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eardefenders · 4 months

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Sherlock & Co - Mailbag Episode 1 Transcript

00:00-00:30 Intro Music

*Typing Sounds*

0:36 Sherlock: What are you doing?

0:37 John: I’m collating the questions from the fans. Ah-well, d’you know actually they might not be fans. They might just. *pause* I don’t, I don’t know, listen, but, uh, ah, you know not actually, you know-

0:48 Sherlock: -Like you?

0:49 John: What?

0:49 Sherlock: They might not actually like you.

0:51 John: Us. The show. Anything. What do you mean ‘not like me’? Why would they not like me?

0:57 Sherlock: Well…you can come on a little strong…sometimes, I suppose.

1:02 John: In what way?

1:03 Sherlock (voice slightly high): You’re just, rather, keen. (voice normal, reassuring even) Nothing wrong with that of course.

1:07 John (sarcastically): Oh, great, thanks.

1:09 Sherlock: That’s something people add after making a crude observation on another’s character.

1:14 John (warily): What is?

1:14 Sherlock: “Nothing wrong with that of course.”

1:17 John: So you just added it because you thought-

1:19 Sherlock: It would soften the blow.

1:20 John (sarcastic): Lovely. Very kind.

1:23 Sherlock (clearly missing the sarcasm): Quite alright.

1:24 John: Okaaay, we got some Q’s from the L’s, and now its time for us to provide the A’s. That’s, uh, that’s questions from the listeners and for us to provide the answers.

1:36 Sherlock: Yes, I cracked the code, Watson.

1:39 John: Right! So! Beau from California wants to know where they should go when they visit London.

1:44 Sherlock: Er, sorry, uh, I thought this was about crime?

1:47 John: Whaddya mean?

1:48 Sherlock: I thought there would be questions regarding criminal activity?

1:52 John (lightly sarcastic): Oh, right yeah, sorry. Um, there is one here from ‘PsychoMurderer69’ who wants to know if he should stab his next-door neighbor.

1:58 Sherlock (seriously): What’s the length of the blade he’d have access to?

2:00 John: Jesus Christ.

2:00 Sherlock: Does the neighbor show signs of possessing any self-defense skillsets?

2:04 John (interjecting over Sherlock): Alright, no, where should Beau visit in London, please?

2:09 Sherlock: Um, uh, St. Dunstan in the East. Little Venice. Spitalfields. Brick Lane. The Vaults! Neal’s Yard is rather charming as well, I suppose…pleasing colors on display.

2:20 John: Right, great. Colors. See, that wasn’t difficult, was it?

2:23 Sherlock: South Kensington Ice Rink.

2:25 John: Yeah, lovely. I- Sorry, where are you going?

2:26 *Sound of door opening.*

2:27 Sherlock: I just said.

2:27 *Audio Cut - Vaguely outside sounds.*

2:28 John (sounding like he’s struggling to balance): Heeey, folks its, woah, woah, Ja-ah,*sound of skate blades scraping deeply in ice* Jesus, aw, bloody hell, ahahaaah Christ. *sounds of the mic rubbing as he presumably falls down, a sharp intake of pained breath* Ahh.

2:35 Sherlock (sounding at ease): Get up, Watson.

2:36 John: Ah, oh yeah, thanks for the advice. Uh, um, hey folks-*under his breath*ah, God- Sherlock, can get *sounding unsteady on his feet* easily distracted when he’s not w-w-what’d’you call it. Uh. Totally onboard with something. So he wanted to *sounding unsteady again* go ice-ce skating. Uhum *clears throat*, uh there’s a-a rink. Temporary rink open in South Kensington right now so we’re skating- hey-oh, ooo-getting up some speed now. Oh here we go. Ha ha hah! God is this what Canadians feel like? Oy oy! *laughs proudly*

3:10 Sherlock: Very good, Watson. You’ve got the hang of it.

3:11 John: Hahah, yeah well I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m not smashing my ribs into the ice, uh, for the time being. So-woah! Shit!- *clears throat* Right! Another question!

3:21 Sherlock: Go for it.

3:22 John: “What are your favorite hobbies?”

3:24 Sherlock: *with relish* CRIME. Deductions. Observations! Intricate studies that focus my mind. Feeding my hyper fixations, which often stem from crime and the desire to understand it.

3:37 John: …Riiiight. Yeah, I think the listener Sherlo8 in Poland, uh, I think they meant more like, um, you know, I don’t know. Golf?

3:48 Sherlock: Golf? *chuckles* I don’t golf. I live in Baker Street.

3:52 John: No, I-I know, but, um. *deep breath* Right, okay. My hobby is-

3:58 Sherlock (interjects): Podcasting.

3:59 John: Well, no. Uh, that’s my job.

4:00 Sherlock (skeptically): Is it now?

4:01 John: My hobbies. Uh…so I like to play football. I like films and tv. Ummm I’m very partial to a board game. Uhhhh… Oh! Ok! So here’s a confession. I have the flight tracker app. I’m not saying I’m a, a plane spotter, but um… I like to, yeah, just check in with that. Y’know? See what’s overhead? Where it’s come from, where it’s going. Picture the kinda people that uh. *sigh* Oh I don’t know, going from swha-Rome to Mexico City, y’know? Th-th-the weary business men and women tucking into their inflight meals, families that have created a whole crate of memories that they’re going to talk about for decades.

4:42 John (dramatically): The lovesick Italian man flying out to see his Mexican sweetheart. His heart bursting with excitement and fear that the stewards who keep complaining about some bloke in Row G, c-

4:49 Sherlock (interjects): Trains.

4:50 John: Hm?

4:51 Sherlock: Trains. I like trains. And, dinosaurs.

4:56 John: Ok. Great! Well, haha! That’s wonderful! We did it, another answer to another question. See, I told you it’s bloody easy- *sound of an ice blade scraping the ice too hard/wrong, a loud hard thump, the mic is rubbing terribly against clothing, sound is muffled* Oh, God!

5:07 *Audio Cut-Vaguely café sounds*

5:09 John (pained): Ahhh *sucks in air through his teeth* Oh that stings. *sounds like he’s holding his face*

5:15 Sherlock: Yep, they’re loaning us their frozen peas.

5:18 John: Oh what, they’ve got frozen peas in this place? Why aren’t they fresh, meals are twenty quid?

5:21 Sherlock: Uh, do you want the frozen peas or not?

5:23 John: Yeah! Yes, please, give’em here. *sound of a bag of frozen peas being shuffled around, John’s voice is muffled* Oh, yeah. Oh hoho, that’s the stuff, baby. Oh yeah. Ahhhhhhhhh. 5:39 Sherlock: Just to confirm,

5:40 John: Uh hunh?

5:40 Sherlock: they are paying for this? People are…paying for this audio?

5:46 John: Yeah, mate. Oh! Ah God! Ooo! Ouchie, ouchie, ouchie, ouchie…

5:49 Sherlock: Understood. Well, people can be rather odd, can’t they? Nothing wrong with that of course.

5:55 John: Uh, d’you mind? I see- I actually know what you’re doing with that ‘nothing wrong with that’ lark. So, right! Next question, ‘How did Archie get his name?’ says May Van der Hayden in New Zealand. Ah, well mate, I didn’t have much say in the matter. *clicks tongue* Um, I bought him as a birthday present for…uhhhh. M-my ex-girlfriend. Um, e-e-ex…yeah, y’know she was. She was-she was the bi- big one. The one I l-lived with and planned t’m-my life. Around. Sort of thing. Um. *clicks tongue* B-bought him for her, she chose Archie. Um. I-I don’t know why? Ha. And then she chose my friend who had a Range Rover Sport. So, yeah, she left me and the dog. *clicks tongue* And I left the dog to help the Ukrainians. Now I’m back. *clicks tongue* Got a dog and a master detective. Uh, lucky me. *awkward chuckle*

6:55 Sherlock: I feel your answers should be more concise.

6:58 John: Yep, thank you for that input. May also asks, Sherlock, seeing as you have handled cases for other countries, have you ever handled any in New Zealand?

7:07 Sherlock: Yes.

7:08 John: Oh! Lip, lip. Now numb. Ah, ah. Can you expand on that please?

7:13 Sherlock: Yes, but you’d have to stop recording or redact it from the podcast.

7:17 John: Aw, what’d be the point of that?

7:19 *Audio Cut- Sounds like they’re on the tube now*

7:23 John: Question here from Chloe Davies in Canada. Hi, Chloe. Sherlock, your hugging machine, is it based on that of Temple Grandin?

7:31 Sherlock: Er, she sent me some early designs, yes. I needed to tweak its pressure loads to clench my shoulder blades.

7:40 John: That’s the way you like it, is it? Hugwise?

7:43 Sherlock: Yes. Any sensation below the diaphragm causes me to stress.

7:47 John: Good to know. Uh, Nick Licher or, er, Licker. Uh…let’s go with Nick Licher. He asks, “Why did Sherlock need your shoelaces?” Yeah, why did you need my shoelaces?

7:58 Sherlock: I was conducting a thorough cleansing of our garments following the proximity to duck poo we had undergone that day in the park. *sucks in air sharply* The shoes contain the most potentially harmful pathogens. I removed the shoelaces for deep cleaning.

8:11 John: Okay.

8:12 Sherlock: Okay? Is that it? For potentially saving you untold hours and days on the toilet?

8: 19 John: How so?

8:20 Sherlock: E.coli, Watson.

8:22 John: Yeah, but on my shoelaces? Mate, I wasn’t going to chew on them. Right, Adrien Kaiser from Minnesota. “John, if you miss an upload should we just assume you and Sherlock have been arrested or are dead?”

8:32 Sherlock: Yes. As assumptions go, those options would be some of the likeliest. Wouldn’t you agree Watson?

8:39 John: No.

8:40 Sherlock: Why not?

8:40 John: Well, I don’t know. Maybe my laptop breaks, maybe we don’t get an adventure that week, I’m ill, your ill, a long list of things that aren’t dead or arrested, Sherlock.

8:50 Sherlock: It was Adrien that said it, not me.

8:52 John: *heavy sigh* Arlo asks, as a Shakespeare fan-him, not me- he asks what my favorite play by him was. Uhhh, um, I love Romeo and Juliet. Bit of um, a sucker for romance, me. *awkward chuckle* Hamlet’s too long, should’ve streamlined that a little. I’m uh going to go Romeo and Juliet. Or Julius Ceasar. Good drama in that one, I think. Kind of can’t understand what they’re saying, but uh I hold my English teachers at school responsible for that one, I mean also why are we reading them? Yeah, they’re meant to be performed, come on. Uh, next question. Soma asks “what’s your favorite tv show?” Uh, I loved ‘Band of Brothers’. Um, but, of course, an ex soldier would say that wouldn’t he. Um, psh, yeah, ‘Band of Brothers’. Or, something light and millennial, like, um, I don’t know. Fraiser? Or, uh, Will and Grace?

9:46 John: Sherlock? Favorite tv show?

9:48 Sherlock: This is us.

9:48 John: Really? I never saw it.

9:49 Sherlock: No, Watson! This is us! Quick!

9:52 John: Oh, bollocks, Oh! The doors are closing! Ow!

9:53 *Audio cut-sounds of a tube station/outside*

9:54 John: Misha asks,

9:56 Sherlock: Mmhm?

9:57 John: “Do you have a sweet tooth?” Well, I can tell you, Misha, that yes, he bloody does! Sherlock?

10:02 Sherlock: Yes, I bloody do. *awkward chuckle, sharp intake of breath* Yet, my diet is highly unpredictable and more often then not tied to my mood

10:08 John: Yeah, I can vouch for that. One minute he’s slurping down some borscht on a whim. Next minute, he’s going ten straight days eating tomato penne pasta.

10:16 *sound of a building door opening*

10:19 *sound of the door closing, presumably they’re in the foyer of 221 Baker Street*

10:19 John: *sigh* Uhhh, just trying to find uh…

10:23 Sherlock: Yet more questions?

10:23 *sounds like they’re removing their coats*

10:25 John: Yep. Uh, ooo, questions, right, last one. Uh, “Doctor Watson, hope this question doesn’t make you uncomfortable. Do you use a cane for your leg injury? I use a cane myself due to joint pain from Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. In fact, one of the canes was hand painted by a family in Ukraine during the war.” Well aw! *delighted chuckle* Aw that’s nice. Um, no I don’t use a cane. Uh, I had some surgery, and I was very kindly along with a few others flown out to Florida for some rehabilitation and then back to the UK for some hydrotherapy courtesy of the Ministry of Defense. Uh. Then they sacked me. So, heh, booooo. *chuckles* So, no. I’m actually cane free. But, uh, I have had moments. Especially climbing these bloody stairs *sounds of him stepping heavily up stairs* where I’ve wanted something like that.

11:15 Sherlock: Finished?

11:16 John (slightly out of breath): Finished.

11:17 *sound of a door opening, presumably 221B’s*

11:17 John: Right, say ‘Bye, Listeners’.

11:19 Sherlock: ‘Bye, Listeners’. You know, you do have a rather silly gait. *pause* Walking style. *sound of a door closing* The cane may have been needed. You do look weird when you stroll. Nothing wrong with that of course.

11:32 John (under his breath): For God’s sake.

11:33-12:03 *audio cut to end theme. It’s Mad Prodigy but a different part not used in the main show with a bit of piano.*

END

#sherlock & co #sherlock and co #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #mailbag 1 #transcripts #transcript #mine

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whenlostinthedarkness · 2 months

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Tis The Damn Season | Part 2

Ellie Williams x Reader

Photo credit: [ x ]

Summary: After your unexpected run-in with your ex girlfriend Ellie, you take a trip down memory lane and explore your spots in Jackson. The next morning, Your mom starts to make a miraculous recovery which leaves you with some hope. Come nightfall, that ex girlfriend makes yet another surprise appearance, and one that you can’t ignore.

Rating: M [mentions of past relationship, mentions of an ill mother, & angst w/reader & Ellie.]

WC: 4.7k

A/N: Sorry that part 2 took forever to come out. I’ve had lotssss happening in my personal life and creating anything was hard, but I hope you enjoy this part 2!

Taglist: @bready101 @onlinelesbo

Part One | Masterlist | How you can help Palestine

——————-

You were left alone again. Except a new feeling had crept up on you that hadn’t been there before. It could be relief from getting your first run-in with your ex, or a shaken emotion from seeing someone who was like a dark ghost in your mind. You couldn’t put your finger on it. All you could think about was the brick building that sat directly in front of you.

Before the outbreak, one could call this place a cafe of some sort. Since those were in severely few supply nowadays, it was more of a dinner, cafe, and hang-out spot all combined into one.

A lot of teens and young adults would come here to do school work, just have a chat, or grab a bite to eat. You and Ellie had claimed this spot as your first romantic public endeavor.

Without much thought, your feet moved until you stood directly down the center of the bay windows. Your reflection shone as you moved your face closer to the windows so you could get a proper look at the place. The only light illuminating the inside was one cast from the string lights that hung above, however, you could still make out the familiar mixed-matched tables and chairs that held so many memories of so many people.

And then, you saw it. That same roughened, wooden table you knew from your teenagehood. It was tucked away in the farthest right corner-one that you remember picking on purpose so you and Ellie could have some sort of privacy within a social place.

At this very place was where Ellie held your hand for the first time, where you and her took a pocket knife to the wood of the table and carved your initials inside of a heart to be engrained forevermore.

The last memory, however, was a bitter one. One that had you moving as far away from the glass as one stride of your legs could get you. It was like you saw a ghost of the past. She lingered everywhere and stained every wall in that place in the best and worst way possible.

You’d rather not reminisce on the day when you ended things with her, all because Ellie, “didn’t know what she wanted” when it came to the both of you or life in general. It’s funny how you chose that very table and chairs to end what started in those exact seats.

You hadn’t realized how cold you were until your concentration was broken by the chattering of your teeth. Your eyes glanced downwards and caught a glimpse of your red raw hands. You figured you should head home.

As your cold legs and feet backtracked along the path, you couldn’t shake the image of Ellie’s face that you’d seen only moments ago. She still looked like Ellie, but different. The adult years aged their way onto her face and bones like expensive wine. You thought adulthood suited her very well. You felt yourself analyzing this “new” Ellie your entire stroll home.

Soon enough, your hand was opening the door and enclosing you in the warmth of your home..well, your old home. Slowly, your cold feet shuffled along until you were in bed with closed eyes and a mind that finally was able to drift into the unconscious world.

A couple of blocks away, Ellie herself had just gotten into her bed. That is, once she was able to pry herself from the window that, just so happened to have a crystal clear view of your route home.

The both of you went to bed with thoughts of the other swirling like rainstorms.

—

The sun shone through the window much too soon in your opinion. Your hand shielded your eyes as you picked up your watch from the table side bed; you groaned as you saw the two hands on the clock.

Though you did eventually get some sleep the night before, it was a small amount that still had your eyes stinging and puffy and your brain in an eternal fog. However, your mother was on your mind and you knew you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep just to catch a couple of extra hours when instead you could be spending that time with your mother at her bedside.

You were eager to get up and outfit your body in proper warm clothes, all while a pot of coffee boiled on the single electric stove top. Once the dark tan liquid was poured into a thermos and your work boots were strapped on your feet, you set off for what lay beyond the front door.

The sun rose moments ago as the streets were only littered with a couple of people who were either on top of their horses with rifles slung over their shoulders, or those who were on foot, busy getting the chores for the morning done.

Familiar faces greeted with sympathetic looks as you journeyed back to the infirmary. They didn’t have to start any pity-driven conversations with you for it to be clear that every single person you were coming across in this god-forsaken town was seeing you as fragile. You despised it.

Being fragile, for you, meant being weak and you’d go to the ends of the earth to prove that you were anything but weak. One could suppose that being meek or non-self-sufficient was one of your biggest fears.

The sun shone through the smudged windows, bringing a bright sunny light to this dreary place. A wave of antiseptic and gauze tingled inside your nostrils, bringing a weird sort of nostalgia. You caught the eye of the nurse from the night before, and she quickly had you follow her lead as she walked you down to your mother's cot.

“How’s she doing?”

The nurse tried her best to put on a happy face, but it looked so forced, it was impossible to see it as truth. “I checked on her a couple of hours ago and she was…, she seems to be the same as the last time you saw her”.

You nodded slowly as the heaviness of your mother's health remained on your chest.

The both of you passed rows and rows of empty and filled cots that were enveloped in stained curtains that hung from orange, rusted hooks attached to the ceiling. It felt dystopian to have such a bright sun shining down on people who were actively fighting to stay alive. You just hoped the same fate wasn’t stricken upon your mother- and it seemed that your hope was a force to be reckoned with.

There your mother was, sitting up with her back resting against the cold brick wall. She still looked ill, but that corpse-like appearance and the greyness of her skin was fading into a more natural tone. She seemed alive.

You couldn’t hold back your joy as you squealed, “Mom!”, and came to sit on the floor next to her bed.

The nurse stood with mouth agape as your mother sat her hand on top of yours; you enveloped your hand with hers almost immediately.

“How are you doing Mom?”

Her voice was rasped, but her smile was genuine as she told you she was fine and found much more importance in asking how you were doing and what you had been up to. At this moment, it was obvious your fear of weakness had come from somewhere or rather from someone.

Day turned into sunset and sunset turned into the grey of night. Your mother’s eyes were drooping the later it got and you knew she was pushing herself only because she was enjoying the time she was spending with you. With a little bit of convincing, you were able to get your mother tucked away in bed. Your lips pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead as you whispered sweet words into her ear. The night nurse herself couldn’t help but smile at the interaction between the two of you.

“I’ll come to find you if anything changes”, she said softly. You nodded before giving your mother one last look. A surge of joy and hope was alive in your heart- one that you hadn’t felt since..well, a long time.

As you exited the infirmary, your eyes looked up to the night sky. You noticed how the stars were brighter tonight than they had been the night prior. You knew Ellie would be looking up at the sky tonight in awe-you could picture it perfectly and you hated it. You hated how it had become a habit for you to look up to the nighttime sky any time you were given the oportunity, all because of her.

Thankfully, your thoughts of her were quickly interrupted.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” that all too familiar, deep voice hummed in fatherly comfort.

“Hello again Joel. You just getting home?”

Joel nodded from his place on top of his horse, a near reflection of the night before. “Yeah. We had a long day today, didn’t we girl?”

You smiled as you watched him lovingly pat the side of his brown quarter horse.

“You know, I’m cooking some of my famous soup tonight. It’s been stewing all day and I sure could use some help eating it.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his dim suggestion that was a clear ploy. “Hmm, I wonder who could be available to help you out there Joel. I think I may know someone.”

Joel raised his eyebrow with fake astonishment, “Oh really? Maybe this someone could hitch a ride with me on the back of my horse and I could give them a homecooked meal tonight. I’m sure this someone hasn’t had one in a longgg time.”

You shook your head grinning ear to ear, “You’re ridiculous you know that.” However, the humor was quick to leave your eyes as you thought about Joel’s home. Most, if not all of the memories were drunk with her. “Will uh-will Ellie be there?”

Joel’s smile fell the slightest bit as he answered honestly. “Nah. She’s out on patrol tonight and she won’t be back ‘til morning. Besides, she’s got her own little place behind the house now. She only really comes around when she wants some of my cookin’ - and who could blame her!”

You reveled in his talent of being able to turn a near-sour moment into a positive one. “Then I guess I have no choice but to have some of your world-famous soup.”

With that, you reached your hand up to meet Joel’s as he assisted you in getting on the back of his horse.

You noticed that it wasn’t as cold today. The snow was beginning to melt from the bare branches of the trees and it nearly felt like a new season was on the horizon. You knew it was silly, but you thought how nice it would be should your life be shifting in a sort of new beginning as well. One with a happy, healthy mother and maybe one without as much hatred for a girl you were desperately trying to forget.

Before long, you and Joel were at the all too familiar Rancher Street with his modest home in the near distance. The white picket fence stood out amongst the soggy brown soil as you walked from the back of the house, where Joel had stowed away his precious mare, to the front entrance. The dingy garage where you knew Ellie was living sent a shiver down your spine as you spotted it sitting beneath the dim oil street light. Quickly, you turned around and followed behind Joel before curiosity got the best of you.

The moment Joel flicked the light switch, the orange, warm hue was so familiar and comforting that you felt like you were drenched in the comfiest blanket you’d ever felt. His home felt so warm. However, your comfort was interrupted by a rustling coming from deep within the home.

“Stay here,” Joel said with a protective outreached arm as his eyes scanned the parameter.

Cautiously, he walked in a near slink-like manner as he retracted the knife that he had stowed away in his back pocket and held the sharpened end out in front of his chest. Foot by foot, he walked slowly, yet with assertiveness.

Just as Joel got to the very back of the main hallway a rattle sounded again in the same area which you now presumed was the kitchen. Out of caution, he rested the flat of his back against the wall that was shielding the kitchen from the rest of the home until suddenly, a figure that appeared to you as a shadow began coming closer and closer to the open doorway that Joel was centimeters away from.

Joel knew it was now or never as he jumped quickly, keeping his head straight to stare directly into the kitchen at whatever or whoever was intruding in his space.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack kid! What are you doing here?” You saw a full sigh leave Joel’s body as his body physically relaxed right in front of you. You watched, puzzled by the entire situation, until you heard the voice of the mysterious intruder who, it turns out, was no stranger to you afterall.

“Sorry”, she spoke. At the sound, you felt as if every bone in your body broke all at once. You had the urge to run straight out of the door you had walked in moments ago, yet you remained frozen in place.

“Me and that new guy switched shifts and I smelled your soup cooking on my way home so..”

“So what you’re saying is, my soup made you break into my damn house?” Joel spoke with amusement in his voice. From his side profile, you could make out his signature amused smile as he shook his head back and forth.

Ellie said, “Pretty much,” and you could perfectly picture the way her shoulders shrugged in playful arrogance.

“Well don’t let me interrupt your dinner. Help yourself,” Joel said as his am stretched upward on the door frame and looked down the hallway. His face went slack as he remembered your presence as well as the promise he assured you of and how that promise was under the very same roof.

Joels mouth hung open while his eyes looked at you with “i’m sorry” written in his pupils. He tried his best to assess the situation and somehow work it out in your favor in a matter of minutes, but it was inevitable.

“Were you talking to someone outside? I thought I heard you.” Ellie questioned as she screwed the lid on her thermos. Joel didn’t answer - he appeared frozen in time as he searched your face.

“Or have you started talking to yourself now that you’re getting old as shit?”, Ellie teased with a smirk, expecting a similar reaction from Joel, yet his face remained like a stone.

“Is everything okay?”, she said with genuine concern in her eyes. “Oh god, did you bring a date home or something?”

Before Joel could figure out a plan or stop her from moving past him on the opposite side of the kitchen island, Ellie emerged from the doorway and was met with your hardened figure by the front door.

Neither of you said anything. It felt like a staring contest to see who would say something or make a move first and both of you were overly committed to winning this game of sorts.

“Uh.” Joel spoke as he moved to stand directly next to Ellie. “I’m uh-i’m sorry Ellie. I thought you wouldn’t be around or else-”

“Why’s she here?”, Ellie spat with eyes narrowed directly on you.

“I’ll just go.” Your hands shook as you turned yourself around and wrapped your hand around the door knob. You began to twist against the cold metal, until you heard an urgent “Wait” as Ellie protested your departure.

She wore a much softer expression when you turned around. Her face had relaxed-almost fallen-and her eyes were sympathetic.

“I was going to take this to go anyways”, Ellie said shaking the thermos for emphasis. “I’ll uh-catch you later Joel. Thanks for the soup.”

Accordingly, Ellie slipped out of the back door-her winter boots leaving mild, yet visible foot prints in her wake.

As soon as the door closed, Joel offered an apology that sounded as if he had put you in the most horrifying situation possible.

“I told you Joel. It’s fine-really!”

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t want you thinking i set this up somehow. No matter how much I enjoyed you with Ellie, I would never do that to you.”

You nodded honestly. “I know.”

After the apologies and reassurances, you and Joel jumped right in to where you’d left off. Joel immediately went to work in the kitchen. Grabbing bowls and spoons and napkins. Asking you what drink you’d like and offering up his prized whiskey that you knew he didn’t offer to just anybody.

Just as the two of you were sat at the table with all the dinner essentials, there was a light knock at the front door. One that was so faint, if it weren’t for the silence of the apocalyptic world, you surely would’ve missed it.

Joel sighed as he stood from the table and tossed his napkin down onto the white lace table runner. “Sorry for all the interruptions. I’ll be quick.”

You nodded as your lips met the tip of your glass and the copper colored liquid burned down your throat in the best way possible. The whiskey was smooth and had you reminiscing on all of those past dinners with Ellie and Joel and this divine whiskey. If only things were as simple now as they were back then.

Joel’s voice was mumbling something in the distance, but his tone was so deeply hushed, you couldn't make out exact words or phrases. Then, came the footsteps. Suddenly, Joel and Ellie were standing in the dining room, both looking less than ecstatic.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, but Ellie’s generator blew out and can’t seem to get it up and running again.” Joel’s eyes couldn’t even look at yours as he spoke.

“I can just go to Dina’s or something-“

“No.” Joel and Ellie’s heads shot up to look at you which suddenly made you grow shy over your protest that flew out of your mouth before you could even properly think about it. “You should stay.”

“I should?”, Ellie questioned with a crease running along her forehead and eyes that were bunched together.

You look at Joel and then back at Ellie. “Yeah, you should.”

The dinner was quiet. It seemed like you could hear the sound of every fork scraping along China and each gulp that moved liquid down someone’s throat. Joel was the only saving grace, and thank god for it.

“So. What are you up to nowadays? Where have you been staying?”

“A town thats a bit away. Nothing special about it really. I mainly keep to myself and just try to stay alive.”

Joel nodded along as you spoke. “Do you think you’ll ever come back to Jackson permanently? I know you’re missed her and not just by your mama.”

Curiously, your eyes move over to Ellie’s to see if Joel’s question gets any sort of response out of her. She is stone faced as she moves her fork around her plate.

Secretly, in the deepest pit of your stomach You wanted her to miss you. You wanted her talk about you constantly while you were gone. You wanted her to not be able to move on from you just as you weren’t able to move on from her.

How selfish. You knew it was an act of ultimate self pleasure and yet the indulgence never ended. Some sick part of yourself wanted her to ache just as much as you were aching to be with her again. Yet you suppressed it all.

You acted as if she didn’t exist and that you didn’t care, but at this dinner table you could feel your facade crumbling into a thousand pieces because every damn question, you found yourself looking to Ellie to see a reaction of pain or longing or something else to signal that she missed you or cared about what you had been up to since you left. You weren’t even close to being over her, regardless of how hard you tried.

“Everything alright?”

You looked up to see both Joel and Ellie staring at you in the midst of your silence. You could only hope your facial expression didn’t give away how truly crazy and overwhelmed you felt.

“Yeah-yeah! I'm fine, just a bit tired I guess.”

Joel nodded as he spooned the final bite of his soup into his mouth. Ellie’s bowl was still nearly full.

“Maybe I should head out.” You said, patting the napkin along the line of your lips. “It’s getting late and I want to get up bright and early to see my mom.”

You needed to get some fresh air and you needed it now.

“I can walk you.”

For a moment you felt anger. Anger that your loneliness was being dismantled when you craved solidarity, until you remembered who it was that was saying those sweet words. The very poison that filled the cup that you couldn’t seem to drag away from your mouth.

“You don’t have to, really”

“I know I don’t have to.” Ellie’s tone was one you didn’t dare to question. Not that you had a choice as she was already gathering her belongings that were strewn by the back door.

Ellie fully prepared to give you a true piece of her mind. She told herself that if ever given the opportunity, she would lay it on you. Tell you how much you hurt her. Tell you how confused and fucked up she felt after hearing that you’d left without a trace, all while being silent with your goodbyes. She’d rehearsed the speech a million times in her head when she’d lay in her empty bed with nothing but the light of an outdoor lamppost casting shadows through the dustied window. She was so dark and utterly alone.

On the other hand, Ellie was an idiot either. She knew the reason you left was because of the fight. She knew she was being a child, and she knew that she was fighting off a force that wasn’t a threat to her, but Ellie would’ve never expected you to leave how you did strictly from her actions. You were headstrong and stubborn and everything she loves in a woman - but who's to say a human can’t have moments they regret.

Who's to say that Ellie wished she told you right then and there that she loved you instead of acting like you were a puzzle she didn’t know the answer to when she knew, damn well, that she was completely smothered in adoration for you. She knew she loved you - but saying it made her vulnerable, bare-naked.

She’d lost so many in life and getting closer to you-loving you- would just be a precursor for the pain Ellie would feel when she eventually lost you, because everyone leaves. That’s exactly what you did. You left.

Silently, you walked to the front door, grabbing your coat and slipping on your boots over your wool socks.

“You both be safe alright?”, Joel said while walking towards the both of you as you stood by the front door. He wore a smile that was interesting to say the least. You swore you could see hope in his eyes.

“Thanks again for dinner Joel.” You kindly waved him off and turned around to face Ellie who was holding open the front door for you. Chivalry isn’t crucified after all, even when it’s your ex.

It was so quiet. A howl from the wind or a nearby coyote was the only audible objects-that and the snow being smothered underneath both of your shoes. Speaking of shoes - the canvased sneakers that were nearly begging to be tossed in the trash still clung to Ellie’s feet even in this sort of weather. It made you chuckle ever so slightly.

Funny - Ellie wasn’t sure what on earth could be funny at a time like this.

“What?”

You shook your head, feeling shy all of a sudden as Ellie tried her best to figure you out. So many questions hung over her head when it came to the thought of you. A deep marooned contrast of when she was yours and you were hers; she’d never known someone as much as she knew you back then.

“No, tell me. What’s so funny”, Ellie’s words came with venom in her spit. It caught you off guard as you walked with your mouth agape before directing your eyes to the road ahead instead of Ellie’s tattered shoes.

“Those fucking things,” You said motioning to the shoes that Ellie glanced down to look at.

The skin on Ellie’s forehead screwed together as she too kept her eyes forward. “What about them?”

“Nothing.. just..still wearing those converse in the snow I see.”

Suddenly Ellie stopped in her tracks as flames began to seethe through her pupils. She felt her muscles tense up as her jaw began to ache from how hard her teeth were being gnashed together on her own accord. “Why do you do that?”

You were confused, but mimicked her stillness as your hands settled to cross in front of your chest as if it were a boundary. “Do what?”

“Talk down to me like that!”

“Oh c'mon El, you know I’m only giving you shit. Lighten up a little.”

“Lighten up? You want me to lighten up after-.” Ellie stopped the words from tumbling out of her mouth by pinching her lips together as tightly as she possibly could.

There it was. The barricade was bombed and the dam was broken. You could feel your body begin to shake and your teeth grit behind your lips as the topic that you were desperately trying to avoid-the very elephant in the room was being exposed and drawn from behind it’s curtain.

“You really want to do this now? While my fucking mother is in the hospital Ellie! I don’t know if she's even going to make it and you’re focused on why I left?”

Suddenly you were the one steaming red as your gut reaction kicked in. Your palms met Ellie’s chest as you pressed her backwards slightly. Not in an effort to physically harm her, but one that got her-the trauma-as far away from you as possible. “Get away from me.”

Of course Ellie felt bad. Your mother hadn’t even crossed her mind today, she was ashamed to say. It seems that the anger and sadness and grief of you overcame the entire reason she was seeing you face to face, thus her being too free spoken with words that fell on the spectrum of hate.

By the time she’d accepted her ignorance, you’d already started fast walking away.

“Hey, please. C’mon babe.” Ellie knew it was trouble the second the pet name was accidentally spoken.

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

Ellie could feel the tears well in her water line and god did she hate it. She hated how you were pushing her away again and again and again even if she knew why.

“Just talk to me, please.” Ellie begged with a tone that was pathetic to any ears who caught it. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t affect you.

Ellie was never one to show emotion. Exhibit A: when you confronted her about what the both of you were and she responded with “I don’t know”. You’d think the girl was a god damn Capricorn with the amount of avoidance she displayed when it came to anything emotional. But this was so much more than the stars in the sky and the time she was born.

In the heat of the moment, the both of you had already swiftly walked the route to your mothers home. You knew you shouldn’t do it, yet you felt it gnaw away through your skin, into your bones as the anger and frustration began to slither away to hide in the snow covered grass.

“Do you want to-“

“Yeah”, Ellie interrupted with several nods of her auburn colored head.

#ellie williams #tlou2 #tlou #the last of us #ellie fic #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams tlou #the last of us part 2

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izzyhandswhore · 7 months

Note

Thinking abt season 2 Izzy x Reader where after everything w Izzy’s leg Reader will sneak down into his room and just comfort him and hold him, just coddle him a bit bc he deserves it<//3

((I too am thinking about this :) Don’t ask me what’s going on with the format bcs I have no idea))

Comforting Izzy in Season Two, pre-Unicorn.

• It starts with you and the crew watching as Izzy painfully and drunkenly crawls down the corridor after sawing the unicorn’s legs off. It shatters your already broken heart to see him suffering like this, but you know any attempts to follow him would be futile. Then you feel the eyes of the crew burn into you next and white hot shame rubs through you. You should know what to do, you know Izzy better than almost anyone, you’re the one he lets in and cares about.. Or you were. With tears in your eyes, you simply walk away.

• You can’t sleep that night. You and the crew have started construction on Izzy’s new leg but your anxiety prevents you from being excited. What if he hates you it? What if you get it wrong again? Heart hammering, you get up. You can’t take it anymore, you just need to see him.

• Before you can even knock on his door you can hear him talking to himself. He’s drunk, obviously, slurring his words and cursing himself and Ed and the sea and any other poor fucker he can think of.. Though notably, you’re not included in his hit list. Knocking on the door just earns you a “fuck off!” but you persist. “Izzy, it’s me,” you call quietly. Silence follows. You let yourself in.

• The stench of alcohol hits you like a ton of bricks but you don’t care. You only care about the haggard, broken man who’s sat on the bed, glaring at you, swaying slightly despite the sea being calm. You start to approach. “Thought I told you to fuck off,” he spits, stopping you in your tracks. You only have to give him a stern look to take the wind from his sails. He averts his eyes like a naughty schoolboy and mutters, “what d’ya want?”

• You’ve brought him some warm water and a washcloth along with a few other supplies. He protests a little at first but eventually lets you strip him of his dirty clothes and gently wash away the grime he’s let build up. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall, head lolling a little as he focuses on your warm, gentle touch rather than his aching body for a bit. In his drunken haze he thinks about how much he’s missed this, how much he’s missed you. The words just won’t string together and come out somehow, making him feel more ashamed. He was supposed to be the one taking care of you, not the other way round.. Just how the fuck did it come to this?

• When you reach his leg he snaps to attention and grabs your wrist, holding it tight. You look up at him expecting anger but instead you just find shame.

“Don’t,” he grunts, “you don’t have to touch it.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” you assure him, “but it might be good to just check it’s alright.. You know, after you fell earlier.”

He scoffs and automatically reaches for the rum again, letting go of your wrist. “Bet the crew fucking loved that..” he mutters, earning another sad look from you.

“They’re worried about you,” you tell him, “everything you did for them hasn’t gone unnoticed, you know. Everyone knows how much they owe to you, how much you - you sacrificed.”

A heavy silence falls over the room once more as he processes the information and you do your best not to get emotional. You can’t even imagine what Izzy’s going through, what happened between him and Ed behind closed doors.. You focus on carefully unwrapping the bandages around what’s left of his leg. A couple of stitches have split and are crusted with blood, but it’s nothing serious. You get to work cleaning and redressing everything. Izzy doesn’t even flinch. Whether he’s numbed by the alcohol or exhaustion, you’re not quite sure.

• When you’re finally done you pull back and dare to smile at him. You ask if he’s feeling a bit better and, though he sneers at first, he eventually nods and admits that he does. You even get a thank you.

• Then comes the awkward part. You and Izzy haven’t slept in the same bed together since Stede abandoned Ed. You want more than anything for things to go back to normal but you know that’s probably a long way off. You point out the obvious.

“You should sleep, Iz.”

He laughs and holds up the near-empty rum bottle. “I will,” he says, “eventually.”

You bite back a sarcastic comment and just sigh, pulling back the blanket and fluffing the pillow, willing to play this little pantomime for as long as he’ll let you. He grumbles something about you not being his fucking mother, but there’s no venom in it. He lets you guide him under the covers and finally put the bottle down. You perch on the edge of the bed, knowing now you really should leave, but you just can’t. You need to find any excuse, any reason to stay just that bit longer. Just when you’re about to give one, he reaches out and gently holds your hand.

“It hasn’t escaped my notice either,” he murmurs, eyes glassy and sincere, “how much you’ve done for me. Even before all this shit, back when we first met Bonnet, I -“ His voice breaks. “I was a fucking dick. And you stood up for me and I - “ He’s getting worked up now, shaking you to your core. You’ve never seen him like this. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t know Ed - “

“Shh..” You hush him, squeezing his hand, “you are not responsible for that man’s actions, Iz. At all.” Anger seeps into your voice before you can stop it. “You didn’t deserve to be hurt like this.”

He just stares at you, his chest heaving with sobs that he refuses to let out.

You decide you don’t care to hesitate anymore. You kick off your boots and slide in beside him, taking him in your arms where he belongs. He doesn’t protest and just quietly cries into your shoulder, clinging to your shirt like it’s a lifeline. You stroke back his damp hair and pepper kisses along his forehead, assuring him over and over again that it’s all okay. No one’s ever going to hurt him like that again because you won’t fucking let them. You both know that in the life of piracy promises like that are fragile, but right now neither of you care. This is the safest he’s felt in a long, long time and he doesn’t have the strength to pass it up. Eventually his sobs dissolve to quiet sniffles and you feel his body start to relax against yours.

“You don’t have to stay,” he whispers.

You just smile and hold him even tighter.

“I know.”

#ofmd #our flag means death #izzy hands #izzy hands x reader #wtf is this format fml #this should not have taken me this long to write jiminy criminy #apologies all round for everything

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suddencolds · 5 months

Text

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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familyvideostevie · 11 months

Note

Completely felt - I wanted to (selfishly) request a pre relationship w bradley where he like comes over to r’s place and there’s like a random assortment of handyman tasks that are either poorly done or waiting to get done. I’m in my acts of service era. But of course do not feel pressure I will love u regardless

this is so juicy i took 1000 years to write it!!! pre-relationship with the promise of something more :) <3 hope you like! | fluff, pre-relationship, 1.3k

Your new place is a dream come true apart from all of the work it needs. The sink leaks, the kitchen cupboard is crooked, the lock on the bathroom door sticks. The lawn is a mess and the brick path to the front door needs relaying and the door itself needs some paint. But it's yours. A small house in the most beautiful town you've ever seen.

It's hard to make friends as an adult in a new place but lucky for you, you've got some already. You know Nat from before she had set her sights on the sky and you've heard so much about Bob you feel like you've met him already. They both come over to help you unpack.

"This is so charming!" Nat cries when you open the door. She tugs you into a hug. "Bob, don't be shy."

"The infamous Bob," you say, smiling. He grins at you and waves before sticking out a hand.

"Hello," he says. "I feel obligated to say that anything embarrassing Phoenix has told you is probably true."

You laugh. You're about to usher them in when you see a dude in jeans and a UVA t-shirt checking out your mailbox. Nat follows your gaze and sighs.

"Rooster!" she calls. The man -- Rooster? -- snaps his head up, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. "Stop manhandling her mailbox and get in here to be useful." She looks back at you and shrugs. "He's from our squad. He knows a lot about home repair and I thought he'd be helpful since you said this place uh..."

Bob looks at the chipping paint on the front door. "Needs some work?"

"That's putting it lightly," Rooster says, walking up the brick path. Okay, kind of a dick thing to say, you think. He wiggles a few loose ones as he does so, shoving his glasses into his hair and frowning at his feet. "You're gonna break an ankle on these things." He seems to remember himself and looks up at you. He grins and it's like someone steals all the air from your lungs. Yeah, that was kind of a dick thing to say, but he's tall, tanned, and so very, very handsome.

"If you can fix them, be my guest," you say. "I'm --"

Your name rolls off his tongue like it was made for him to say. "Nat talks about you all the time. Sorry to crash the unpacking party. I'm Bradley." Nat scoffs and covers it with a cough. He sticks out his hand and you take it. It sounds ridiculous in your own mind but you swear you feel something when your skin touches. Get it together, you tell yourself.

"Wellllllll," Nat drags out. You pull your hand back and hope you're not noticeably flustered. "Shall we go inside?"

You lead the way. Bob starts to unpack your books while Nat tackles unwrapping your frames. Someone starts to play '80s classics on their phone and you're hit with a rush of gratitude. These people, two of them who don't even know you, are so quick to help. You hope the rest of their Navy friends are this nice.

The boxes of dishes seem to be calling your name so you start on those, pulling off paper and opening cabinets. Who knew you had so much shit?

You feel him next to you before he speaks. "This is a little loose," Bradley says, wiggling the kitchen faucet. "Do you mind if I fix it?"

Apparently, Nat was serious about his handyman knowledge. "Uh, sure," you say. It feels like he takes up the entirety of your small kitchen. "There's a toolbox underneath already."

"Smart," he says. You cannot believe how warm the praise makes you feel. You just met.

You start talking so he won't see how flustered you are. "Sorry if this is a dumb question," you start, not looking at him. He's tightening something, arms bulging under this t-shirt. "But should I call you Bradley? Or Rooster? Which I assume is your...pilot name?"

"Callsign," he corrects with a smile you can't help but notice. "It's up to you," he shrugs. "You'd be the only one to call me Bradley, probably."

"I just don't know how to call a grown man Rooster," you admit. He laughs.

"Fair enough," he says. He looks up from the sink and his eyes narrow on the cabinet you're opening. "Hey, careful," he says, reaching for it. His fingers brush yours as he grabs the door, moving it back and forth a little. "This looks loose. Can I..."

"Be my guest."

You have no idea how much time passes. Bradley tightens every single cabinet door in your kitchen and fixes the jammed utensils drawer as you talk about his job on base, your new one close by, the rest of the squad, the best restaurants in town. Anything and everything. Part of you wonders if you're going to wake up in your own bed and all of this is going to have been a dream.

The music pauses and Nat and Bob come into the kitchen. The sunlight through your un-curtained has changed and you realize it's been hours.

"Do you guys want to go to the Hard Deck?" Nat asks, eyes bouncing between you and Bradley. "I could use a drink."

"You can meet more of the squad," Bob says. "And Penny. She's going to love you."

"Alright," you say. It really does sound nice -- meeting new people, and starting to create your own community here. "Do I need to...change?" You look down at your own jeans and t-shirt.

"Nah," Nat says. "You're perfect as you are." Bradley hums and you allow yourself to think that it's in agreement.

"I can drive you if you want," he says suddenly. "I parked down the street."

Bob and Nat seem to do some weird pilot-WSO silent communication thing and then they smile at you both. "We'll meet you there." They're out the door and down the driveway before you can say a single thing.

"Let me grab my keys." Bradley waits by the front door, arms crossed as he looks at the chipping paint.

"Hey," he calls as you walk back towards him. "I hope you don't think I have been implying that your place is..."

"Shitty?" you supply, laughing. He grimaces as you shut the door and start across the crooked bricks.

"It's really nice," he amends. "To have your own place. You're going to make it really beautiful."

"That's kind of you."

"You can say no," he starts, and you look back at him, wondering where this is going. "But I'd be happy to get some of that stuff fixed. Paint the door, redo the bathroom lock, and relay these bri--"

Your foot catches on a half-crumbled brick and you stumble. Bradley's hand darts out to catch you by the arm firmly but not too tight.

"Whoops," you say. You look up and his face is much closer than it was, brows drawn in concern. "Thanks."

"Please let me fix these damn bricks," he says. He does not let go.

"Okay," you breathe. "Can I help?"

Bradley releases you but doesn't step back. The concern melts into amusement. "You know how?"

"No," you say, stepping carefully now. "But I bet you can teach me."

He doesn't say anything for a second and you worry that you've overstepped, you've read it all wrong, you're going to have to fake sick and beg out of drinks.

"Alright," he says. You look back to find him grinning and spinning his car keys around one finger. "I'll teach you." You manage to contain the shiver that wants to run down your spine.

All of this is exciting. A new town, a new house, new friends in Bob and Bradley and whoever you're going to meet tonight. This right here, you and a naval aviator you met a few hours ago standing in your driveway grinning at each other, feels like a beginning.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, masterlist here!

#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley rooster bradshaw x y/n #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw fic #top gun maverick fic

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leahsgf · 11 months

Note

omg could u write adult lottie x reader?? maybe w lottie js comforting reader or something? theres such a lack in lottie fics its heartbreaking :((

an instant cure

pairings. adult!lottie x reader

i actually wrote two different versions of this! the other is a little more heavy so i’ll post this one first, thank you so much for the req! and i agree i wish there was more fics out there for lottie :(

“honey are you coming?” lottie’s voice sounded from the other side of the bathroom door, so soft and full of love that you could almost melt.

“yeah, yeah. just a second!” you shook off the threatening tears as you glanced over your appearance in the mirror. it’d been one of those days that had just been off. nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened, just the usual jobs and classes around the compound, but since you had woken up you had felt like you had a brick sat on your chest, refusing to shift.

you were desperately clinging to the logical side of your brain, trying to convince yourself that it was all in your head and to not let your thoughts completely overwhelm you. however nothing could quite quell the crummy feeling lingering in your gut.

you’d been delaying leaving the bathroom and joining your wife in bed because you didn’t want to dampen her mood. she was a constant beam of light, and spent her days helping people navigate their feelings purely out of the goodness of her own heart, and the last thing you wanted to do was to taint her high spirit and put her back into work mode when she should be relaxing. maybe, you thought, spending a second longer getting ready would be able to shake that off you - but, you were mistaken. so with a deep breath you opened the door, heading towards your shared bedroom.

your entrance instantly caught lottie’s attention, her eyes softening as she saw you, instantly plastering a smile across your features. “come on.” she demaned lightheartedly, holding up the sheets. “get over here.” you laughed and waltzed over, snuggling down next to her, inhaling her scent and instantly feeling comforted, and lighter.

the fuzzy feeling surrounding you reminded you of the first time you’d had the pleasure of being taken out on a date by her, decades ago, before the thought of nationals, before the crash, before switzerland, before everything. the pair of you had genuinely been through it all, and had always had each-other.

you’d met lottie when you were six. you were the terrified, shy new kid, and had refused to speak to anybody for the entirety of your first day. until she had toddled over, plonking herself down next to you and wordlessly started braiding your hair, beaming at you with her gappy smile.

her playing with your hair had always been a huge comfort to you - from the playground decades ago, to now, wrapped in her embrace from as she pressed kisses to the crook of your neck every now and again.

alongside her ability to love beyond belief, one of the things you loved the most about lottie was how observant she was, the little things that would fall unnoticed to most being the things that she would notice the most. she quite literally knew you inside and out, and was in touch with your emotions just as much, if not more than her own.

her fingers branched out from your hair, feathering over your cheeks ever so slightly, pulling you back into reality.

“what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?” she quizzed, her eyes studying your expression.

“just thinking about you.” you replied, so softly it was barely audible. “about the first day we met.”

“oh yeah?” she raised an eyebrow, the very same smile from that day spread across her cheeks. “you were so cute. i think i knew i loved you from the second my eyes set on you that day.” your eyes glazed over once more as your cheeks heated in response to her words.

after a moment of silence that fell between you, she nudged you slightly, an expectant look across her features, sighing softly as you met it with confusion.

“i don’t help people navigate their feelings everyday for nothing you know. what’s actually going on?”

“nothing,” you mumbled, “honestly, it was just a weird day.”

“weird?” her eyebrows furrowed as she scolded herself internally for busying herself today to the point of missing that you weren’t a hundred percent.

“yeah. just off. you know those days that just feel wrong, even though you don’t really know why?”

“absolutely baby.” she assured. “please always tell me or just give me a signal when you’re feeling like this. you are my top priority, always.” she pulled you into her arms further, caressing your back as she pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“thank you lot. i’m honestly feeling much better now. it’s quietened down a lot.”

“you sure? i don’t want you feeling icky before bed. i know it can take a while for it to let you relax sometimes. i could make you a smoothie? one of the ones you really like? o-or i could run us a bubble bath? or give you-“ she rambled, her brain scrambling for every possible way to comfort you, not realising that she is comfort enough.

“hey, hey.” you stopped her, a small chuckle slipping past your lips. “all i need is you, right here with me. i promise.”

lottie grinned over at you, pausing her train of very enticing ideas. “as long as you’re sure. i can very much do that. i’m not going anywhere.” she shifted your position so your head lay on her chest, her arms securely around your frame, almost cradling you. butterflies erupted within you, like they always had done at the slightest touch from her. she had had this effect on you for as long as you had known her.

“i love you so much.” you whispered, sleep now fully prepared to overcome you.

“i love you more sweetheart. don’t hesitate to wake me if you need me.” she soothed, gently squeezing you as your lips met hers to say goodnight.

lottie had always been like an instant cure to every negative emotion you had ever experienced. it seemed to again of worked effectively, as you drifted off to sleep happier than you’d been all day, knowing that you could get through anything as long as you had your love.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie x reader #lottie yellowjackets #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #comfort

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ninthcircle-skz · 9 months

Text

🐰♥️Knife Play w. Lee Minho♥️🐰

Pairing: Lee Know x Reader(f)

Rating: 18+ explicit, smut

Trigger Warnings: Sadist Minho, knife play, possible self harm relation, non-negotiated kink, actual physical danger (just don’t try this at home folks), crying reader

Lee Know has a collection of knives.

You’re laying on his bed mindlessly scrolling your phone, in your lane, when your FWB walks in and loudly unfurls a rolled up pouch of knives and drops it on the bed next to you. Your eyes lock onto his and silently communicate sir this is a Wendy’s. He gives a devious smile without breaking the eye contact and purrs out, “Let me show you how I like to play.”

The knives vary wildly in size and shape, but they all have two things in common: they look beautiful and they look dangerous. Kinda like him. You question your sanity for about the hundredth time since you two started playing around, but then you end up giving in to him, because of course you do.

He picks up one of the smaller knives and holds it sideways in his teeth while crawling on top of you. He slides his knee in between your legs to open them up a bit while looking down at you, scanning your clothed body with a hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen him show before. He takes the knife out of his mouth and holds it carefully a half arm’s distance away. “You’re going to have to hold very still, do you understand? No matter how scared you are. You need to trust that I have control of this. Can you do that?” Your heart races and a pit builds in your stomach, but also, to your confusion, you are immediately so wet. Your brain goes a little fuzzy.

“Mhmm,” you dry swallow. Then in the span of about 3 seconds he flips the knife around in his hand, pulls your tshirt up by the collar, and rips down the length of it with a shockingly loud tearing sound. You want to yell WHAT THE FUCK MINHO but your brain short circuits as fight or flight hits you like a brick wall, and all you remember is “hold still”.

He leans down and kisses you hard while peeling your “shirt” open, hands exploring all over your bare torso. It’s his for the taking now. But his tongue is assaulting your mouth and his thigh is grinding in between your legs, and you are all adrenaline and lust and lost in the moment. Until the cool edge of the knife meets your side, and you break your mouth away from his. He’s unphased and just stares at you. The full length of the blade grazes your skin up and down, and it’s actually incredibly soft. He’s not using any pressure, just.. petting you?? Testing your response?

“Close your eyes and just relax into it,” he directs, and you do just that, reminding yourself that you do actually trust him. He adds just enough pressure so that the blade, laying horizontally across your skin, makes a soft sheering sound as he slowly grazes it along the full length of your side. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but it does start to tug a little. Unbeknownst to you with your eyes closed, your sensitive skin is burning red beneath the blade, and it’s making him crazy.

—-

It’s been so long since he’s been able to do this with someone. He’s riding the high of having you as his plaything, still and vulnerable beneath him, short of breath, under his full control. After all, one wrong move on your part could send you to the hospital. Maybe it should concern him (and you), but he’s burning with the power he has over you. What he wouldn’t give to push you further, press in just enough to break skin, see your eyes shoot open with fear, maybe water up a little… then watch them close tightly again when he cuts a little deeper, listen to you yelp out in pain… all under his hand. He’s capable of more, but you’re not ready… yet. He regains his focus.

—-

He picks the knife up and directs it at the soft curves of your cleavage. This time it’s not the whole blade you feel, but the sharp tip instead, though still softly. And his other hand trails slowly down your sternum.. your stomach… and into your pants. You’re reminded how wet you are and how desperately you’d love his fingers inside of you. You moan and open your eyes finally, giving him a pitifully needy look.

Thank god, because he gives you what you want, sliding one finger in deep. And then it’s his turn to moan because he’s never felt you this aroused this quickly. “Fuck you are so perfect for me,” he breathes out with a desperate look on his own face. He fucks his finger in and out, painfully slowly, while shifting focus to his other hand. The one with the knife.

Time to close your eyes again. Time to hold still, when all you wanna do is press your hips closer to him. He ever so slightly presses the tip of the blade into your soft skin and gracefully drags it a few inches, leaving an inflamed line trailing behind it. Okay… this hurts. Well, stings. Burns. But he distracts you with a second finger and you’re lost.

This continues for awhile, Minho just barely cutting you… all over your chest and sides and stomach and hips. Never enough to really bleed, maybe a drop here and there, but mostly just scratches. But you are so sensitive, and it hurts. Yet every time you whine or whimper it seems to make him press harder, drag faster, get lost in his own head. And all the while his fingers are fucking you and building what is sure to be a long, overwhelming orgasm.

You are a puddle beneath him, brain completely numbed out, brought into the present moment under his blade and the sting and his fingers and before you can stop it, tears are trickling out of your eyes and you start crying loudly, losing full composure. But then your crying is mixed with pleasure because it’s triggered him to force your orgasm. He turns up the pace and pressure of his fingers and angles just so until you cum on him so hard you shake.

He rides it out with you for a minute, letting you recover slowly but surely and at your own pace. He puts the knife down and comes up to cradle you in a comforting cuddle. You’re still crying and covering your face with your arms in absolute embarrassment, but he pulls them apart to give you soft kisses all over your face. You turn to bury your face into his chest instead, still hiding. He brushes his fingers through your hair and rubs your back… until everything finally subsides.

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, and all either of you can think is “oh no, are we really just friends?”

#skz fanfic #stray kids #skz smut #stray kids smut #lee Minho #lee know #Lino #lee minho x reader #sadist lee know #lee know x reader

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brewstersbru · 1 month

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A little comfort continuation of my riz 💚character study (aftermath w/ jawbone to the rescue!! hes such a dad 🐺)

Riz meant to go back inside. He did. He was going to heave himself up and amble back in, wedging himself between Fabian and Fig (if they hadn’t already filled his space with their flailing limbs in the short time he’d been out).

He was going to do it. Just as soon as he swallowed the lump in his throat. Just as soon as he got a handle on things.

It can’t have been longer than twenty minutes after Pok hung up when the door behind him creaks open. Shit. He thought he had more time. Riz swallows and blinks frantically as if that will somehow cover the puffiness to his eyes, the tear tracks that- despite excessive scrubbing- won’t completely go away.

“Riz.” It’s Jawbone. There’s relief in his voice, but something else too. A yawning kind of drowsiness. Riz takes a deep breath, ignoring the sinking ball of guilt in his gut.

“Hey, Jawbone, sorry. Did I wake you up?” He almost surprises himself with the calmness in his voice, but is glad of it, nonetheless. What an inconvenient time to find out he actually can lie convincingly.

The door creaks again and there’s a sharp click in the silence of the night as Jawbone shuts the door behind him. There are a few moments of scuffling before a weight settles over Riz’s shoulders- warm, fluffy- and Jawbone sits next to him on the steps.

Riz looks down to find that he’s been wrapped in a blanket, one of the nice ones from the linen closet. Had Jawbone known he was out here? How much had he seen? Did he hear anything?

Riz pulls the blanket tighter against himself, suddenly aware of how cold he is.

“Thanks.” He mutters. Jawbone hums and turns to look at him.

“Course. Saw you shivering, didn’t want you to catch a cold or nothin’.” Maybe this is something to do with guidance counselors, or faculty at Auguefort in general, but Jawbone’s gaze is piercing. Riz feels at once flayed open and carefully examined.

He coughs, curling further into himself.

“I can go back in now. Was going to, in a second, but…” He can’t finish the thought, everything that comes to mind is either childish or worrying, neither of which he wants to be in front of Jawbone. He swallows thickly.

Jawbone leans into the railing behind him, getting comfortable. “There’s no rush, Riz. I mean, I do think you need to sleep at some point tonight, but that can wait a little. At least until your tail stops swishin’ like that.” Riz immediately tucks the thing under one of his legs, embarrassed at being betrayed by his own biology. His face burns.

“I’m fine. You’re right, I need to get some sleep before the exam tomorrow, or I’ll be totally useless to the party.” He doesn’t turn to look at Jawbone as he speaks, simply stares resolutely at some of the loose brick in front of him.

“Now I didn’t say that last part, kiddo. You need to sleep ‘cuz it looks like you haven’t gotten a proper eight hours in a while, and I can see it weighing on your shoulders with the rest of it.” Jawbone says, gently. Riz bristles, almost wants to hiss at him. What does he know about what Riz carries on his shoulders?

“I said I’m fine, Jawbone.” He grits, standing. “I should go.” Jawbone curses.

“Wait. Please.” Riz pauses, finally meeting his eyes. They’re as sharp as ever, but soft, too. If that makes any sense. Jawbone continues, “It kills me seein’ you like this kiddo. I feel like a broken record sayin’ this, but I really do mean it, I’m always here to talk if you need to. Or, even if you don’t want to talk I just- it just seems like you could use somebody, is all.”

Riz feels like he’s glitching. His mind is screaming at him to keep walking, to get back in the house, lay down, and close his eyes tight until the sleep takes. But he’s so warm. And he kind of wants to cry again and Jawbone would give him a hug, probably, if he asked for it. Right?

At war with himself, all he manages to do is freeze in his tracks and utter an intelligent, “Um.”

Jawbone smiles and pats the stone next to him.

“Come on. You don’t gotta say anything, but at least sit down. And- oh, here,” He reaches into one of his cardigan’s pockets and produces a small mini chocolate bar. “A little pick-me-up.”

Riz settles gingerly next to him, closer than before but not close enough to touch. He reaches over and takes the chocolate, movements slow as he raises his eyebrows.

Jawbone shrugs. “I always keep a few on me, just in case. Never know when you might need ‘em.”

Riz smiles, small and to himself, for the first time in what feels like hours. Jawbone grins back.

“There he is. If you want another, just ask, I should have one or two more on me.”

Then it’s silent for a good, long while. Riz stares into the pitch black that pushes up against the safe halo of light surrounding the house as he chews on silky chocolate. He can’t help but replay the conversation with his father over and over again in his mind. Jawbone’s head is tilted to the stars.

For all he knows- for all Riz ever knows- that could be the last conversation he is able to have with Pok until he dies again. The watch is what allows them to talk across planes and it, like everything else Riz is and owns, is breakable. It’s unlikely that the watch will break tomorrow (Riz is a ranged fighter, he never gets close if he can help it, nothing should get near enough to him to get to it…), but not impossible. Never impossible.

Something warm and wet drips down his chin and onto his fist, where its clenched around the blanket. Riz brings his other hand to swipe at his eyes. Fuck. He shouldn’t be crying like this. He thought he was cried-out.

Jawbone’s voice rings out from beside him, tender, “Kiddo.”

Riz shakes his head, curling further into the blanket as if the fabric might protect him from this mortifying situation.

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “I thought I was done with this part.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“It’s okay to need to cry, Riz. Definitely nothing you need to apologize for.”

Riz shivers, somehow cold again, even with the blanket. He wants to burrow into Jawbone’s chest, to cling like he used to, to his mom before he grew out of it and became a man (he was so young, then; he should’ve given it more time, he could’ve given it more time). He doesn’t want to ask, though.

Doesn’t know if he can ask.

Jawbone looks down at him- shivering, hunched underneath a thin cotton blanket- and he must see something that Riz doesn’t mean to betray because his breath catches, and he does the asking for him.

“Can I hug ya, kid?”

Riz nods once, sharply, as soon as the words are in the air. Jawbone reaches out and gathers him up in his arms. Pressing him firmly, but gently, against his chest. Riz buries his face into his cardigan and allows himself a minute of foolishness.

He hiccups.

“I miss my dad, Jawbone. I wish he wasn’t dead.” His voice breaks on the last word, all he gets out is the ‘de’, and he leaves the rest to hang in the air with his sobs.

Jawbone’s hand comes up to rub lightly over his back. He doesn’t say anything, just allows Riz to cycle through his emotions.

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he’s gone and me and mom just have to deal with it.” Riz takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“Sometimes… I know it’s stupid and illogical, but sometimes I get mad at him. I get so furious with him. Because he’s not here. He didn’t do what he needed to do to be here for his son. And I know that’s wrong and he couldn’t help it and if he could choose to be here, he would, but it doesn’t stop the anger. I don’t like it. But I don’t know what to do with it because it’s not fixable. I can’t put it anywhere, so I just push it down and hope it goes away, eventually. It never goes away.”

Jawbone hums, and Riz can feel the vibration of it against his cheek. It reminds him of a cat purring, almost. If the cat smelled like dog.

“It’s okay to feel upset that your father was taken from you before you got the chance to know him. That’s not stupid or illogical. I’m sure he beats himself up about it just as much, if he’s anything like his son.”

Riz, despite himself, laughs.

“It’s nice getting to know him now.” He sniffs. “It’s just- I feel like I’m playing a game of catch-up every time we talk. Like I’m late to the race. Most kids know what their dads do for work before high school.”

“But it’s not a race, Riz.” Jawbone’s voice is low, but vehement. “No one is judging you for not knowing these things about your father, because you thought he was unreachable up until a year ago. The fact that you’re taking every opportunity to learn about him, that you spent so much time- even before you knew what he did for work- visiting his grave and updating him about your life, and still do, sometimes. It’s a testament to how much you love him. I think he knows that.”

The silence following those words stays for another minute or so before Riz huffs.

“But I don’t love him enough to bring him back, huh. There’s magic in any strong emotion, Kristin told me that, once. And I just started messing with magic stuff, but you would think that it wouldn’t be impossible. Not if the love was strong enough.”

Jawbone sighs, brings a hand to Riz’s hair and begins to card through it, almost absentmindedly. Riz freezes, then melts into it. It’s been so long since anybody played with his hair like this. His mom used to do it, when he was younger, but then the bills got higher, her shifts got longer. It fell to the bottom of the priorities list.

“You can’t do that to yourself, kid. You can’t. You think if Ms. Barkrock wanted it enough, was rageful enough, she coulda expelled the demon from her chest earlier?”

Riz shakes his head, slightly, afraid to dislodge jawbone’s hand. “Of course not. But that’s different-“

“Not really.” Jawbone cuts in, gently. “Point is, magic don’t work like that. Emotions are a factor, yes, but there’s so much else that goes into it. You love your dad so much, Riz, anyone can see that.”

Riz sniffles. “Thanks, Jawbone.”

Jawbone smiles where Riz can’t see, and ruffles his hair before allowing him to pull away.

“Anytime, kiddo.”

#short and sweet #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #just in case #riz gukgak #jawbone o'shaughnessey #dad feels #jawbone is a counselor and it shows #also just realized this but i he gives chocolate to riz like fucking #remus lupin #god ive stereotyped werewolves #im sorry werewolves #anyways riz is so The fucked up little guy #love him #character study #brublurbs #abuse of italics #fantasy high

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miguelschamp · 4 months

Text

the exit pt. 2

pairing: john b routledge x fem!reader

summary: you see john b for the first time in months

warnings: none

a/n: requested by @mirellef2001. i hope you enjoy :)

it had been a few months since you walked away from john b. from the outside looking in, a lot had happened.

john b being accused of murder, then he and sarah passed trying to get off the island. of course, you didn’t believe that john b had killed peterkin. john b was a lot of things, but a murderer wasn’t one of them.

then you found out from kie that john b wasn’t dead and that he was actually okay. that gave you some relief knowing that he was okay.

now, as of recent, it came out that john b was cleared and that rafe cameron killed peterkin. you were happy that the truth came out, but hadn’t made any effort to actually talk to him.

you were still hurt by what happened with him and sarah, but considering all that happened, if you ever did see him, you wouldn’t rub it in his face.

looking around at the bonfire, you couldn’t quite tell if you still wanted to be there. your friends left you alone awhile ago and had yet to make an effort to come back. you were sat on a brick wall with a half empty solo cup in your hands.

the fire burning in the middle of the party calmed you, but the teenagers running around and drinking different concoctions left and right made you anxious.

you left out a deep sigh as you shut your eyes. your finger tapping the side of the cup as you open your eyes slowly.

“you here all by yourself ?”

your heart drops. you knew exactly who was standing beside you. you turn and your eyes meet the only boy you’ve ever been in love with.

“john b ?”

“that’s me.” he smiles softly. he watches as you look him up and down slowly before you turn towards the fire again. “you mind if i sit ?”

“go ahead.” you shrug. john b takes a seat next to you making sure to leave some space between the two of you.

this was the first time he had seen you in months. he couldn’t believe how beautiful you still were, if not more.

when you walked away from john b this past summer, he knew he messed up. terribly.

the day was on repeat in his mind for a long time. he couldn’t believe he actually let you go. it was stupid. he knew that. and his friends wasted no time in reminding him of that.

“how have you been ?”

you chuckle, “i should be asking you that considering you were on the run and on trial for murder.”

“well, i made it out pretty okay.” he smiles, “but how are you ?”

“i’m fine.” you mumble

john b eyes you as you stare into your cup. his mind reeling for some way to get you to talk to him. “y/n-“

“if you’re gonna bring up you and sarah, please don’t. i’ve thought about it enough.”

john b sighs, “okay, well. can i at least apologize ?”

“for what ? we weren’t together.”

“but we were supposed to be.”

“we wanted to be.” you say finally looking over at him. your heart skips as you look into his brown eyes. they were as gorgeous as you remember. “you didn’t cheat or anything, john b. you don’t have to apologize.”

“i’m still sorry.” he says, “i hurt you and i always promised i wouldn’t. i was just so caught up in finishing what my dad started that i got caught up in something with sarah.”

“you guys were on the run together. you don’t have to downplay what you felt for her to make me feel better.”

“i’m not. i’ll always be thankful for her helping me and sticking with me, but what i felt for her is nothing like what i felt for you.”

“john b.” you sigh as you look away

“i’m serious.” he says scooting closer, “i’m sorry, y/n/n.”

as you turn to him, john b looks down. his hand reaches for one of your hands laying in your lap. he removes it from the cup and holds it gently.

he looks up at you, “i’m sorry and i love you.”

your face softens, “i love you too.”

“i know.” he nods, “but it’s not about me right now. i wanna make everything up to you. i want you to understand how much i really do appreciate all that you’ve done for me despite what happened. i want you to understand how much i love you.”

your eyes flicker between his before his own fall to your lips. as he leans in closer, you heart beats harder in your chest.

you didn’t know if kissing john b was a good idea. was a simple apology really enough ? john b wasn’t one to break promises. once he has his mind on something, he sticks to it. so, if he promised to make everything up to you, then he would.

so who cares ?

your eyes shut as he places his lips on yours. you sigh softly as he moves against you. he pulls away, but doesn’t go far at all.

your eyes open and he’s already looking at you. his eyes swarming with a look only you’ve seen. you didn’t know that, but he did.

he also knew that no matter what happened, he would never let you go again.

#john b routledge #john b imagine #john b x reader #chase stokes #outer banks #outer banks imagine #miguelschamp

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hannahmanderr · 10 months

Note

for the ship scene ask thing have you done Savant Par yet?

(TechHunter AU: a spin on a No One Knows AU in which Tucker takes up a role much like Valerie's and begins to hunt ghosts - only he doesn't know that one of those ghosts happens to be his best friend)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Danny thought that staring down the end of an ecto-blaster held by his parents was one of the worst feelings in the world.

Turns out, staring down the end of an ecto-blaster held by his best friend was the worst feeling in the world.

He could barely control his panicked breathing as he pressed his back further and further into the brick wall, frozen in fear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice yelled at him to just phase through the wall you idiot! But it was drowned out by the other, louder voices telling him that this was capital-B Bad and just how screwed he was.

"W-what do you want?" he asked. Hopefully the waver in his voice was more imagined than anything, but he doubted it was true.

The blaster didn't move an inch. "You've gotten away with this far too long, Phantom," the figure on the other end of the gun said. His voice was distorted by the voice modulator in his helmet.

Danny knew it was Tucker. Had known it was Tucker. He'd recognized the voice back before the modulator had been installed.

Now though, it sounded nothing like his lifelong friend. It only made the situation that much more terrifying, especially when compounded with the fact that he couldn't see Tucker's face through the tinted visor he wore.

He swallowed. "Gotten away with what?"

Apparently that had been the exact wrong thing to say. He grunted as the blaster was jabbed straight into his chest.

"Don't play dumb with me! You know exactly what you've been doing!" Tucker yelled. "It ends tonight. I'm here to make sure of that."

Danny's heart and core both began to race. Flashes of all the opportunities he'd had to tell Tucker and Sam of his secret began to flood his mind's eye, but he shoved them to the back of his mind as far as he could. "L-listen! Can't you - can't we talk about this for a minute?"

"Why should I? You don't deserve it. Not after what you've been doing to Danny."

Well now that caught his attention.

"I haven't been doing anything to Danny," he said quietly. Did it count as the truth if he was Danny? And he wasn't doing anything to himself?

The blaster was pushed even farther into his chest. "You might as well just drop the act, I already know your dirty little secret!"

Danny's stomach dropped. "You - you do?"

"Of course I do! You don't think I've seen how tired he is all the time? The bags under his eyes? And how he keeps getting all those random bruises and stuff? It's so obvious, I can't believe I didn't figure it out before."

"Please, Tucker, I can expl-"

"What did you just call me?"

Danny froze again. "I - Tucker, you have to let me explain, I swear I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"No, no." Tucker shook his head. "You've known? This whole time? Who I am?"

The danger in the question was palpable. Tread carefully, Fenton. "I mean... yes? I, uh... saw you take your helmet off once?" Yeah, that seemed mostly plausible. Especially if there was any shot his own secret was safe.

Tucker stayed quiet for a long moment. Danny wished he could see past the visor. It was unbearable, not being able to see his face.

"Danny found out," he finally whispered. "He found out and he told you, didn't he?"

"Um..."

"No, wait. Wait. You forced him to tell you, didn't you?"

"What?" Danny yelped as Tucker's other hand slammed into the wall, right next to his face.

"Because that's all he is to you, isn't he?" Tucker growled. "He's just some puny little human that you can mess with because you're the big, bad ghost boy."

Well, if there was a plus side to this, it was that his secret was safe after all. "It's not like that at all! He's - I'm not messing with him!"

"Well let me tell you something," Tucker continued, as if Danny hadn't spoken. "That boy you think is your personal plaything? That you think you can do whatever you want with? He's worth way more than you could even dream of."

Danny found himself at a loss for words. His heart and core continued to thud frantically and disjointedly. "What do you mean?" was all he could bring himself to say.

"I love him is what I mean!"

Time stood still around them. The full force of Tucker's words hit Danny like the brick wall behind him. The kind of love Tucker had to be talking about...

... it wasn't just brotherly friend love, wasn't it?

His heart broke into a million pieces.

Tucker's breaths were uneven and shallow. "I love him," he repeated, quieter this time. "And... and if you think you can keep hurting him like this..."

The blaster whined, and an uncomfortable heat built up against Danny's chest.

"... then let's just say the only way you'll get to him is over my dead body."

For some reason, the words finally kickstarted his brain into gear. Barely giving himself the time to consider whether it was a smart choice or not, Danny turned himself intangible and fell through the wall behind him. He scrambled to his feet and emerged on the other side of the wall before taking off into the sky at top speed.

Only the wind and the fading echoes of Tucker's furious shouts rang in his ears.

He didn't stop flying until he was on the other side of the city. He didn't even bother to check where he was before collapsing onto the roof of one of the buildings, curling into himself and letting his tears flow freely down his face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

~~Send me a ship and I'll send you the first scene that comes to mind with them!

#danny phantom #ask hannah #ask game #tucker foley #savant par #danny fenton #anonymous #whoops i got angsty with this one lol #techhunter au has so much potential that i am unqualified to write lolol #thanks for the ask!!

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intheorangebedroom · 1 year

Text

Pleased to meet you, chapter 17

Summary: You're going back to Paris. There's only one thing left for you to do, here: break up with Benny. Meanwhile, Frankie tries to find a way to love you that doesn't mean letting you go.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Ok orange besties, we're in the endgame (yes I've always wanted to say that). Thank you to everyone who's still here 🧡 It's been a hot minute, and I'm so very sorry. Some wonderful, brilliant, beautiful human beings helped me. I want to humbly thank them. @frannyzooey beta read this chapter, which is a very dull and formal way to express how much she's improved (my entire life) it with her kindness, goddess's brain and generosity. Kelli my love, you know, you know everything 🧡 (I adore you). @the-ginger-hedge-witch immediately "unblocked" me when I couldn't even make out my own characters' thoughts because I'm dumb and she's a genius... Ren ma Reine, you are truly my Queen, I love you and admire you so damn much and I miss your voice and your hugs like a ghost limb 🧡 @dreamymyrrh made sure I wouldn't give up. You brilliant little devil you, I love you to pieces, you make my life brighter every day, I'm just the luckiest. You deserve the world and you will get it 🧡

Word count: 6.9k

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Chapter 17: Auf Achse

“This is a Brooklyn bound L train. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

Frankie exits the train on the Union Square platform in a brooding rush. He barely falters when his left shoulder collides with another passenger. The man steps into the car hurling incoherent slurs that don't reach his ears, the giant overhead rotor fan annihilating all surrounding noises and Frankie remains unfazed, trapped within the din of his own mind.

Ducking his head to avoid the stale air fanned into his face, and under the familiar shelter provided by the brim of his cap, he moves his body forward amid the roiling motion of his thoughts.

He has seldom known peace, never experienced quiet, and when he has, it was only too briefly. In the orange, in the ocean. But the storm has picked up speed since April, hitting the walls of his skull, and the same vision resurfaces above the mess, relentless and without mercy: you, disappearing inside your red brick building without a look back for him.

As you laid naked on top of him, your sweet face resting in the palm of his hand, he had wanted to believe it. That the disrupted promise for a bright future together had been restored. Yet you all but ran away from him.

It’s Thursday again, the middle of the afternoon. The connection to the 6 train is already crowded, tourists and kids in uniform teeming around him in tight clusters, but he doesn’t register any of it, walking on autopilot, with the looming threat of your resentment hovering in and out of focus in his overworked brain.

Should he have told you back in his car, when you had questioned him about that damn 15 year gap, about the true meaning of his scar? In Will’s kitchen? Back in the bar? When is the start?

Striding down the tiled corridors is downright brutal, each and every muscle in his sore body battling his will to turn around and hurry back to you, to tuck your body away against his chest underneath his clothes and your face into the crook of his neck and explain. Explain in words that are not his because his words have failed him. And you.

No te vayas por una hora porque entonces…

Borrowed words he struggles to remember, would they make any difference?

Truth is, he betrayed you long ago. When he doubted you, when he gave way to anger and rage and easy, degrading escapes.

I never stopped waiting, this you have to understand.

You never ran away from him, not really. You ran away for him.

Beyond his pain, yours claws at his heart, threatening his precarious balance, like a hindered scream catching at his throat and constricting his chest. He can’t think of you alone, emptily gazing out your window like a desolate figure in a Hopper painting. Can’t live with the fact that he’s the reason you finally stopped waiting.

What could have he said? Were there any words that would have held the power to bend your mind and turn you around, erase your guilt and keep you to him? Why didn’t he try harder?

I don’t fucking care.

Tilting up his head, he finds himself sitting on the hard plastic bench of the 6 train. Across the central aisle, a small boy propped on his father’s lap is staring at him, the bottom half of his face smeared in apple sauce. The dried flakes of yellow compote shape a beard around his plump lips, and his wide, intrigued eyes make him look old beyond his years.

Frankie’s eyes flick upward to the map, where the blinking dot reminds him to get out at the next stop.

He resurfaces on Bleecker St, to an unexpected cool breeze, and tries to let it clear his mind so he will be able to present his sister with an intelligible account of the situation.

Growing up in the Morales household meant evolving in a crowded, shape-shifting space ; the small two-bedroom apartment serving as a workshop for Eva’s sewing business. In the cramped living-room, numerous piles of seemingly orderless clothes and fabric laid in what felt like an endless rotation, on top of beaten pieces of furniture that was bought at garage sales or found on the curb. For the two siblings, lounging on the couch to watch a movie or sitting at the table to do their homework meant having to move a heap of clothes that would invariably crumble to the floor a few minutes later. Only Eva seemed able to balance the precarious stacks that earned her a living and provided for her children.

Frankie rapidly became skilled at fixing just about anything, from a chest drawer to a toaster, because it was in his answer-seeking nature and because it gave him a sense of purpose. Izzy began bringing money home when she was fifteen, tutoring kids and baby-sitting young children from posh neighbourhoods, but both her and Eva denied Frankie when he expressed his intention to get an after-school part-time job. It had little or nothing to do with the fact that he was a boy, but rather the two Morales women were determined to clear the path that would lead him to an airport runway.

Having been brought up in a space intended for two people and shared by four, as they alternately navigated and evaded their father’s ghost, as a result, Izzy and Frankie curated sparsely furnished, minimally decorated homes.

The transient soldier’s path Frankie walked for most of his life made his relative material asceticism a practical choice and still, two years after settling down, it’s reflected in his utilitarian interior, where the only items in surplus are books.

Similarly, Izzy’s place, on the top floor of a Mott Street brick building, doesn’t reflect the social status to which she has risen. Childless by choice and conviction, Izzy is rarely single, but prefers to live alone, and her comfortable income could afford her much more than the pricey location she has chosen to live in, the only luxury she indulges in.

Throughout the years, her place has become as close to a family home as Frankie’s fragmented life could have had him hope for. The tastefully arranged apartment is where he spent his leaves and tended to his wounds, both tangible and the ones that wouldn’t heal. The walls, adorned with modern and old black and white prints, watched over his restless nights as he laid curled up on the opening sofa, fresh off the Army, sleep eluding him. Where his sister admonished his excesses without ever speaking a word, and forgave him everything speaking too many, always providing practical ways out along with unwavering love and support.

So, quite naturally, it is where his steps take him now, because a phone conversation wouldn’t cut through the fog.

When she opens her door, Izzy’s taken aback by her brother’s drawn features, even though the tension in his voice earlier on the phone had cued her in as to what to expect.

“Damn, you look like shit, hermanito,” she whispers. “¿Qué te pasa?”

Frankie sighs as deeply as his constricted chest will allow, fails to look her in the eyes and snaps, “Yea, can I get in, first?”

She steps to the side and lets him in, and as Frankie walks past her and into the bright living-room, she scrunches her nose.

“When was the last time you showered?”

The comment earns her a roguish look but he doesn’t argue with it. He has yet to wash you off his skin, or change the denim shirt he put on to drive you back.

Standing by the door, her left hand still grasping the doorknob, she surveys his tall, dark frame standing out in the centre of the white room, and before he can sit, she says with unusual softness, “The hat.”

Pausing imperceptibly, he removes his cap and swivels around to place it on the nearby oak dining table. They stand still in the afternoon light, with distant street noises from the world that exists outside the narrow windows dwarfing time and space.

“¿Querés un mate?”

“Sure.”

Speaking feels physically insurmountable. He has to engage all his muscles, reach for air at the very end of his lungs.

When Izzy comes out of the small kitchen, Frankie’s in a leather armchair with tubular iron armrests, and rubbing his clammy palms over his jeans. She places two round cups with metallic straws on the dark kidney coffee table and sits on the edge of the off-white couch, doing her very best to conceal the concern that reads plainly on her open face.

“You haven’t been using ag-“ she starts, but stops short when her brother looks her straight in the eyes with a warning on his face, lips pinched, jaw clenched.

“I’m clean, Izzy,” he grumbles.

“No because if you are-” she trails off, and her uncharacteristic hesitancy drums on his nerves.

Frankie knows his sister can listen. She’s been his sole confidant for over forty years. The only living soul who knows of what happened to you and him in the orange bedroom. She just needs a little reminder.

“I’m gonna tell you everything, Izzy. Just let me talk, alright?” he tries, his neck strained around the words to keep his tone down.

She nods and smooths down the wrinkles of her blouse.

“Ok,” he starts, and the waver in his voice surprises them both, “I don’t know if you remember… the girl…“

How the hell does he explain that? Is he supposed to say your name?

“The French girl?” she asks. “The one who got away?”

The one who got away.

Izzy’s eyes have grown as wide as her glasses, but her demeanour has shifted, no longer wary. Frankie’s jaw unclenches for the first time since you’ve left him yesterday, surprise untangling his brow for a fleeting second. Arms crossed on his chest, he leans back into the leather back of the chair, searching her dark eyes.

“Go ahead, hermanito,” she encourages, “I’m listening.”

He unfolds his arms. Sits up straight. Draws in one last breath.

Then, he jumps.

The first words are the most difficult, the ones that define your relationship to his friend, but once he spits them out, the rest freely flows, and he talks. He talks more than he ever has, with Izzy or Santiago or William, using words he can’t recall ever pronouncing before, like longing and certainty and craving and peacefulness, “her skin, Izzy, her fucking skin,” and to his attentive sister, he bares it all.

The years spent losing himself when he couldn’t find you, regrets, remorse, errors and shame. The blind wildfire of his hatred when you walked back into his life with another man, with this other man. How you gently extinguished the blaze without so much as a word. How it only took five encounters, stretched over the course of three months, before you found yourselves coming apart around each other again. How you ran from him, in the end, and how he’d been powerless to hold you back.

How he didn’t even try.

That you were going home and how far away that meant, just so you could protect a friendship he wasn’t even sure could be saved.

What he sees play across Izzy’s face doesn’t reflect any of the ugly feelings throbbing in his chest. There’s understanding in her eyes, and hope in her smile; relief in her posture. For Isolda Morales remembers what Francisco Jr cannot: the ashen neon light of a military hospital room, and the lean, lifeless figure of her brother lying under a coarse sheet that looked like a shroud. She remembers the blood-stained dressing wrapped around his waist. She remembers his face, gleaming a waxy yellow as the morphine flooded his system, and his wistful realisation, spoken around a drug-heavy tongue, “if I die now, she will never even know.”

Izzy could have cursed your name, then, Gabrielle, but for the second time in her lifetime, and for her baby brother’s sake, she walked her mother’s path, and formulated a silent prayer.

For the lost lovers to be reunited.

When her brother falls silent, Izzy feels like herself again.

“I knew you to be more persistent, Francisco,” she says sternly.

The statement hits him square in the chest with lethal precision. The soft leather creaks in protest when he leans back into the armchair, scrutinizing his sister’s face.

“I don’t have much latitude, here,” he argues. “If she wants to go–”

“You’re not really considering letting her go?” she cuts him with ill-concealed impatience.

“I can’t hold her back, Izzy. She’s a free woman,” he says, and he hates that it sounds like an apology.

Izzy lunges forward, reaching for her untouched cup of mate. She takes a long, slow sip, mulling over her next words while Frankie waits, running his hand over his mouth, bracing himself.

“Why are you here?” she asks eventually, replacing the cup on its glass coaster. When he doesn’t answer, she presses further. “You’ve never been one to seek comfort, and I can’t imagine you coming here so I can give you a sisterly pat on the back and tell you everything’s gonna be alright. Nothing will, by the way. So what is it that you want from me? Why did you come?”

He can see it. See it so clearly. The shame on your face the first time he touched your breasts and then your relieved abandon when he came on your skin after only one night together. He remembers how this victory made him feel, the single most meaningful thing he could ever achieve. How you kept saying “sorry,” how you still say “please,” consistently moving through life as if you take up too much space.

“I want her, Izzy. I want to be with her. Take care of her,” he says, a nod punctuating each affirmation. “But I can’t coerce her into choosing me, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” he continues, his blood brought to a simmering level by the uncomfortable truth in her words, by the paralysing contradiction in his.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie! She is choosing you. It’s herself she’s not choosing, here.”

Frankie flinches, trying to swallow the handful of pins and needles she just shoved down his throat.

“Is that what it is?” she asks in a softer tone. “You think getting her to stay would make you, what, selfish? A bad man? Because it would fuck things up with the guys? Are you afraid that she would despise you for that?”

Bending forward, he rests his elbows on his lap, his fingernail worrying at the little tattoo on his left thumb. Izzy’s eyes rapidly flick down from his hands to his tense face, in time to see him mutely nod his agreement, his gaze floorward.

“I know,” he starts, his voice hoarse and so quiet she has to lean forward not to miss a word, “I know that if I’m with her… if she’s mine… I could fix it.”

“Are you talking about yourself or the group’s dynamics?” Izzy asks without malice.

Her. I’m talking about her. She’s the only one that matters.

The look on his face is one of pleading and pain, eyes strained on his hands where he presses a finger onto the green mark, seeking focus through the discomfort.

“Frankie, look at me.”

Frankie finally lifts his head and finds her dark, lively eyes. They’re the same as his. Identical, yet so different.

“I think that’s what you came for. To hear me tell you to fight for yourself, for once.” She pauses to let it sink in. “It’s ok to fight for what you want. I know you’ve always put everyone else’s needs first, because you’re a good man, Francisco. But you can’t miss that shot. You’ve been so lucky. Twice over. I can’t say I’ve ever felt the way you do.”

“You had it pretty bad for Paula,” he mutters.

“True,” she agrees. “But I left, in the end.”

“What happened with that?”

“I think I was too independent. And she wanted kids. Listen, we’re not talking about me, here,” she shrugs away the topic with the back of her hand. “Hermanito, you’ll never be happy without her. You are right. You know you are. Go get your girl. The way you talk about her, it sounds like she needs you just as bad as you need her. You can make everything right after, later. Do whatever it takes to convince her. You’ve loved her forever.”

His mouth is parched but he’s still denying himself the drink that would soothe his throat, and it’s a hard swallow before he can articulate his next words.

“Fuck, Izzy, that’s all I ever want. To keep her safe.”

In the breast pocket of his shirt, a muffled buzzing signals an incoming text.

He pulls his phone out hastily, hoping to see your name lighting up the screen. What he reads instead draws a hissed curse from his tight lips and they dip downward, pulled by his corded neck.

“Fuck.”

“¿Quién es?”

“Ben. Wants to meet at the bar. Now.”

—

Pope arrives first, and when he steps into the bar, it’s as though the dim lights instantly grow brighter.

A thoughtful, personal greeting to everyone, from the regulars to the bartender, and their faces lighten up too, under the glow of his attention.

He orders beers for the five of them and leisurely struts over to their usual table, securing the spot before larger parties of the early evening start pouring in. Taking his favourite seat on the left, he waits for the bartender to bring over their drinks. Service at the table is a preferential treatment only Tom and him are ever granted.

The Millers come in shortly after, and Pope’s easy smile drops at the sight of the youngest man, who’s clearly missing more than a couple hours of sleep. Who, on closer observation, might have been crying.

He stands up to welcome them with a brotherly embrace, but he has to wait to ask his many questions. The glasses and ice-cold pitcher are brought in, and when Fish arrives next, Pope straightens up in his seat. His gaze intensifies, strained on the two men sitting side by side to his right around the large wooden table. The blond and the dark-haired. There’s something at play here, something he’s been missing, and his increased attention darkens his handsome features.

“Damn, when I got your text I thought we would be celebrating something. What’s going on, guys?” The corner of his lips curls up with a charming smile, but his stare is cold, his eyes working on reading the scene.

So far unusually quiet, Benny’s about to speak when his brother lays a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s wait for Redfly,” he suggests in a firm tone, “I don’t think you wanna have to repeat that twice.”

Frankie slowly downs half his glass in long, uninterrupted gulps. He knows his quietness to be suspicious. If Benny has news that requires to be delivered in such an exceptional setting, and that he hasn’t heard of already, he should at least express concern or curiosity. But Benny's blotched face and his fraternal handshake told him everything he needs to know.

You carried out your plan and took the blow so he could walk out of this unscathed.

It’s going to take more than a beer to take off the edge.

Alone yet undeterred in his attempt to maintain the illusion of a friendly gathering, Pope proceeds to fill the uneasy silence with innocuous small talk.

Frankie’s eyes meet Will’s steely gaze for the briefest moment and gratitude flares in his chest for his sensible advice. The feeling doesn’t last, however, taken down by guilt, and shame. The man dropped you on his threshold, knowing enough about the history between you to figure out what could ensue.

When Redfly eventually shows up and takes his seat, the overhanging tension cranks up until Benny’s baritone breaks like thunder over the five of them. Unable to contain himself any longer, his account of your breakup, that he never names as such, spills out of him in an endless, vivacious stream with that larger than life petulance that’s always tugged at Frankie’s heartstrings. Only today, everything bites at his nerves and erodes his restraint, from the emotion brimming under the surface of Benny’s messy narrative to Pope’s genuine look of surprise and Redfly’s unfazed reaction.

Exhaustion comes in waves, and he has just enough control left in him to maintain a white knuckled grasp around his glass and not resort to the telling rubbing of the little target inked on his skin.

Looking at his friend’s hunched posture and wet eyes proves itself impossible, but more than once his gaze lingers on Will’s face, in a vain attempt to read the man’s thoughts. There’s nothing to see there, nothing to grasp, and suddenly an alarming doubt has him uncomfortably shifting in his seat: what does he let on? Ducking his head, he finds the shelter of his cap brim.

His heart thumps louder than Benny’s voice at what’s missing from his story. What did you feel? What did you look like? What were you wearing? Did you cry? Did you brush a strand of hair off his forehead like he watched you doing once? Did you cup his face, give him one last kiss? Did you fuck one last time?

Benny marks a pause, which leaves space for Pope and Redfly to express their sympathy. Frankie registers plainly the lack of sincerity in Redfly’s short sentence, and he’s reminded of that very first night, when you were introduced to the group and had the audacity to tell him off. He had wondered, no, hoped, truly, that you had done so on his account. He has his answer now. Most of the things you’ve ever done have been either because or for him.

Why hadn’t he said something, then? Anything. “We’ve met before,” simple, non-committal. In retrospect, this had been the biggest mistake of all. There might have been a chance to salvage something from this wreck if he had spoken there and then, instead of letting his friend proudly parade you in front of everyone. But he’d been too consumed by anger to think straight. Anger and jealousy. And something else. Your skin. The mad beating of your heart under the pulse point of your neck. Had you shown him that piece of paper then, he might have fucked you on the table.

You hadn’t said anything either. You looked as if you’d seen death itself, which he mistook for an admission of guilt. In truth you had instantly fathomed the depth of the mess you two were in. Clever, clever girl.

In the end, your tacit, instinctual agreement over your conjoint secret spoke of the intensity of your feelings. Unescapable. And everlasting.

“Shit Benny, I’m really sorry. That’s tough,” Pope says for the third time. “When did she say she was leaving?”

“I don’t know, man, and I don’t care cause it’s not happening,” Benny shoots back, shaking his head left and right like a scared kid.

Will tuts and when he speaks, his tone suggests they’ve already been over that a hundred times. “Come on buddy, you know she does what she—“

“The hell she does!” he all but shouts.

Under the brim of his cap, Frankie clenches his eyes, your voice on loop in his mind, “he’s your best friend…” He’s painfully aware that he has yet to say something, anything.

“Did she explain why she’s going back to Paris?” he eventually asks under his breath.

“I don’t know, something about her boss offering back her former position,” Benny answers dismissively.

“That boss a man, by any chance?” Redfly snarls.

“Jesus, man,” Will breathes out.

All of a sudden, the situation feels uncomfortably familiar. The stench of gasoline fills up his nostrils and cold sweat breaks out along his spine. Questionable orders and deflected responsibility. Frankie’s gaze moves up to focus on Tom and it’s as though he sees the man, their undisputed leader, for the very first time. Flawed, sad, and bitter.

“Look,” Pope starts, another attempt to ease the heavy atmosphere, “Yovanna likes her, and she has a pretty good bullshit radar. Maybe it’s just that. Maybe she’s really just homesick, maybe she does need to go back.“

“Yeah, maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s that,” Tom persists.

Pope raises an eyebrow at the comment. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tilts his chin up to address Will. “You know her the best. After Benny, I mean. She didn’t tell you anything?”

Will sits up straight, unfurling his sturdy frame. “Talks about Paris all the time. She’s homesick, alright,” he confirms.

“She is,” Frankie whispers.

The words slip out of him before he can hold them. All eyes turn to him, save for Tom’s, who slaps his palm on the table and starts rambling.

“And that’s just the French for you, guys. A bunch of double-faced, unreliable people. Lazy, always fucking protesting something, never falling in line…”

“Ok, we get it,” Will grunts.

“No I mean, let that be a lesson to you, Benny. Because she really just said ‘it’s not you it’s me’ and dumped you for–”

“Hey, here’s an idea for you, Tom.”

The air stills around the five men, wrapped around the anger in Frankie’s commanding tone.

“Fish, easy, man,” Will warns with a tilt of his head, but Frankie’s already raising up to his feet, right fist resting knuckle down on top of the table, squaring up with his former commanding officer who’s staring back at him, dumbfounded.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”

Hushed conversations fade around them; most of the room turning its attention to their group.

His voice picks up in intensity as he speaks. “You don’t know anything about her, or where she’s from, or why she did what she did– in fact, you know jack shit, so why don’t you shut your mouth, for once, because if you don’t I swear I’ll make you.”

Tom is about to answer when Pope lifts his hands in the air, palms outward.

“Alright, what the hell is going on, here, guys?”

“Yeah, what the hell is going on, Fish?” Benny asks, standing up.

Frankie turns to face his friend and something flickers in his eyes. Almost regret, though not quite an apology, but rather a suppressed threat that twists his lips. In his peripheral vision, Will drops his head with a heavy sigh.

“Did you fuck my girl, Fish?” Benny quietly asks, a lingering doubt in his tone.

Frankie’s lived long enough to know this is the pivotal point of his adult life, and in his head, an image surfaces. The waves of the Pacific Ocean.

Raising a pointing index at the tall man, he licks his lips and slowly answers.

“She is not your girl.”

He only has time to register Tom’s sniggering snort before Ben’s fist collides with his face. A sharp pain blurs his vision and the violence of the blow sends his cap flying across the room. The back of his knees hit the chair and he topples backward in a loud clatter.

An instant uproar bursts around them. Frankie tries to sit up but Ben is on him before he can move, pinning him down to the floor in a straddle, his shirt clutched in his fist. Frankie tries shoving him back but there’s no fighting his strength and he takes the second punch; the back of his head hitting the hardwood floor with an ominous thud and the skin over his cheekbone breaking under the impact of Ben’s knuckles.

A piercing, ringing noise fills his ears, drowning out the other men’s voices along with Ben’s curses, and a surge of blind rage washes over him. He strikes Ben once, twice in rapid succession under the sternum, the sound of his own grunts splitting his skull and Ben collapses on top of him with a groan, warm breath fanning the side of his face. Frankie can’t breathe, crushed under the weight, but it’s lifted off his chest immediately.

Clutching his brother by the collar of his t-shirt and the waist of his jeans, Will pulls him off Frankie and away before he has a chance to dive in again. Frankie’s ready, getting up off the floor, Pope sliding both hands under his arms to hold him back, but Frankie’s voice is heavy with unreleased anger when he shouts, “It’s fine! I’m fine!”

In the dim bar, several people have stood up to get a better view of the commotion.

Shoulders heaving, he pushes Pope away, ready to counter or attack, but Will has both hands on his brother’s chest and is holding him back.

“Get him out of here!” he commands Pope, his words barely audible under Ben’s string of insults.

It’s a beat before Pope is able to snap out of it, his deep frown and curled lips betraying his horror. He turns to Frankie, who is still standing a few feet from the two brothers with his fists clenched and bared teeth, feet planted firmly on the ground and seemingly ready to launch his body forward. Pope comes closer to drag him toward the exit, a splayed hand on his shoulders forcing him backwards, a low rumble of “Come on, man, let’s go,” as if he were attempting to tame a wild beast.

Frankie catches sight of Tom, who hasn’t moved from his seat, beer in hand, staring him down with contempt.

“Go fuck yourself, Tom,” he coldly throws in his direction, but it’s Ben who answers.

“You go fuck yourself, man! I fucking trusted you!”

“Pope! Out!” Will shouts.

Before Pope has time to react, Frankie shrugs off his hands and takes a step forward. Ben stills under his brother’s hold, observing his moves, slow and deliberate as he bends down to pick his hat off the floor.

He stands up, and the two men glare at each other one last time.

“She was never yours,” he quietly states, before Pope gives him a hard push and they both disappear through the door.

Out in the street, the brutal daylight has him squinting. He winces at the pain in his cheek, letting Pope usher him toward his car, with a hand on his back to make sure he complies.

Once in the car, Pope doesn’t wait to start the ignition, forcing his way into the rush hour traffic, and they drive in silence for a while. Frankie’s eyes are trained on the windshield, his breathing evening out slowly, both hands braced on his knees. Adrenaline still pumping high through his system, he can’t bring himself to risk a glance at his friend’s face, knowing he can’t confront the disappointment he knows he’ll find there.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck, man? ¿Qué pasó? ¿Qué has hecho?” Pope bursts out vehemently.

Frankie sighs in frustration; he’s not telling this story again, not today, not now.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Santiago, ok? It’s fucking bad luck if–”

“Bad luck? Really, Frankie, bad luck? Your fucking face is bleeding! You served together for ten years! The man saved your life!”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t thought about it?” his voice raises to a near breaking point. “Gabrielle and I, we met– fifteen fucking years ago, ok? She was never his. To me, she’s everything. I lost her once, I’m not losing her again. That’s it, that’s what’s happening.”

The cab falls quiet again. The car stops at a red light and Santiago pivots in his seat, trying to catch Frankie’s distant gaze, and his dark eyes soften.

“Why did you never tell me? I would have listened,” he says.

“I know.”

He wants to explain. And he hopes that one day he will get the chance. His silence didn’t spring from lack of trust, but from lack of faith. From the unexplainable absence that left him broken. But right now his jaw is too tightly clenched to articulate the intricate feeling, and his tongue too heavy with the bitter taste of loss that is only too familiar to him.

“Makes sense, though,” Santiago continues.

“What?” he asks with a dry mouth, eyes to his knees.

“You. Missing someone. All these years. I think I always assumed it was your parents, but with all the compulsive fucking I should have guessed it was a girl.”

Frankie doesn’t answer. Santi’s offering open-minded understanding, just like he always has. It might be just who he is. Or it might be that Frankie is right in his gut feeling: he can fix it.

The grey sedan in front of them starts moving, and Santiago activates the right-turn signal.

“Where are you going?” Frankie asks.

“Your place, where you wanna go?”

“No, leave me at the corner of Seaview and County. You need to turn around.”

“What’s there?” Santi frowns. “Her place? You really serious about this?” he asks kindly.

“Yea I'm fucking serious. I'm not going back,” Frankie mutters.

“Well, you’re going back to her,” Santi quips with a grin.

Frankie finally looks at his friend, who’s flashing him his most radiant smile. “Ok, Pablo Neruda, calla y conduce.”

—

You called in sick, and then you simply gave up. What’s the point anyway? For what purpose? To whose benefit?

Countless times you reached for your phone to dial up Rosie, missing her so much you could have screamed, but even for that sort of relief you were too exhausted.

You drafted an email to your boss in Paris, enquiring about the modalities of a possible reinstatement, and failed to send it.

You sat under the shower until the water ran cold, until your eyes ran dry, until your whole body began shivering from the loss of his scent on your skin.

You stared at your ashen reflection in the bathroom mirror, setting a mental countdown to the disappearance of the purple flecks he had left on your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, the swell of your ass. They’ll be gone in a few days. Then your life will reverse to being contained into a memory.

You crossed your arms over your belly and clasped your hips in the same way he had on the fire escape and in his kitchen.

Underwear, socks, high collar T-shirt, jeans. You dressed methodically and remembered to take your Metrocard and to lock your door and walked over to Walgreens to buy some cheap concealer you weren’t sure how to use, applying it in the pharmacy aisle to cover the stubborn marks your clothes wouldn’t hide.

All this, so you could finally, finally ride the bus one last time to Benny’s place.

The conversation didn’t go down easy. That’s one hell of an understatement. He wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t even let you speak. He followed you around his house as you gathered your belongings, (they were everywhere, fuck, what had you been thinking), and kept tugging at your arm for you to face him, trying to cup your face but you wouldn’t let him. Imploring eyes and vows to give you anything you ever needed, and you would have given ten years of your useless life to get out of there, to stop wanting to take him in your arms and thread your fingers through his hair.

You were going to miss him. You missed him already. The realisation struck you like lightning and brought a foul taste to your mouth.

In the end, you still kissed him. Or, you let him kiss you.

“You’ll be fine,” you breathed into his mouth and his hold on you was bruising but it was not the same. Nothing ever was.

Your best friend’s words rang in your ears, true and prophetic.

Rosie, Will, Benny. You were, you are, throwing away the best relationships you’ve ever had over a one-night stand.

Only there’s this space, between his jaw and his collarbone, along the strong line of his neck, where your face fits perfectly. Where you’re important, primordial. Where you’re protected and safe. And free to be what you can or want to be. That space was made just for you, along the strong line of Frankie’s neck, and that space is worth everything. Even if you can only know of it in your most valuable memory.

You’ll choose him, again and again and again: over yourself and over everything.

You wish Rosie had chosen you. You’ll be lost without her. You are, already.

You’re confident you’ve taken the best possible decision. You couldn’t live with the guilt, nor the threat of his eventual resentment.

Back in your apartment, you wiped the concealer off your skin and undressed to your panties. You put on a threadbare red T-shirt, flocked with the name “Chamonix” and a skiing figure that belonged to your grandfather.

Then you drew the curtains. You crawled into bed and pulled the blue sheet over your head.

You'll think about everything later. Rosie, work, packing, moving –for now you just need to sleep, because you’re too tired to hurt, too tired to weep. Heavy heart, heavy lids, heavy limbs.

Time passes, and then a strong, repetitive banging rattles your front door, slowly penetrating the dazed limbo your mind has slipped into. It might be the morning, or the middle of the night. Your body is curled up and sore and you scramble out of bed, hitting your shoulder on the door frame as you step into the living-room. It doesn’t even occur to you to put on some pants before you open the door.

He’s here.

His broad silhouette backlit against the neon lit corridor, the left side of his face bruised and bloodied.

He’s here.

He steps into the dark apartment and closes the door behind him. His hands find your hips, and he pulls you in.

He’s here.

“Who did that to you?” you whisper. “Frankie, what did you do?”

Everyone he’s ever known has asked him a variation of this question, today. What has he done. What did he do. And for each version, there’s only one answer: he’s come back to you.

“It’s fine,” he tells you, his heart painfully pulsating under the cut on his skin but you take his hands off your hips and instruct him to sit.

In the bathroom, your numb fingers fumble noisily in the cabinet for a cotton pad and some alcohol. When you close the mirrored door, you’re met with your reflection again. You might be on the brink of tears or the verge of laughter.

When you come out, something feels different. It’s a minute before you realise he’s opened the curtains he came in to install with his friend less than a week ago. The setting sun casts a golden hue in your small living-room. He hasn’t sat, but he's taken off his cap and he’s pacing the small room.

“It’s over, Gabrielle. I told him. Ben knows. So that’s that, he knows everything.”

It’s a half-truth but the details can wait. Frankie stills when you approach him, knee popped to the side and hands on his hips, but his eyes betray his nervousness.

They follow your trembling hands as they soak the rectangular pad with the yellow liquid. They search your face for a reaction, an emotion, but you give him nothing, focused on your task.

You bring your hand to his face and start wiping his cheek before you stop, hesitant, your fingers releasing their grasp on the cotton pad that falls onto the carpet without a sound. Raising to your tiptoes, you peck an open-mouthed kiss to his wound.

His skin quivers under your lips. You look up at him when you lick your lips clean of his blood, it tastes of copper and salt, and his eyebrows go so high, the crease between them nearly disappears. His shoulders ease down, almost unwillingly, there’s a twitch in his arm, and he sighs heavily. His hands go back to your hips, where they belong, and his heart is pounding.

“You’re staying,” he says, his voice coarse and urgent. “I need to hear you say it, baby. With words. Say you’re staying.”

The fabric of your T-shirt paints your vision red when you slide it off above your head. One by one, you unfasten the press-stud of his shirt and open it wide. There’s a large bruise on the right side of his chest, under his collarbone. You brush your fingers over the purple mark, all the way down to the scar on his side.

Your hands skate up along his sides and find their way around his waist to splay over his back and you press your breasts to the warmth of his solid body. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, and you tell him.

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay right here.”

You still can’t describe it, and you probably never will, but it’s fine, you won’t have to anymore. His scent. Ever present. Unforgotten. It surrounds you, now. And as Frankie takes the sides of his shirt and wraps them around you in a tight embrace, you both smile with relief.

It’s been a long journey, but you made it home in the end.

****

Bonus (because I had a hard time choosing between the two and I love @nicolethered 🧡):

Additional note: I HC that Santi and Frankie, and especially Izzy and Frankie, would speak a lot more in Spanish, between them. Unfortunately, I don't. So this is what it is 😔 A (French) friend who speaks Spanish kindly helped me with the translations. If you're a native speaker and I've messed it up, please slap me over the back of the head.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks

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water-to-drink · 1 year

Text

Chopped Off Hands

(Pairing): Kaeya x gn!reader

(Summary): You and your father run a failing mill when a strange man offers riches in exchange for what’s behind the mill

(Warnings): NSFW, based on the German tale “the girl without hands” (only the very beginning of the story), non-con, Top!Kaeya x bottom!reader, fingering, overstimulation, dumbification, mentions of blood and chopping limbs off, dacryphillia, (lmk if I missed anything), badly written smut (this is my first attempt at it)

(A/n): I tried to make this as gender neutral as possible if there’s any gendered language tell me, the title came from the story this is based on, I couldn’t think of another title.

——————————————————————————

If a traveler passing by where to look at the mill on the very edge of the village they would assume it was abandoned, due to its poor condition. However that mill alongside the singular apple tree next to it were all your family owned. The profits from the grains getting less and less each year definitely hit you and your father hard. There were days where the proceeds would make even the most humble beggar weep. It is no surprise disrepair fallen to the mill

However on one faithful day when your father was collecting wood from the nearby forest he was approached by a strange man. He radiated a charming aura that had a hint of malignancy if one was cautious enough. He had long blue hair tie into a low ponytail, an eye with a star in its pupil and an eyepatch covering the left eye

“Why do you torture yourself chopping wood? I could make you rich if you promise to give me what’s standing behind the mill.” The strange man purred

Your father was wary of the man but not as he should be, it could be because of the years of financial hardship wearing him down; he decided to humor the man

“Sure, I’ll take you up on your offer.” Your father said

The man smiled deviously and held out his hand for your father to take it. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

The man began to walk deeper into the forest before stopping and turning towards your father. “I’ll be back in 3 years to take what you owe me.”

And with that the man finally disappeared from sight. Without a second thought your father went on collecting wood, only thought of the interaction being. “The only thing behind that mill is the apple tree, and I’ve got nothing else besides my child to lose”

When your father returned home after collecting wood he was greeted to the sight of you looking awestruck while holding gold coins

“Dad! There you are! Where did this gold come from?!” You questioned your father who seemed to be just as awestruck as you. “The drawers are filled with them, I didn’t see anyone come into the house!”

“It came from a strange man I met in the forest and he promised me wealth in return for what was behind the mill.” Your father assured with a smile

Your face drops right along with the coins in your hands

“B-but I was sitting under the apple tree all day. D-did you trade me for all of this…?”

The smile on your father’s face fell and a look of devastation soon replaced it as the realization of what he had done hit him like a done of bricks

You didn’t want to believe that you were traded to a stranger but with your father’s pained expression it was all the confirmation you needed. Your father looked up at you and pulled you into a hug, you began to shake in his embrace as tears swelled up in your eyes. The two of you stayed like that for the rest of the night

As the months went by you tried to push the knowledge back, you and your father are living comfortably now. You have enough money to repair the mill and your grains sell well, you should be happy, right?

Though things are better there not the same, you don’t sit under the apple tree like you used to and your father looks at you with a look of saddened that you can’t begin to comprehend. The worst of all is the feeling of being watched. You try to be but you can’t shake the feeling of someone or something watching you in your every waking moment. When you eat, work at the mill, even when you bathe you feel eyes peering at your form.

Before you and your father knew it, 3 years had passed. The two of you were sitting at the dining table when getting ready to eat when you hear a knock at the door. Your father gets up to answer it and is the greeted with the stranger he met in the forest all those years ago

“You!” Your father yelled with a terrified look on his face

“Hello miller, I’m here to take what I’ve been promised.” The blue haired man said

“You can’t! They’re all I have left.” Your father begged as he shielded you from the other man’s view

“It was a deal we agreed on, but I can take back everything I gave you, turning that mill back into it was on the day I met you.” He asserted as cold as ice

“I’ll go with you.” You whimpered

Your father looked at you in horror as the one eyed man smirked

“No! I’ll take your place! I go with-

“It’s too late, your dear child already agreed.” The tanned man held out his hand, beckoning you to come to him. “Come here, say goodbye to your father. This will be the last time you’ll see him.”

“Goodbye dad, I love you. Please take care of yourself.” You began to walk towards the man

“N-no… No, no! Please don’t do this!”

Your father tried to grab your wrist but was knocked backed by an invisible force

“There’s no going back now,” the stranger wrapped his arm around your shoulder “you should be more careful when making deals with demons.”

————————————————————

The scene of that day continually plays in your mind as you’re on your side laying on a bed with black silk sheets in the center of a dimly lit room only lit by candle light. A hand gently caressing your bare thigh, the hand belonged to stranger, he told you Kaeya was his name. Whatever it was you didn’t care

“Are you going to stop looking at me with such hatred in your eyes?”

You don’t respond to him

“I let you have your time to cry and if it makes you feel any better I would’ve cut both of your and your father’s hands off, but I didn’t isn’t that kind of me?”

You turned your head towards Kaeya revealing a look of fear and revulsion gracing your features

“Finally I got a reaction out of you.” Kaeya jested. “Maybe I should threaten to take your hands more often just to get a raise-”

A hard slap cuts off his train of thought but the taste of iron fills his mouth redirected his thoughts. A low chuckle came from the demon as he turned his head towards you. An expression that you can’t decipher paints his features, he laps the blood from the cut you gave him

“I’ve been really patient, but…”

He grabbed at your clothes and ripped them off leaving you just in your underwear

“…you want to be difficult!” He leaned in towards you. “You brought this onto yourself.”

He pressed his lips onto yours, yanking your hair to get access to your mouth when you gasp involuntarily

You tried to push him off but he pinned your hands above you. He lowered his his down to your neck and started to suck and bite and your sensitive skin. Heat began to rise up inside of you as moans and mewls came from your mouth, in an attempt to save an ounce of dignity you once hand you bit your tongue to prevent any more sounds from coming out. Until one harsh bite made you take a sharp breath

“Don’t hide those beautiful sounds from me, we’re going to be in each other’s company for a while so there’s use in stifling them, dear~”

The pet name made you sick to your stomach almost as sick as the pleasure Kaeya gives you. His administrations stop so he can admire the lovely markings he gave you, physical claim that he owned you

“Beautiful.” He said in a whisper that was also missed

His callus hand slowly made its way to your lower region, purposefully trailing over the little spots that he gave you and other spots that made you squirm. Once he reached the hem of your underwear he ripped it off of you, leaving you completely bare and at the mercy of the demon on top on you

His eyes shone bright revealing the hunger. He brought his fingers to your mouth and nestled them in their. Pressing his fingers down on your tongue stopping you from swallowing the saliva that’s pooling in your mouth

“You look so pretty with my fingers in your mouth, makes me wonder if you would look better with my cock in there.” Kaeya moaned as he began to rub his growing erection against your bare thigh

Once he deemed his fingers wet enough he slowly took them out of your mouth and began to plunge a digit into your hole. You gasped at the sudden intrusion and a series of moans and mewls fell out of your mouth, all of which sounded like heaven to blue haired demon above you

He pumped his finger into you and soon added another digit in you. Both fingers brutally pumping into you, meticulously searching for that specific spot that makes your melodious moans louder than other spots. A thrust had you arching your back and loud gasp told him he just found it. With that he turned his attention to abusing that spot, unrelenting in his thrust you hid your face in your arm. That was until a harsh grip on your chin forced your attention back onto the demon using your body as a toy

“Don’t hide from me, my love. You look so cute right now~”

“Fuck yo- aaahhhh!!!!” Your harsh remark was cut off by an equally harsh thrust of his fingers causing you to moan loudly

“What was that darling, I didn’t catch what you said.”

Before you could open your mouth harsh thrust interrupted you, causing you to forget what was on your mind. A knot begin to tighten in your stomach

“Did you forget, darling? It probably wasn’t too important anyway, right love?”

“Y-yeah……”

“And do I make you feel good?” You nodded not trusting yourself form a sentence. “I need you tell me with words.” Kaeya took out his fingers depriving you from the pleasure you were receiving

“Yes! You make me feel good, please keep fucking me, I need you!!” You pleaded with the most desperate look gracing your features

“Good~” Kaeya said with a smirk

He plunged his fingers back into you and continued his assault as if he had never stopped. The pleasure that came from his inhumanly skilled fingers made the knot reappear and you came with a loud moan

You laid there trying to catch your breath when you heard “You better not be exhausted already, love. I still have more to give you~”

Still in your mind was muddled to fully comprehend the words until you caught sight of him lining himself to your entrance. Before you could even utter a sound the tip of his cock presses into you

Your hands grip onto the black sheets on reflex, the grip only getting tighter as he slowly pressed deeper into you. Each throb of his cock making you further forget the self dignity you desperately wanted to hang onto

“It finally looks like your enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” His sultry tone made you clench around him more as you nodded in agreement.

After letting you get used to the delicious stretch his cock gave, he started moving. His thrust started out painfully slow but got more intense, getting harsher and deeper as he continued. The constant movement of his cock had you seeing stars in the dimly lit room

“Fuck… You’re gripping my cock real tight! I- I imagined what fucking… you would feel like. Hah! During those 3 years watching you!” He slurred as his thrust became harsher and more sloppy. “Watching you… wherever you went and, shit! Imagining you taking my cock! I’m so happy you, ah! Came around!”

The confession that would have made you resistant of the demon above you went over your head, too fucked out to understand anything but Kaeya and his cock. You don’t notice his hands pressing into your hips deep enough to draw blood and the crazed look in his eye

“I love you! I love you so much!!”

The pleasure overwhelming your senses tears began to roll down your fucked out face. The blue haired man licked them up as if they were the sweetest thing in the world. Eventually the tightness in your stomach snapped and you came hard. Kaeya worked you through your orgasm and soon finished inside you

He pulled out of you to admire the scene before him, you limp on his bed, the marks on your neck complementing your blissed out expression, and the finest detail of all. His thick seed slowly dripping out of your red and abused hole

#genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #kaeya x reader #kaeya smut #yandere genshin

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spacemimz · 10 days

Text

Relinquish Chapter 1

It'd been a relatively normal night, even for New York standards. Mikey swung from one building to the next with his mystic chains. There was a certain building on 31st Street he'd been eyeing for a while. The massive brick wall was essentially begging to get painted. With his colors and a vision in tow Mikey made his way over there, trying not to get caught up in something else. The boy was almost too easy to distract. But you can't blame him, his mind is always so full of ideas that it's hard for one thought to stay permanent for long. And those thousand thoughts at once were what kept Mikey occupied mentally as he traversed the rooftops.

Within less than 20 minutes he was able to spot his desired building. Smiling to himself Mikey got closer and- wait.. there's someone already there?! In his spot! And... oh he knew that silhouette all too well.

"Great. Just.. great", the terrapin sighed. He was debating fighting over the wall, asking to share was out of the question. They would never share. They never do. Michael couldn't have been sitting with his thoughts for longer than two minutes before a spiderweb was shot next to his head. "Why are you here? Are you stalking me?", the dreaded figure asked annoyed.

Mikey just rolled his eyes and put on his best shit-eating grin, "Oh please. You're not cute enough for me to dip into psycho behavior like that. I'm here for the wall you're hogging, Nightshade."

The two teens were at a stale mate, they both wanted to paint that exact wall, alone, with the other far away. The only problem was that Nightshade isn't your run-of-the-mill teen with a rebellious streak, they were rebellious no doubt, but also New York's favorite mutant and resident hero. Despite being mutated and having spider-like superpowers, their body looked human. Their mobility and strength was on par with Mikey's own, a fight would be fruitless. Neither of them would win and the wall would remain blank.

With their arms crossed over their chest Nightshade spoke up, "Real funny, lizard boy."

"Turtle"

"Whatever makes you happy. I was here first and therefore this is my wall so buzz off. Go cause trouble for someone else for once." Their tone was annoyed, but as always, held a familiar yet certain sadness. Nightshade was always close by in the aftermath of missions and worked closely with the police, being one of the NYPD's most trusted hands.

It wasn't fair, they were so easily accepted but Mikey and his brothers? Shunned and hunted for existing. It was all these little things that made Nightshade so difficult to be around and yet; Michael wanted to be friends with them. They would be a massive asset should the foot clan ever return to cause trouble. Besides they were someone Mikey could go all out on without repercussions and do art with. By all means Nightshade would be the perfect friend if it wasn't for that damn attitude.

Speaking of which-

Nightshade got more and more pissed at the silence and Mikey not moving that they started tapping their left foot. That snapped Mikey out of his thoughts and he finally replied "I don't cause problems, I solve them. The foot situation a few months ago? Solved by yours truly so your argument doesn't hold up!"

Mikey got closer to Nightshade and stuck his tongue out at them, a dangerous game but he continued, "I have an offer for you. How about we work together and make this wall extra rad?" "HA! You and me working together? Did you hit your head? Or are the sewer fumes finally getting to you?" Nightshade replied, the smile on their face hidden by the mask but still audible in the way they spoke.

Mikey and them were now mere inches apart, both ready to fight, and once again Mikey re-noticed something about the spider mutant that bugs him. They were tall, easily 5'9" or 5'10" yet they were thin with way too little muscle mass to be able to pull off the stunts Nightshade regularly was seen doing. He thought that they must be a gymnast, there was no other way for this work.

The longer those two stared at each other trying to make the other budge, the more apparent it became that their stubbornness was also something that the teens were equals in. Mikey tilted his head to the side and confused Nightshade with that.

"Y'know, you're so weird. You're mean to me and my brothers but with other mutants it's never like that. Yes, I've seen you in the Hidden City, you're no secret. I don't understand why you hate us specifically."

"I don't," they replied.

It sounded so honest and earnest that Mikey was caught off guard, his eyes widening in shock. Was he hallucinating? Maybe he did hit his head or maybe the sewer fumes were getting to him. There was no way that Nightshade, the Nightshade, New York's favorite, just said they don't hate him. This was either a mean prank pulled off well or just straight up not true.

Nightshade's mask portrayed a look of un-amusement, "Don't make me change my mind."

Those stern words got Mikey back on track, seriously how do they do that? Rerouting his thoughts like a happy little train conductor without even doing much.

"Hard to believe with the way you act spidey," Mikey retorted.

What followed was a deep sigh from the spider mutant and then they leaned down to get into Mikey's face: "Listen, twerp, I don't hate you. I just hate the headaches you cause me." "Ibuprofen should help. Unless you're like me and engineered to be immune against opioids-" Mikey was caught off by Nightshade grabbing his face and glaring him down. This only made the small terrapin smile.

It was kinda funny how easy it was to push his advisory's buttons. After a good 30 seconds Nightshade pushed the orange banded turtle away and walked to the edge of the rooftop the two were on.

"Take it. I don't care about this stupid wall anymore. If you paint you won't get in my way at least." And with that Nightshade jumped off and used their webs to sling away into the night. The youngest Hamato watched, equally admiring their slinging skills and being sad they left. He did mean it when he said he'd like to work together. Perhaps they misunderstood? Maybe Mikey needed a session with Dr. Feelings when he gets home, refine his communication skills. It worked with Donnie after all.

Staring at the wall and the small artwork Nightshade left, he felt bad. Maybe he should've just let them have this one. And maybe this wasn't all lost.

Mikey decided to ditch his original idea of a Lou Jitsu meeting Jupiter Jim mural and rather wanted to add onto Nightshade's art. What they had painted was a figure in all black surrounded by a small white border. The mutant turtle thought the best way to make this figure pop out from the wall would be a colorful background.

So he busted out the paints and got to working. He settled for a piece of New York's skyline. That made it easier to play around with shapes and heights to make the piece visually appealing.

After a few hours of painting Michael received a message from Raph to come home. Glancing at the clock Raph was right, nearly 5:45AM. The people of New York would be up and about for their morning commute soon. Mikey packed up the paints, texted Raph back and before he left he looked back the painting so far. The rainbow colored skyline did make the figure pop out, just like he planned. Pleased with himself for the moment, the turtle took a picture and sent it to his friend. No, not April, neither Sunita. Not even Cassandra (were they even friends? Hard to tell).

Mighty Tangerine🍊

Sent a photo

6:02AM

Favorite Dolla Bill💵

Woaaaahhhh! That looks mad epic dude!

7:17AM

Mighty Tangerine🍊

Haaaha i know.😏 technically it's a collab

7:18AM

Favorite Dolla Bill💵

Oh yeah? With who?

7:18AM

Mighty Tangerine🍊

Nightshade! Well they don't know yet but this is going to look so awesome when it's done

7:19AM

Favorite Dolla Bill💵

Well you better tell them about their luck soon. And hope they're in a good mood or you'll be turtle soup. Anyway gotta go, school calls 🏃

7:20AM

Mighty Tangerine🍊

Usual place at 9??

7:20AM

Favorite Dolla Bill💵

Bet! Bring snacks

7:21AM

Mikey loved having a friend of his own. His "favorite dolla bill" was his friend Billie. The two met on a dirty roof in downtown Manhattan almost 6 months ago. Billie had gotten into a fight with her dad over school. They had missed three lessons in Spanish and four in Math, a near death sentence at Visions Academy. Billie had been kicking up dirt and putting stickers on various surfaces on that rooftop.

Michael had crashed into him during one of many foot clan spats. Neither were hurt but Billie was surprised to get crushed by a mutant turtle dude on a random Thursday. Ever since that day Mikey had been seeing Billie more often on the rooftops. Talking sparingly became frequent chats, exchanged numbers, inside jokes, shared interests and solo hangouts.

The elder Hamato brothers noticed Mikey lighting up after meeting Billie. Raph was worried that Mikey may get tricked and used but he never was. It was almost as if Billie tried to make others feel at ease. The red banded brother slowly tried to let go of his fears for the youngest, encouraged by Leo and Donnie.

The longer Mikey and Billie hung out, the closer they became closer and closer. One by one the walls came down and secrets were shared. Mikey told his friend about his insecurities and struggles as the family youngest and family therapist. He shared how all the problem solving usually fell on him. How his dad had always been absent and how that messed up their relationship. In turn Billie told their friend about how a year ago, when the oozesquitos escaped Draxum, a patient at the hospital his mom worked at was mutated and became aggressive.

The mutation was so vicious that the mutant patient attacked every and any thing in it's way. What followed was carnage. Over two dozens of people died that day, Billie's mother included. Billie also shared their woes about being queer at a prestigious school and how hard gender is.

Those talks forged a deep bond between the teens. Both of them glad in their own way to have a friend like that. This deep bond made mundane mornings like the one now all the more worth it. While Mikey was sitting in the kitchen at the lair before going to sleep he was texting Billie before he had to go to class. The terrapin smiled softly waiting for and reading replies. He counted himself lucky.

"Miguelito, go to bed. If you don't Raph will get super mad at you and pull a Donnie supreme on you," Leo spoke leaning in the doorway. From down the hall Donnie echoed "You don't want that! Raph pulls on my legs like he's trying to rip them out!"

The blue and orange themed turtles turned to the doorway when Donnie had started shouting. Wide-eyed they looked back at each other before swallowing hard. The threat of being handled like a sack of potatoes was enough enticement to get the youngest member of the family to go to bed.

He did need rest after staying out the whole night painting. Another good reason to sleep would've been the fact that Mikey hated falling asleep when hanging out with Billie. Falling asleep around his family and April was fine, he's always around these people but not her. No, he is different. Just based on how little time they can spend together, it's a whole different world from Mikey's family.

Trotting over to his room the box turtle crashed into his hammock and put his phone on its charger. 9PM couldn't arrive sooner. Much like before Mikey's mind was running haywire with all the things he could do with Billie later. Where they could grab food and hang out, maybe they could play video games together? The possibilities seemed endless.

Eventually the thoughts started slowing as the turtle teen drifted into the land of dreams. Nothing could ruin his evening later on, not when he's hanging out with his best friend.

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