.

An incantation shall wash away that of ill-bearing, and in a moment all that ravaged this world is gone, and the stone that once cradled me has taken unto itself a quest of vengeance.

“Upsi-daisy!” The legs are a bit wobbly but that should sort itself out soon enough. Another flick of the wrist and the mud hiding my true beauty is no more, allowing these fine silken robes of various blues, purples, yellows, and reds to shine with glee in the no-longer spiteful rays of light now caressing this sweet life.

Now that the world has stopped it’s spinning and the people lose their twins the sight of a blissful street market grows ahead. Folks of all nature, falling into the symphony of voices, buzzing about their business, fill this precious scene.

Where should I fit in? Who should I be in this play on life? Well, I’m the main character of course! Am I not the most important person in my life? Exactly! Now, where would I like my story to take me? Why don’t I see what happened to those side characters that put me in this predicament. That's a splendid idea, perhaps I’ll give them a side arc of their own.

Not too far from here is the dwelling of last night, that wretched hostel full of braggarts and bullies all the same. Must I go back? No need, but the looks on their faces would be nice to see, oh for this fantasy to be realized, not only would I make a scene, but I’m sure word would spread, and disgrace would fall on those I was made a mock of. How nice it’d be to see this come to fruition. If I must, then onward to my next big entrance.

This puny establishment again, how I loathe your tawny, rustic facade. Inside this beast is the calling of action, the climax I oh so look towards. All that holds me back now is this door.

A door flies through the room taking a table and some empty mugs with it. As planned so far, “WHAT the FUCK!” Clamors a barmaid, aghast by this display. My line: “Not to worry, that was for dramatise, I’ll fix it once I’m done.” and with that the poor broad slumps to the ground at my will. “Now now, if I’m not mistaken, it was… You, You, and You that I’m here for.”

An ugly bastard stands from his stool, with a belly like that I too would be surprised by such a thing. “Ain’t it the supertenditious, rich little brat. Come back with a clean set of curtains I see, and the same amount of coin to lose I hope.” The stench of his breath berrates my senses with each word, what a filthy creature.

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘superfluous’. And for your information, the only coin I have will be coming off your body.” An unpracticed line but it got the point across. Why don’t I make sure he shuts up before this room turns toxic again, and with just the thought he falls paralyzed to the floor. His posse stands abrupt, unsure whether to help him or stay my fury. One finally has a coherent thought and rushes like a starved dingo, sword drawn, with not a moment of planning. Queued by a snap of the fingers, the last thing he sees is the crowd to the right of him watching in awe as his neck contorts around a broken spine, and his body slams against the wooden floor, highlighting the wonderful acoustics in this room.

“You, final boy, bring me the coin pouches of you and yours.”

The pathetic excuse of a man, amiss by the sight, lamenting what's to come of him.

“NOW!”

The woeful varmint scurries from his fallen comrades and fulfills my command. Head bowed, purses promptly held afront, and as my final gesture of mercy, my leg between his. Unfortunately, the room doesn’t resonate when he hits the floor, but the jingle of coin does as it dangles at my side, eager to join me to the end of this arc… “Shit, I forgot the door…”

#whenever hear this song i always think of Alphonse in his villain arc #writing #writing prompt #spotify wrapped #ask game #alphonse #dnd #oc #dirty imbecile #the happy fitz

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cambion-companion · 2 years ago

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Thank you for answering me and for accepting my request ❤️ as far as the scenerio goes I'd like to see reader (aemond secret lover who's also the eldest strong) finding out about her brother's passing and confronting aemond about it

Hi my love! Yes, we can get some angst up in here! I hope you like!

Aemond x Strong!Reader | haha they're also pretty strong | No content warnings | Pre-established romance between the two

Your hair streamed behind you, cloak flapping in the wind as you strode across the beach at Dragonstone. It was late, the moon already hung high in the sky, reflecting its light off the crashing waves. No one knew of your departure, least of all your mother the queen and heir to the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra would never have let you leave for King’s Landing during such a perilous time, but the anger rushing in your ears would not allow you to sit idle. Your young dragon, Nirsiphes, waited for you by the high black rocks. Her inky black scales the perfect camouflage for a nighttime flight. You climbed up to the leather dragon saddle, shouted “Sōvegon” to Nirsiphes, urging the dragon to launch herself into the night sky.

The flight to King’s Landing was a short one on dragon back, you had made it many times before. You did not know exactly what you would do once there, you planned on landing a discreet distance from the city walls and sneaking in through one of the many covert entrances you knew about. But once at your final destination, you shook your head, you would deal with Aemond when that time came.

The beauty of having a small dragon is you can land them relatively near a large city and go unnoticed, the downside of having a small dragon…well…your little brother Lucerys had had a small dragon. “Umbagon, Nirsiphes.” You urged your dragon to stay in the place you had chosen to land, raising your dark hood over your head you hurried toward the Red Keep.

It was the earliest hours of the morning and the stars still shone brightly above you as you winded your way through the empty streets. Your boots made soft sound on the stone floor as you snuck past the guards nodding off at the doors and into the fortress. From there it was short work, your movements quick and decisive, making your way to where you knew Aemond’s chambers to be. His rooms were nearest to the library, as that was one of his favorite haunts, your feet knew the path well.

With gentle care, you tried the handle and found his door unlocked. The fool. You quietly eased the door open on polished hinges, just wide enough for you to slip through and close it again behind you. Moonlight spilled in through the windows and balcony doors, illuminating the room enough for you to see the sleeping form on the four-poster bed.

You approached him, flexing your hands nervously at your sides, coming to a stop directly over Aemond. His eyepatch was off, as you had seen him before countless times, the sapphire glowing from the light of the setting moon. His hair was splayed on the pillow, surrounding his face in a web of silver. You hadn’t seen him look this peaceful before, his angular face slack in sleep. He didn’t deserve to be at peace, not when your brother’s corpse floated somewhere in Shipbreaker Bay.

You reached toward Aemond’s face, whether to slap him or smother him, you knew not which. His eye snapped open, glaring at your face, his hand shot up gripping your wrist. He pulled and brought you tumbling onto the mattress as Aemond maneuvered himself above you, pinning you to the bed. “I wondered when you would show up in my rooms, Y/N.” You struggled against him, but Aemond used both his hands and legs to hold you fast. “However, you don’t strike me as an overly competent assassin.”

“I didn’t come here to kill you.” You said, not sure if it was the truth. You stilled against him, a curtain of silver hair framing his handsome face.

His hands moved quickly, searching your body for weapons. Upon finding none Aemond sat back, still sitting on your legs to prevent you moving. “Then why are you here, if not to exact revenge for Lucerys.”

“Don’t you dare say his name.” You hissed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “You murdered him, Aemond. He was a fourteen year old boy!”

“Keep your voice down or I will gag and bind you like a trussed turkey.” Aemond growled down at you, his face twisted with anger and…something you couldn’t place. “I am well aware how old he was.” He looked away from you briefly. “Will you allow me to speak, or have you decided my guilt already?”

The sudden weariness in Aemond’s took you by surprise. As he got up off you, standing and moving to light a few sconces in the room, you sat up and pulled your feet under yourself. “I wish to know the truth.”

“And if the truth is I killed him?” Aemond crossed the room to a table and poured water into two pewter goblets, glancing over at you.

“Then I will kill you.” You said simply, earning a rueful smile from the prince as he looked you over.

“I appreciate your anger and I regret your grief.” Aemond returned to you and offered you the goblet. “I did not want your brother dead. I tried to stop it.”

You gazed at his face a moment, his expression was grave, earnest. You at last took the drink from his proffered hand. Aemond did not move to sit with you, instead he remained standing beside the bed. A silence fell as both you and Aemond took a pensive sip of water.

“‘Tried to stop it’?” You prompted after a moment.

Aemond’s eye, which had been looking out the window, flicked back to your face. “We lost control of our dragons. Arrax blew fire into Vhagar’s face, and she pursued him. I was…powerless to stop what happened next.” A fleeting wince crossed his face at the admission.

“Have you told anyone else this?” Your knuckles were white as you clutched the goblet.

“No one. Not that they would believe me.” Aemond looked to the ceiling as if searching for a reprieve there.

“What…exactly…were the circumstances leading to you losing control of the largest dragon in Westeros?” You voice dripped venom.

Aemond heard it and downed the last of his drink. “Lucerys arrived at Storm’s End to parlay with Borros Baratheon, trying to get him on the Black’s…your family’s side. I had arrived long before and already offered an engagement to one of his daughters.” Your heart constricted at his words, but you fought off the feeling. “I demanded Luke give me one of his eyes as payment for mine. He fled. I pursued.”

You closed your eyes, willing yourself to not lose control of your temper. “You pursued.” You echoed. “Not thinking of the possible consequences? Forever entrenched in your own desire for revenge?”

With a sudden movement, Aemond’s face was very close to yours, his violet eye wild. “I did not know it was possible to lose control of my dragon, Y/N. I wanted to scare the boy, not kill him.” Aemond withdrew, quick as a snake, turning his back to you and running shaky hands through his tousled hair.

You stood. “And how did that work out for you, Aemond?”

He did not answer, nor did he turn to look at you. Instead walking to one of the window’s gazing listlessly out across King’s Landing, his long fingers tapping the windowsill.

You made your way to the table, pouring yourself more water.

“I would not do that to you.” Aemond’s voice was soft, you almost didn’t catch his words.

“What?” Glancing up you saw he now faced you, his expression had lost all pretense of anger, instead falling into utter sadness.

It pulled at your heart and, almost against your will, you found yourself setting down your drink and crossing the room to take his face in your hands. Your thumb traced his jaw, the vertical scar on his cheek, along the lips you knew so well.

Aemond pulled you closer to him, his hands at your waist. “I am named ‘Kinslayer’, viewed as a degenerate and monster.” He raised a hand, brushing the back of his fingers down your face. “The pieces are falling, Y/N, what happened to your brother set in motion irrevocable damage. Your family is soon to be at war with mine, one I don’t see many surviving.”

His purple eye glistened with suppressed grief. Conflicting emotions flitted across his features as he looked down at you. Guilt, anger, sadness, affection. Several tears dropped from your eyes, running down your cheeks as you gazed at him. Aemond brushed them away with his fingers, leaning down to place a kiss below each of your damp eyes.

“You should leave, dawn is soon to break, you will need to be out of the city before daylight comes.”

His grip on you did not loosen and you snaked your hands around his torso, leaning your head on his chest. You felt his sigh ruffle your hair as Aemond rested his chin on your crown.

“Am I likely to see you again?” You knew the answer as you asked it.

Aemond paused a moment, his heartbeat thrumming in your ear.

“I hope not, Y/N.”

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hey-kae · 2 years ago

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hi bestie! i’ve been MIA from requests for like a month because of my mental health and i was feeling so bad. can i request a comfort fic with pierre and charles? (the reader dating pierre pls) 🥺👉🏻👈🏻🥺

Safe and Sound

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x female reader

Warnings: nothing i think

a/n: i hope you’re feeling better and i’m sorry it took so long to write this for you🫶🏻

It was already night when Pierre’s flight home touched down in the city that would reunite him with the person he loved, eleven in the evening to be exact. Usually, you’d be the one waiting for him impatiently at the gate but this time, he insisted you wait at home. He didn’t want you to drive the long road to the airport alone at this time. Therefore, he dragged himself into a taxi, choosing one driven by an elderly woman to reduce the chances of being recognized. He was simply too drained for any unnecessary interaction.

An hour later, the silver car came to a stop in front of the apartment complex and as he paid the lady, retrieved his luggage and stepped out of the car without any suspicious remarks from his ride home, he could deem his plan as successful.

Soft and repetitive elevator music kept him company as he pressed the floor’s number, leaned against the wall behind him and shut his exhausted eyes for the few seconds it took for the elevator to come to a stop.

Pierre’s hand dug through the deep pockets of his sweatpants, grabbing the metal object he recognized as his key while he marched down the hallway, the low rattling of his suitcases’ wheels echoing against the walls until it was joined by the jiggle of keys and the click of them turning in the keyhole.

His foot pushed open the door and his luggage was immediately disposed of by the entrance, his jacket also being abandoned on the back of a couch as he made his way inside of the quiet and dark apartment.

He flicked on a flight and watched it flicker to life, faintly illuminating the living room in front of him. Deep down, he expected you to be on one of the couches but there was still no sight of you.

“Baby…” He called as he started looking for you, “Je suis arrivé. T’es ou?” I’m here. Where are you? His voiced echoes around the room, toured the house, and came back with nothing but utter silence.

Even seconds later and after yet another call to you, he received no replies and that is when he knew to head straight for the bedroom since you were probably asleep.

Pierre creaked the wooden door open and poked his head into the pitch dark room, the only light source being the singular ray of street light that penetrated through a miniature opening between the curtain but even that wasn’t enough for him to get any insight about whether or not you were in the room. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and turned on the flashlight on the lowest setting, using it to guide him to the button of the small lamp on the vanity in the corner, the soft warm light immediately flooding the space with enough luminescence for his eyes to be able to see you hair poking out from under a pile of blankets and pillows.

“There you are.” He whispered to himself, now leaving his phone aside and getting rid of his shoes.

“Bébé… » He cooed as he crouched down by your side of the bed, his hands putting themselves to work, pushing away the thick duvet so he could see your face. Your hair was tied in a loose, messy bun that defeated its entire purpose since strands of it were draped over your features. Pierre also pushed those away before calling your name a few times, attempting to wake you up.

Usually, you were rather a light sleeper. Anything would wake you up, sometimes even Pierre moving in bed while asleep so it was quite weird the fact that you were still asleep. It must mean that you were quite exhausted.

While attempting to wake you up, Pierre allowed his eyes to scan the room. It was rather messy but he wasn’t exactly entitled to judge. However, it did concern him, the amount of empty coffee cups and energy drink cans. It was no secret that you enjoyed caffeine but he also knew you to drink it moderately.

It was ironic, though. Despite all those caffeinated drinks, he was struggling to interrupt your heavy sleep.

“Hey, baby.” He softly caressed you cheek. “I’m home. You told me to wake you up when I arrive.” Pierre tried talking to you but to no avail.

“Chérie, tu m’inquiètes.” Darling, you’re worrying me. He said while lightly tapping your cheek, “Allez… Lève-toi.” C’mon… Get up.

All he received in return was a groan and a frown as you attempted to turn to the other side, only to be stunned by a strong arm preventing you from doing so.

You fluttered your eyes open, vision still unclear and tried to understand what was happening. For a second there, you were scared because as far as you can recall, you had fallen asleep alone in the apartment and now, as you were waking up hours later, there was someone preventing you from moving about freely in the bed. It took a moment to register that Pierre would be home tonight and while your mind rediscovered that fact, your boyfriend was staring at your confused expression, waiting for you to realize what was happening.

He also continued to watch as you sprang up into a sitting position, you hand flying to your mouth in what seemed to be horror and now, it was his turn to be confuse because he didn’t quite understand your reaction to his presence, especially when you knew he was coming home.

“Shit, shit…” He heard you repeatedly whisper to yourself, making it even harder for him to understand what was happening right now.

Before he knew it, you were trying to get out of bed in a hurry like you were taken back by his presence.

“Hey, hey… Relax, it’s just me.” His arms wrapped around your shoulders and he felt how tense you were in his hold. Therefore, it was practically instinctual, the way his hands began tracing comforting and soothing patterns on your back.

“What wrong, bébé?” He asked with a soft, low voice and you couldn’t help the way your shoulders dropped in surrender, the tears already welling up in your eyes.

Amidst all the chaos in your mind the past few days, between all the conflicting thoughts and emotions and messes of ideas, the important detail of Pierre arriving home tonight completely slipped your mind, hence why you were in deep sleep. Guilt was tugging at your heart as you thought of Pierre coming into the apartment to find it dark, cold, messy, and pretty much lifeless.

All throughout your relationship with him, one thing you always made sure to do was to make sure he had something to look forward to when returning from a trip abroad. Sometimes, it was as simple as you waiting for him with his favorite food ready and sometimes you went all out, but the bottom line was that he never came home to nothing, not even a hug.

Your arms wrapped tightly around him, his scent already invading your senses, easing up the hell that was the past few days, your head nuzzling in the crook of his neck. Your behavior was really starting to worry him, sparking a little fear in his heart, but it wasn’t much time later when he felt a tear run down onto his skin. Only then, Pierre realized you were crying.

“Tu pleurs?” You’re crying? He pulled back, “Are you okay, baby? What’s wrong?” He asked, his tone heavy with concern, his hands moving to cup your face delicately, his thumbs swiping over your burning cheeks, wiping away the rolling tears that he hated seeing so much.

“I’m sorry… I forgot.” You sobbed, your lips quivering as you pushed out the words, “Fuck, how did I forget?”

Lately, this was an often repeated sequence of events. It would all start with a tear or two then quickly escalate into a sob session that you had no idea how to control, let alone stop.

This episode of your life was hectic and difficult. The job you were currently in felt like being trapped and every other vacancy you applied to hadn’t worked out. Your closest friend that you always confided in had left the country with no plans to return and now the time difference made it incredibly difficult to have a proper conversation. The small things were majorly affecting your mood, like dropping your metal straw when putting it in your cup and the clatter it produced against the floor, your favorite series being taken off Netflix, the internet lagging while you were sending out a message… All these things had put tears in your eyes when they happened. To top it all off, you were spiraling down that road of countless unread texts on your phone that you saw but never bothered opening, irregular sleep times, excessive caffeine in all the ways you could get it, bad nutrition, forcing yourself to do things as simple as brushing your teeth, aking the bed or sometimes even charging your phone.

You knew that gray area and state of living. You revisited that dark chamber every once in a while, every few months when everything would feel overwhelming, when you felt like nothing was going your way, that you weren’t getting anywhere anyway, like all your efforts were practically useless.

“You forgot?” Pierre’s confusion snapped you out of your reminiscent thoughts, “You forgot what, baby?”

It felt wrong when you imagined telling him the actual truth but what were you gonna say instead?

“I forgot that you come home today... I’m sorry.” You clarified while refusing to meet his eyes, and as the words slipped out, you came to the realization that this wasn’t the only forgotten memo. Charles was supposed to come along with him, accompany him home so the three of you could hang out together for the first time in a while for old times’ sake.

The three of you were lifelong friends. You met when you were all really young and instantly became friends. Karting was one of your hobbies and even though you saw it as nothing more than that while they saw it as a future and a dream to pursue, you, Pierre, and Charles bonded over it. Eventually, a tight-knit, honest friendship formed and grew up with you.

“That’s it? That’s all?” Pierre asked with a small, comforting smile while his eyes watched you nod.

“Cherie, you’re human. It’s normal to forget things sometimes. It doesn’t upset me.” He reassured and climbed into bed beside you, instantly holding you close.

He expected for things to get better from that point on. He really did; but you were sniffling into his side, sobbing and gasping for air within seconds. Your hands were clinging onto his shirt and your tears were dripping onto his neck as you sheltered your face in the crook of his neck.

You absolutely loved being in his arms but it was so comforting that the contrast between how you felt now and how you’ve been feeling recently was shattering you completely. Maybe, atop of everything, you missed the warmth of having someone you loved and trusted around, within reach.

Before you knew it, Pierre was sat up against the headboard, pulling you with him and cuddling you into his chest, letting you cry it all out, more than willing to comfort you through whatever it was that was bugging you.

“I’m right here for you. Tu peux me parler de n’importe quoi.” You can talk to me about anything. Pierre reassured and you instinctively held him closer.

“It’s just a few bad days. I’m overreacting a little.” You straggled, struggling to speak without gasping for air between the words.

“Don’t say that. It’s okay to be upset.” He soothed, his hands rubbing up and down your back as he softly kissed your temples, “Tu veux m’en parler?” You wanna tell me about it?

Right then, the words came flowing out as if you had been craving letting them out. You told him about everything all while he comforted you through the conversation. You told him about the hatred you had for the job, about the declined applications, the distance causing you and your bestfriend to drift apart, the mood swings and the tendency to get overwhelmed and irritated quickly… He listened to everything you had to say with meticulous attention, delivering occasional kisses to your forehead.

“I just hate it so much. I feel like a whiny kid sometimes when I cry over stupid shit that I would easily breeze past on a normal day and I hate how suffocating everything feels. I don’t know what to do.” You fumbled for words, fidgeting with your fingers as you spoke.

“Let’s start step by step, okay?” Pierre pulled you back to him, taking the hairtie out of your hair and brushing through the locks with his fingers, “Tomorrow, Charles is getting here so we can spend time with him. I’ll call in sick for you, tell them you lost your voice or something, we’ll spend the day just relaxing and recharging, then maybe you could take a small vacation? We could go visit your bestfriend and I could meet her and when we’re back and after you’ve distanced yourself from your job a little, you’d be able to know if you actually wanna quit it, and if you do and be right there helping you apply to other jobs and sending your resume.” He smiled at you, “Ça marche?” Okay?

You hesitated for a second there then nodded.

“Perfect.” Pierre grinned and briefly kissed your lips, “For now, what do you want to do?”

Your eyes teared up again, “Just wanna hug you. I missed you so much.”

“Oh, baby. We could cuddle for as long as you want. Tu m’as manqué tellement aussi.” I missed you so much too.

Following that, Pierre quickly slipped out of bed, changed into something more comfortable then eagerly came back to you, joining you under the sheets and holding you protectively while you continued crying. It was undeniable that he absolutely despised seeing you in this state, but he was well aware you needed to let it out and as long as he had you between his arms, comforting you, he would bear with the pulls on his heartstrings he would feel with every sob of yours,

“Let it all out. Je serras toujours là, à tes cotes, chérie.” I’ll always be by your side, darling. He made sure to reassure you.

“Je t’aime, Pierre.” I love you, Pierre. You replied, your tone showing thankfulness.

“Je t’aime aussi, bébé.” I love you too, baby.

The morning came and with it came noises originating from the living room. Checking your phone for the time, you realized that you had slept in.

You dragged yourself out of the empty bed, into the room alive with the two voices you recognized as Pierre’s and Charles’. Pierre probably picked him up at the airport earlier while you were still asleep. Quite frankly, you were glad he didn’t wake you up since that was the best sleep you had gotten in a while

“C’étaient quelques jours difficiles pour elle. Je veux qu’elle se sent mieux alors j’ai organisé quelques choses pour qu’on fait aujourd’hui. J’ai aussi acheté ses snacks préfères.” These were a few difficult days for her. I want her to feel better so I organised a few things for us to do today. I also bought her favourite snacks. You heard Pierre explain with a strict tone.

“Ouais, ça roule. Tu sais bien que c’est n’est pas un problème de ma part. Je suis toujours prêt pour aider.” Okay, that works. You know i have no problem with that. I’m always ready to help. You could hear Charles’ tone change, “Quand t’es devenus un petit lover-boy?” When did you become a little lover-boy? And just like that, he was teasing Pierre.

That’s when you stepped into the room, greeting them with a simple “bonjour”. Both their heads snapped towards you, bright smiles on their faces.

Pierre got up and gave you a quick kiss then Charles hugged you briefly, telling you that’s it’s been too long.

“You slept well?” Pierre asked with concern when you took a seat next to him.

You nodded and gave him a genuine smile, your eyes shifting to the center table that was filled with bags and a box of what looked like donuts.

“Donuts?” You asked with delight and raised brows.

“Yes.” Charles beamed and handed the box to Pierre who immediately put himself to work, practically ripping off the frail lid before putting the box in front of you for you to pick first.

If anything, that was a perfect description of how Charles’ stay played out: him and Pierre being the dream team in getting you out of the bad mood you had been in.

Practically all your favorite movies were played at least once. Chocolate, ice cream, noodles, pasta, pizza… all your favorite foods were involved. At some point, a racing competition on the sim came up, what was extremely reminiscent of the karting days and the battles the three of you would have over a prize that, at most, was a few euros or a candy bar.

You were grateful for their company and how good they knew you.

A few days, after Charles left, you and Pierre took off to go visit your best friend and as the days of the trip sequenced, you realized how lucky you were to have Pierre as your boyfriend, simply because it was safe to say he knew you enough to know the key to making you feel better and loved you more than enough to make sure you were feeling your best.

It was becoming clear to you that as long as he’s by your side, supporting you, you’d always be safe and sound.

#pierre gasly x you #pierre gasly oneshots #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly imagines #pierre gasly drabble #pierre gasly oneshot #f1 x you #f1 fluff #f1 oneshots #f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 x reader

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fqjth · 3 years ago

Text

obsession (4)

pairing ➵ norman osborn x reader

summary ➵ after weeks of living at the osborn mansion, norman begins to show his softer side

warnings ➵ smut, thigh riding, oral (f receiving), fingering, soft sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise!kink

words ➵ 3062

other parts ➵ part one, part three, part five,

It was strange staying with Norman, living at the Osborn Manor. That was if you could consider her arrangement as living there. It was something she still couldn't wrap her head around.

After that night, the one where he had asked her to come home with him, to stay at his house, Norman's whole demeanour had changed. Yes, he still looked at her with the hunger and lust of a wild animal, but his actions were softer, kinder. He spoke to her like his equal and not just some girl he enjoyed fucking. Which he did. Oh god, did he enjoy fucking her.

Now that she was there, practically at his disposal 24/7, he wasted no time having his way with her whenever he pleased. It was never an issue for Y/N, the way he would fuck her whenever he needed or wanted. She had become addicted to his touch, to his words and the way he would make her feel. He was a drug, and she was hooked.

However, over the weeks she spent living in his house, she saw a different side to Norman, one she hadn't seen before. The only version she had come accustomed to was the rough and domineering man that had followed her after work and fucked her in an alleyway. Now, she saw him as not only the intelligent founder of Oscorp, but as a gentle man that cared for her deeply.

It was in the little things he did. Whether it be a kiss on the cheek before he exited the room, or the way he would rub circles on her back as she fell asleep. He would compliment whenever he had the chance, words of affirmation constantly leaving his lips. Even on days where she felt her least beautiful, he would be there to assure her that she was nothing but perfect. He treated her with such care that she couldn't help but develop feelings for him, feelings other than lust.

He sat across from her, eyes focused on the book he held. She watched as he read, something she found herself doing often. Whether it be him reading a paper for work, or just leisurely reading, she enjoyed the sight. His brow furrowed in concentration, the lay he licked his lips to turn the page, it was entrancing. She sat on the lounge opposite to his, in one (of the man living spaces that took occupancy in the Osborn Manor. It was her favourite room by far, quiet and on the opposite end of the main part of the house. A perfect place to collect one's thoughts.

The room was average sized, hidden behind two large wooden doors that had rusted golden handles. Three lounges sat around the fireplace, creating a square-like shape with a marble coffee table in the centre. On one wall sat a large open-panel window, dark blue curtains draped over the glass. On the other, a built-in bookcase, hundreds if not thousands of books piled on top of each other. Y/N sure most hadn't been touched in years, collecting dust on the hardcovers.

It was one thing she loved the most about living with Norman, the amounts of books he had. Almost every room at a bookcase, big or small. She'd find herself curled up with a new book every few days, it was a good way to pass the time while Norman was at work.

He had made her quit her job at the restaurant, telling her she had no need for it now, he would support her financially, buy her things and pay for the rent at her apartment. It was constant, him showering her with gifts. Almost every day he would return from work with something to give her: flowers, jewellery, or new clothes. No one had ever spoiled her like this before, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy it.

"You know, it's rude to stare" Norman's voice brought her out of her daze, his eye' still fixated on the pages before him. Y/N felt her cheeks warm, flustered with embarrassment. He still made her feel this way, nervous as the day she first met him. She diverted her eyes back to the book she had been reading, one she had lost interest in minutes ago.

"Sorry" she mumbled, pretending to continue reading.

Norman looked up, dropping his book in his lap. "Is there something on your mind?" he asked softly, sincerely. Y/N could feel his gaze on her, but she didn't lookup. She shook her head at his question, a quiet hum leaving her lips. He had become incredibly good at telling when she lying, although she never had been good at lying to him.

A sigh left his lips as he placed his book to one side, pulling himself up from the couch afterward. He walked over to the other lounge where Y/N sat, knees pushed towards her chest as she lay. The dress she had been wearing was only just covering her. She still refused to look at him, even when he took her book out of her hands and placed it in on the coffee table. Her eyes stayed focused on her fingers, picking at the skin as she chewed the inside of her cheeks

“Look at me” he speaks, at the same time placing two fingers under her chin, forcing her to follow his orders. She looks up at him with doe eyes. “If there’s something wrong, tell me” although his tone is soft, he’s demanding an answer.

“Nothings wrong” she answers. “Just lost in thought” she smiled weakly, hoping her response would satisfy him enough to stop asking questions. It doesn’t.

“Darling,” he addresses her, his thumb teasing her bottom lip. “You know I hate it when you're vague with me. I need you to use your words, tell me what you’re thinking about?” His eyes search hers for an answer to his question, like he was trying to read her mind. His tone was gentle, as was his touch.

“I-I just,” she closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath before looking back at him. “I like living here,” she confesses quietly as if it were secret and there were other people around, “I like being with you, I like you”. As she spoke she felt like a schoolgirl telling her crush how she feels. It made her feel stupid.

A small chuckle left Norman's lips, Y/N’s heart sinking. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not. Although he was great at reading what she thinking, she still found it difficult to figure out his thoughts. She tried to avert her gaze, feeling embarrassed by her confession but Norman stopped her before she could. “I adore you” he whispered before pressing his lips to hers, kissing her so softly that it felt like they hardly touched. All thoughts of embarrassment left her in an instant.

Slowly, he dropped his hand by his side, standing up straight as he did so. He walked towards the large doors that lead to the hallway. Y/N watches as he does so, wondering whether to follow or not. “Come with me” he speaks, answering her inner thought.

She does as she’s told, removing herself from the couch and following the man out into the hallway. He guides her down the hall and upstairs, walking her into the master bedroom. Questions spin her mind, wondering what he was leading her towards.

Standing in the doorway, Y/N watches as Norman approaches his wardrobe. It always amazes her how much closet space he has, more than anyone realistically needs. It spans almost the entire back wall of the bedroom, filled with suits and other business attire, a small section that he had cleared out occupied by her clothes.

She continued to watch as he leaned down, grabbing a black box from the back of the cupboard. It a white ribbon tied around it, keeping the lid securely on. “I was going to wait until this weekend to give this to you, but I think now might be better” he spoke before placing it on the bed, looking down at it as he reached his hand out for Y/N to take it, which she did.

“What is it?” She asked, looking up at Norman who had averted his gaze to her. He looked at her with a smile, his hand placed on the small of her back.

“There’s a gala happening on the weekend, a fundraiser that Osborn is hosting” He answered, looking back down at the box. “And since you’ll be accompanying me to the event, I bought you something to wear”. Although he had just told her for the first time about the gala, Y/N already knew about it. She had overheard a conversation he had on the phone with one of his employees last week, something about the logistics of the whole event. She didn’t bother letting him know she heard, not worrying about it too much. She didn’t think he would ask her to go with him, she believed to be his little secret. Something no one could know about. So, she was in shock that he just said he would be taking her.

“Open it” he ordered, gesturing towards the box with a nod of his head. She again, did what she was told, pulling the ribbon off before opening the lid.

Inside sat a beautiful black dress, long with a low front, a split up the right leg, and an exposed back. It looked as if it were made of silk, the material glistening in the light. It was perfect.

Y/N looked up at Norman with a smile, placing the dress down on the bed after holding it up to look at it properly. “Thank you” she spoke, almost giddy as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I love it” she pulled back, placing a quick kiss on his lips.

“I knew you would” he chuckled, turning back to the bed and placing the dress neatly back in the box. He placed it back in the closet, keeping it safe for the time being.

He walked back over to her, grabbing her waist softly as her arms went over his shoulders once again. He pulled her towards him, kissing her gently. “All I want is for you to make you feel good, for you to know how much I appreciate you” he confessed in a whisper, placing another kiss upon her lips before taking a seat on the end of the bed. His hands travelled from her waist, lingering softly on the sides of her upper legs.

She stood in front of him, looking down through long eyelashes. His hands ran up the side of her thighs and underneath the hem of her dress, pushing the fabric upwards as to bunch it around her stomach. His stare stayed fixated on her face, watching her through partly parted lips. “You are truly perfect” he whispered before placing a soft kiss just above the lining of her underwear.

He adored her, every inch. His gentle touches showed as much. It was a welcoming change from his usual rough movements that Y/N had become accustomed to. Although she enjoyed those moments they shared, with Norman doing what he wanted to her, this was different. Almost loving.

He let her dress fall back down, letting his hands drift elsewhere as he looked back up so their eyes met once more. His hand moved softly against the inside of her thigh, fingers grazing her core through her underwear. He could feel her heat, wetness seeping through the fabric. A small whimper left her lips.

He continued the motion, rubbing his fingers along her slit through the thin fabric. He watched her as she began to melt under his touch, placing her hand on his shoulder for balance. The sensation only lasted a moment before he removed his hand.

“Come here, darling” Norman reached his hand out, allowing Y/N to take it softly in hers. He guided her onto his clothed lap. She was positioned on one of his knees, legs on either side of his. He gripped her waist, softly moving her against his thigh. She bucked her hips in rhythm with his motions, a string of soft moans escaping her.

He pressed a warm kiss to her neck, humming against her skin as he felt her wetness rub against him. Although his hands were still firmly placed on her waist, he was no longer controlling her movements. Y/N moved against him at a slow yet needy pace, the friction causing pressure to build inside her. "Fuck" she whispered, head tipping forward so it rested against Norman's shoulder. "Feel's good".

“I know” he spoke against her ear, kissing her temple. “But I can’t have you finishing just yet” his grip on her waist tightened, her dress bunching his hand. He pushed her down, forcing her to stop moving. She sighed at the sudden halt of her movements, tipping her head back so she could look at him with a pout. He chuckled.

He brought her to her feet as he stood up. Slowly, he removed the dress she was wearing, allowing it to drop to the floor as she stood before him in nothing but her panties. “Lay down, darling” he instructed, unbuttoning his dress shirt as he spoke.

She followed his orders, laying down on the mattress with her head resting comfortably against the pillows. She watched as he unbuckled his pants that had a wet stain on the right leg from she had just sat. The sound of his belt hitting the wooden floor sent a shiver to her core as her legs spread open in anticipation. She wriggled at her of underwear as Norman crawled up the bed to her, his face now level with her glistening pussy. He looked up at her before his lips met her already sensitive clit.

Her back arched as he left long licks up her slit, soaking up all that she had caused from before. Her hands fell into his hair, pulling him closer to her. He hummed against her as he slipped two of his fingers inside her, slow pumps sending a shockwave of pleasure coursing through Y/N’s body. He was taking his time with her, no rough or sudden movements. As much as he wanted to spin her around, bend her over and fuck her until she couldn’t walk tomorrow, he wanted to savour this. He wanted to treat her right.

She could feel herself getting close again, her body begging for release. The same pressure began to build up inside her as Norman flicked his tongue against her clit, fingerings pumping in a way that made her feel every movement. “I’m so close” she confessed, moaning between words. “Please, I’m gonna-“ she couldn’t finish her sentence before coming undone, shaking as Norman removed himself from between her legs.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling at the job he did. “That feel good, darling?” He asked, now hovering over her as his hard cock rubbed against her leg. Y/N hummed a yes, still recovering from her high. He placed a kiss on her forehead.

He positioned himself at her entrance. He looked down at her, his hands gripping her waist. Slowly, he pushed himself in, both moaning at the feeling. It never stopped to amaze him how tight she always was, warm and inviting, like she was made for him.

“Fuck” he groaned as he began to buck his hips. His rhythm was slow and gentle, as all his other movements had been. Their soft moans mixed together in a perfect symphony, echoing throughout the room.

Norman looked down at her, eyes never leaving hers. It was the most intimate moment they had ever had, words were unspoken yet understood. Y/N wrapped her arms around his back, pulling him closer so their bare chests were pressed against each other.

He moaned against her ear, his grip on her waist becoming rough as he tried to control his urge to fuck her senseless. It was becoming extremely difficult to do, especially when she was moaning so beautifully. Yet, he controlled himself.

Still sensitive from her previous orgasm, Y/N could feel herself getting close once again. She dug her nails into his back as slowly approached her second undoing. “Norman” she moaned, and for the first time, he didn't mind that she wasn't calling him ‘sir’.

The way she moaned his name, the way she felt so soft against him as he fucked her at a gentle pace was the most perfect feeling in the world to him.

“That’s it, darling” he hummed against her ear. “You’re taking me so well, such a good girl for me” his praises were delivered softly, whispers of adoration making her head spin.

She could feel herself becoming hot, heat rushing through her whole body as she began to tighten around his cock. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum” she whispered, a wave of pleasure taking her as her walls pulsated and her legs began to shake.

“Fucking hell” Norman groaned, holding back all his darker urges. Normans own high quickly followed Y/N’s, cumming inside her with two more thrusts before pulling out. Both sighed at the separation. He hovered there for a moment, his cock resting against her stomach as he kissed her.

He rolled over, pulling her towards him as she rested her head against his chest. Her arm draped over his torso, one leg over his. She looked so beautiful to him, perfect as she began to drift off to sleep.

He wondered if this was how it was going to be now, loving and doting sex instead of the rough pounding he was so used to giving her. A part of him didn’t mind it, the possibility of being intimate with her this way.

However, he knew deep down that this was a fleeting moment, that it wouldn’t take long before his urges took over him. The dark voice in his head was too overbearing, echoing throughout his entire being, telling him that he needed more, craved more.

It would only be a matter of time before he went too far, and he couldn’t lose her. Not now, not while he’s so close to keeping her forever.

✾ ✾ ✾

submission box ➵ here

authors note ➵ it’s 5 am and i haven’t slept, so i’m really not sure how much of this makes sense. hopefully it’s readable

so, i think i’m gonna write two more chapters for this. maybe more, idk yet. what i do know is that the next chapter is gonna be fucking good (hint: jealous norman ;) )

also, the first part of this story reached over 1K notes and i just want to thank everyone who’s interacted with that post! it means a lot. i’ve never had a post of mine be so popular until now, so thank you so much for your support!

tags ➵ @druigswh0ree @journeyrose @dazedkrosupreme @politicstanner @sugarbutterbailey @mick-on-mars @blufblucake @irlbeaniebabey @sadclowngorl @nunnihunniedesu-blog @golddenlioness @levoisaah @smilesfromabove @plutobarnes @ellean0r @mclting @wilder-fangirl@mintspidey @lokilover-39 @tobeymaguiresgf @bimboshaggy @mtayl0rr

*tried my best to tag everyone who asked, i’m sorry if i forgot anyone!*

#norman osborn #norman osborn x reader #norman osborn smut #green goblin #green goblin x reader #green goblin smut #willem dafoe #willem dafoe x reader #spiderman #marvel #marvel x reader

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undercoveravenger · 3 years ago

Text

Clairvoyance

Written for my 2021 Halloween event.

Pairing: Percy Jackson x Warlock!Male!Reader

Prompt: Percy + “Make yourself useful and pass me those eyeballs before this potion is completely ruined.”

A/N: Fun fact- my dog’s name is also Percy, so it was kind of odd to write this one. Also, this is the third piece for my Halloween event. The next piece will be released Saturday, October 9th.

-----

In all of the years that Percy Jackson had spent going on quests, he had seen a lot of weird things and been to a lot of spooky places. But this? This was a whole new level of creepy.

He, Jason, and Hazel had been sent on a quest to find a legendary weapon that Chiron had called the Sword of Arthur, which was apparently a legendary blade which rendered its wielder effectively undefeatable, as long as it deemed them worthy of taking it from its resting place. The only problem was that no one knew exactly where that was.

Well, he supposed, not quite no one. Hazel had remembered an acquaintance from her time living in New Orleans that she thought might be able to help them. That was what brought them to a sprawling manor beyond a towering wrought iron gate. Once white walls had grayed with time, and ivy climbed nearly every surface, making the frame appear cracked and crumbling. It appeared that one of the windows overlooking the front yard had been broken in and Percy had been able to make out the faintest flickering light through it, like a dying candle was the only source of light in the eerie house.

There had been no answer when they knocked, so they made their way into the house. Percy had honestly expected the place to be abandoned since the outside of the house had looked so decrepit, but the interior seemed almost inviting with curtains in rich colors and comfortable looking furniture.

Hazel led the boys quietly through the house to a room that overlooked the backyard. Percy could make out the sound of something bubbling and the crackling of a fire, though he couldn’t quite tell if there was anyone in the room or not.

Suddenly the door swung open, as though pushed by some unseen wind. “Are you coming in or not?” a voice called out to them, echoing slightly in the otherwise quiet house.

Percy felt an odd sort of hesitance, but eventually trailed into the room behind his friends. The first thing he noticed was the fire roiling under the massive black cauldron in the center of the room, and the second was the ethereal young man standing behind it.

He had never really been interested in anyone apart from Annabeth before, but ever since they’d broken up a few months prior Percy noticed that he wasn’t really attracted to anyone. But now, for the first time since the breakup, he had found himself captivated by someone.

He wasn’t sure what it was that had caught his attention so entirely. Whether it was the way his hair seemed to drift on an invisible breeze or the brilliant gold that his eyes were glowing or that he didn’t even falter at their entrance as he stirred the potion in his cauldron, he found himself enthralled.

“Hazel,” the stranger greeted, lips turning up in a smile without so much as glancing at the intruders. “If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that we wouldn’t have met again. It’s been, what, seventy years?”

She laughed, moving to stand beside the (h/c) and peering into the bubbling brew. “Something like that, yeah,” she agreed. “I’m afraid that this-”

“Isn’t a social call?” he finished for her, raising an eyebrow pointedly. “I knew that before you even knew you were to come see me.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Percy hadn’t even realized that he’d spoken until the (h/c) turned to look at him. “I just- how did you know we’d be here?”

“You must be Percy Jackson,” the (h/c) said. “I assume Hazel hasn’t told you much about my powers, has she?” At Percy’s silence, he pressed on, “I was born with the ability to see beyond the mortal plain. I see glimpses of futures that may come and that will, much like the Oracle at your camp. I knew that the three of you would come asking about the sword; that’s why I’m brewing this after all,” he nodded toward the swirling concoction in the cauldron, the color shifting and blending as it bubbled. “Make yourself useful and pass me those eyeballs before this potion is completely ruined.”

Percy blinked, visibly confused by the onslaught of information. “What- what is that?” He reluctantly retrieved a jar of eyeballs from a nearby shelf and held it out.

“Drinking this will grant each of you a vision similar to those that I experience the next time you sleep.” The magician twisted open the lid of the jar and plucked out several eyeballs, dropping them absently into the concoction. They dissipated into the liquid almost as soon as it touched the surface. “If you focus on the weapon you’re tracking, it should be a vision related to it; one of the three will likely reveal the location.” After a moment, the (h/c) seemed satisfied and retrieved a large ladle, scooping some of the liquid into each of three glasses before holding them out to the party.

Percy was hesitant to drink it after learning about some of the ingredients, but the confident glint in the warlock’s eyes as the gold faded away to reveal the beautiful (e/c) beneath reassured him. “You’re sure this will work?” At the (h/c)’s nod, Percy steeled his nerves and drank.

He winced at the taste, but he noticed both Hazel and Jason drinking from their own cups.

“I’ll show each of you to your rooms so you can rest,” the warlock said. “You can set out for the blade in the morning.” He turned as though to lead the trio back into the main hall, but hesitated for a moment, “And Percy?”

Percy perked up at the sound of his name, eyes quickly finding their way back to him. “Yes?”

“Feel free to come visit once you make it back from your quest.” His lips twitched up in a knowing smirk, “I have the feeling that we’ll have a lot to discuss.”

Percy didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know that he was right.

#male!reader x percy jackson #male reader x percy jackson #percy jackson x male!reader #percy jackson x male reader #percy jackson x reader #reader x percy jackson #male reader insert #male!reader #male reader #male!reader insert #x male reader #x male!reader #male reader x #halloween event

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mochi-coffee · 3 years ago

Text

Karaoke (years later ver.)

ft. roommate!wakasa and (still) his hatred for karaoke.

Part 2 of this, can read it standalone as well tho!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Years later, Wakasa still hates karaoke.

There was just less and less reasons to go karaoke. If it's to escape the heat - he owns a gym and there's air conditioning running there. If it's for the skewers, the quality there has gotten worse and there're plenty of other better skewers place than a karaoke place. And if it's for the singing, well, the machines were still rigged - and the only black dragon founder that can actually sing ain’t here anymore.

Plus if he wanted to hear you sing, now that you two are roommates, he has a personal show at home all the time. You would be constantly singing along to music playing on speakers or humming your "song of the day", whether you're working at your desk in the living room or cooking something in the kitchen - and especially when you're in the shower.

There just wasn't any reason for Wakasa to go karaoke anymore, and he honestly don't mind.

So when Wakasa turned the keys and pushed open the front door that night, he was surprised to see the lights were still on. You previously mentioned that you had a work party tonight, so he wasn't expecting you to be home early.

He still vaguely remember you inviting him to come along to the work party, saying something about how your colleagues has been nagging to met 'Y/N's famous housemate' ever since the video call incident a few months ago.

Wakasa was tempted to be honest. He contemplated a bit for the unlimited free drinks, but the moment the word 'karaoke' slipped out of your mouth - his face scrunched up with utter disgust. He's glad you are excited about the party and the karaoke, but now that he knows it involves karaoke, it was an absolute no. No amount of free drinks nor your pouts could convince him otherwise.

Shivering at the thought of karaoke, Wakasa kicked off his shoes at the entrance. He could already imagine your voice nagging him to put his shoes on the shoe rack, but that’s tomorrow Wakasa to deal with.

‘I’m home’

He paused for a moment, waiting to hear any signs of you being home. Hearing no response, Wakasa shrugged before making his way to the living room.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Ever since you and Wakasa started living together as flatmates, he's slowly become accustomed to music welcoming him home. Whenever you are home, the speakers would always be playing something from your phone. It makes it homey you said, and although Wakasa didn't think too much of it at first, it did grew onto him. Back when you used to fly out on business trips, it was strange feeling coming home to a silent apartment.

So when there's only silence that greeted him, there could only be two reasons for the lights to be on: either you were running late to the party and left the lights on by accident on your way out, or you left the party early and fell asleep somewhere, most likely on the couch, with the lights on. Knowing your tendency of run late and your love for karaoke, the chances of you leaving a party with karaoke early was close to zero and so Wakasa was pretty sure it was the former.

But there you were - on the couch with your arms around your tucked knees curled into a ball, hair draped down like a curtain, hiding your face that was buried in your arms. Wakasa chuckled at the sight - he's seen you passed out drunk on the couch before, sprawled across the entire couch leaving no space for anyone else to sit on it, but rolled into a ball? He guess there's a first for everything.

‘Hm, it’s not even past midnight and someone’s already got a bit too much to drink? Go sleep in your room,' Wakasa teased as he gives your head a gentle tap. 'I'm not carrying you in aga-'

Your head jerked up, startled by the sudden touch, and Wakasa caught a glimpse of the noise cancelling earphones in your ears - which was strange since you'd always preferred playing music over the speakers. Your face was looked slightly flushed, probably from the alchol, but your eyes weren't the hazy "I just woke up" eyes - they were wide awake, just a bit started as if you got pulled back from being deep in thought.

Seeing Wakasa, your surprised face quickly turned into a smile as you greeted him, going on about didn't hear him coming with your earphones in and asking about his day, but Wakasa wasn't listening. He's focused on that smile you had on.

A smile so bright that could fool almost everyone, but not him. It was a smile that you spend years mastering, a smile wakasa spend years learning to decipher it. He knows you well enough to know that this bright smile was just a camouflage that you put on to tell others you are fine - one that you put on when you are far from being fine.

Any playfulness that originally there in Wakasa's tone quickly vanished and was immediately replaced with a serious one.

‘What’s wrong’

Your smile faltered a second, but a mere second is plenty for Wakasa to see the crack on the mask that you're wearing.

‘Haha, what do you mean?’

You tried to laugh it off, averting your eyes and played with the hem of your skirt, 'I’m okay, just a bit tired so head home earl-'

‘Bullshit.’

Hhis hand softly cupping your face, tilting it towards him, forcing you to lock eyes with his purple orbs as he searches for the answer in your eyes.

"What happened?"

He watched as your lips trembled slightly, parted before closing again, trying to find the right words. His gaze soften as he wait for you to formulate your thoughts, his mind pondering when's the last time he's seen you in this state, the last time was probably-

'They... played his song.’

The words came out as a soft whisper but he heard it loud and clear.

Those four words was all he needed.

He let go of your face, processing your words as he ran his fingers through his hair, before exhaling through his nose to gather up his thoughts and focusing his attention back to you. His hand reached out for your face again, this time tucking the stray hair behind your right ear, his thumb lightly brushed the shell of your ear before taking the earphone out and putting it into his own ear.

The seat below you shifted as Wakasa plopped onto the sofa next to you. Without a word, his arm reached over and gently pulled you into his chest, cradling you. You instinctively buried your head into his neck, taking in his scent, feeling the steady beating of his heart. Your arms replicating his embrace as Wakasa rested his chin on the top of your head, and the two of you sat in silence.

The only sound in the room was coming from the earphone, playing songs from the Spotify playlist that you made. A playlist that only gets played on a particular summer day - with old songs that Shinichiro used to love, with new songs that you think Shinichiro would have loved, with songs that reminds you both of Shinichiro.

For Wakasa, it was the smell of that particular brand of cigarettes that reminds him of Shinichiro. For you, it was music.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

You broke the silence in the room first.

‘I miss him.’

‘...I know.’

Despite the fact Shinichiro has no luck with women, Shinichiro always knows what to say when it mattered, whether it was to raise the moral of the gang before a fight, or to offer gentle words of comfort. And if he was here right now, he would know what to say to make you feel better, something way better than the "I know" that Wakasa mustered up. But Wakasa isn't Shinichiro, he couldn't offer you the words you needed to hear most.

So instead, Wakasa did the next best thing he could think of. He started hummed softly along the music from your earphone. His fingers mindlessly playing with the locks of your hair as he quietly hums, hoping music could give you the comfort you needed, heal the wounds he couldn't heal.

Feeling a faint tremble from you, he snuck a quick peek at your face. Your eyes were closed, and your lips were quivering slightly, before firmly pressed together. For a second he was worried that the tears were about to come, so he quickly scanned the room for the closest tissue box - but then you spoke.

"....after all these years, you are still tone deaf as ever, waka"

You teased softly, your eyes still closed.

Wakasa rolled his eyes, mouth open and just about to make a snarky reply but when he noticed a faint smile on your face, this time a real one, all the comebacks he had in mind dissolved.

"Shut up", he mumbled, hiding his face in your hair, breathing in the your scent.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The two of you stayed in the same position on the couch that night. Him with his arm around you, lightly tapping his fingers to the beat of the song on your shoulder, occasionally humming along the music, and you curled up against him, letting out a chuckle every now and then whenever Wakasa was out of tune.

Eventually when your breathing slowed and evened out, Wakasa would gradually reach for the blanket on the couch, trying to be as still as he could with you on his shoulder, and gently drape it over you before pressing his lips against the crown of your head. Music would continue to play throughout the night until the phone in your hand ran out of battery.

Wakasa knew that tomorrow when you two wakes up, the first thing you two would notice would be how sore your necks were and how your backs were too old for this.

But other than that, it would be as if everything was back to normal.

Wakasa would stood up from the couch, probably spending a few minutes stretching away the stiffness and rubbing the shoulder that your big head had been sleeping on while you'd groan about the flat battery of your phone and take his phone (without asking, but not that he has a say) to play some upbeat music over on the speakers.

The two of you would then most likely head to the kitchen - you whipping up something for breakfast whilst Wakasa prep the drinks and set the table. The two of you would sit at the dining table, him chewing as he listens to your stories about the party from the previous night.

And if you brushed over the part around karaoke, he wouldn't ask.

He doesn't need to.

If you don't mention it, he won't pry - that's just how it always has been between you two. But you both understands, that when you're ready to talk, when you want to talk - he'd be there to listen, just like now, just like always.

Some things just doesn't needs words.

So until then, he'd just be here, eating the slightly burnt toast you made as you recount funny stories about your coworkers, listening as music and your laughter fills the room once again, drowning away any remaining sorrow from the night before.

But for now, just for tonight, Wakasa want to hold you close.

Even if it means a stiff shoulder and a sore back tomorrow.

Just like the way you would stay by his side whenever he smokes that brand of cigarettes - even though you hated the smell of cigarettes. He just want to be by your side whist the music takes you a place he couldn't, a place where you could meet Shinichiro again, even if it's just a dream.

And that’s why, years later, Wakasa still hates karaoke, if not more.

Especially the way it reminds you of that voice neither of you could ever hear again.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

a/n: I really just wanted to write sharing a pair of earphones with wakasa, but not sure how it turned this way 🥲 (which was kind of why I originally had this timestamp to sweeten things up first, but then I split the pieces up 🤣)

Also not sure if anyone noticed, but there was a tiny reference to the original roommate wakasa hc 😂

Let me know what you think :)

Masterlist if you want more

Tagging: @kokosblackcard, @yunho-leeknow, @hotdumplingsss since you asked for a part 2 :)

#wakasa x reader #wakasa hcs #tokyo revengers wakasa #imaushi wakasa #wakasa imaushi #roommate!wakasa #wakasa imagines

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