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laiiaaa · 9 months

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LOVE WILL TEAR US APART — CARMEN BERZATTO (part 1)

summary You come back to Chicago for the first time since Christmas five years ago. Seeing Carmen might just split you wide open.

length 5.4k

contents angst, childhood friends to not friends not lovers but a secret third thing, very deeply requited love and everyone knows it except them, family troubles/fighting (giving y’all the Berzatto special), takes place the year of Mikey’s passing so everything is still fresh n rly painful, reader has the nickname ‘Birdie’, there's some fluff dw, happy endings are overrated we die like men

note this was originally going to be 1 part but seeing as the doc is reaching 13k words…here’s just the beginning :)

Wind comes from the pale gray sky and bites at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. Fingers go stiff, a chill runs from the nape of your neck down your spine. Maybe you should’ve worn more than just your jacket; Chicago’s always been a little colder than New York, anyway. You tend to forget the little things.

The windows of the Berzatto house glow yellow with company, and you can hear the bustle just by standing at the door, frosted glass animated by guests. You can picture it like it was yesterday: white yellow lights around every corner, the table set in full with porcelain and silver, hollow presents under the tree, too much talking to hear yourself think. You can still go home to at least save yourself the trouble. Can’t lose if you don’t try, right?

For once, it’s Richie who greets you—not like Mikey’s around to do it anymore, to pull you into a bear hug and tell you how much you’ve grown up, to ease you into the chaos he struggles to navigate himself. Struggled, you have to remind yourself. Past tense.

“Birdie!” he calls out to you, opening the door wide before you can knock, half-expecting you to walk yourself in before meeting you on the porch instead with a big smile.

You look up at him as he plants his warm hands on your shoulders. He’s taller than you remember, but five years time leaves a lot in the ruins. “Hey, Richie.” You lean into the hug and into his chest to at least try to catch your breath, to try and slow down your heart’s racing.

He rubs your back ever so slightly. “It’s good t’see you, kid. ‘S been a while, I missed you ‘n that smile ‘f yours.” He gives you two pats and pulls back to hold you by your arms as he gives you a good look. His brows twitch, subtle enough to nearly miss it, with a sympathetic curve to his mouth. “You doin’ alright?”

Since Mikey died is what he means to add to the end of the question. Maybe it’s Since you up an’ left us. Or Now that you’re finally free.

You stick with the first one and just nod. “I’m okay.” Your eyes flit back to his face before landing on the front door, unease pooling in your gut. “A little nervous to be back in so long.” You let your voice go quiet, and you look at your hands and with wet eyes while your fingers fidget like a tall child. “And I…I miss him, y’know?…I should’ve—” you’re getting choked up now, throat growing tight— “I should’ve been here, or—”

His brows really furrow this time, head tilting to the side before he looks to the sky to bite back any real sadness that could come through in his voice, to keep you from seeing it. Bringing you into a hug again, he mutters, “Shhh, don’t beat yourself up about it, sweetheart. I know you miss him, I know.” A gentle kiss to the top of your head. “We all do.”

Growing up across the street from the Berzattos led them to be a second family to you—and, by extension, Richie, for how inseparable he and Mikey were. Much of your memories as a kid were the two older boys, already teens by the time you came into the picture: Mikey and Richie taking you out to ice cream, Mikey and Richie pushing you on the swings down at the playground, Mikey and Richie teaching you to ride a bike. They might as well have been your older brothers by blood. They always cherished and doted on you, and while it changed in manner as you grew older—from piggy back rides to intimidating prom dates—it was always there. They always cared. Richie still does. Maybe double as much to make up for what’s been lost.

You don’t cry so much into his chest. A few tears fall, sure, but you use the time to just breathe, to close your eyes, to stall. Sniffling, you pull away, wipe your eyes, and straighten your clothes, smoothing creases. “Okay,” you huff. “I’m okay. I’m ready.”

A knowing look. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah, I’m good.” Another sniffle. “Promise.”

Richie turns to face the house with you, opening the door while the other hand stays hovering by your shoulder. With the smallest shift in the hinges, noise spills out the door. Small talk in the living room, clinking of glass against tabletops, boisterous laughter, timers ringing in the kitchen, Donna’s voice rolling in. It’s more than you remember. Heavier. Hotter. Richie motions to take your coat and you happily oblige, left to pick at the hems of your sleeves rather than buttons and pockets.

“So,” Richie starts, and with the way he says it you’d think you look like you’re about to pass out, “How’s New York treatin’ ya lately? You a hot-shot lawyer yet?”

You laugh softly, partly to be nice and partly to stave off the awkwardness you feel, like you’re being watched by the rest of the family. “I just passed the bar this year, Richie, I’m barely an associate—”

“Right, right, right—all that stuff goes over my head. Whatever, you’re a genius in my book.”

You smile sheepishly. “Yeah, well the people I work with are just—they’re incredible, how smart they are. I’m a baby compared to them.”

He waves it off as if to say Fuck ‘em. “How’s the livin’ situation, then? You affordin’ it okay, eatin’ good, all that?” He looks a little more stern, more brotherly when he asks it.

“I’m fine.” You look up at him and smile to let him know you’re honest, that you aren’t just saying it to get him off your back. “I really like it out there. I made decent enough money as a paralegal, and I have a roommate with a cushy job in finance. We’re pretty close, but we don’t see each other often with our hours ‘n stuff. Not the best,” you shrug, “But I’m doing pretty well, all things considered.”

He pauses, looks you over to see you’re genuine. “Alright,” he sighs, pulling you into his side and squeezing you tight because he knows you hate it. “I believe ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, fuck you.” You’re laughing a little harder for the first time since arriving in Chicago, and it reminds you that it can be close to normal, coming home. “Where’s Nat? I haven’t talked to her since I got off the plane.”

“She’s upstairs resting.” He lets go and starts drifting to the kitchen absentmindedly—why, you’re not sure. “The baby’s got her in a mood, kickin’ ‘n all that, the little fucker—but Pete ‘n Carm ‘r down here somewhere—”

Your heart stops, and for a moment you can’t hear anything but your own thoughts, fragments of his voice and his laughter from memory. Your chest goes tight, your throat runs dry. You knew from Nat and Richie that he’d come back to Chicago a while ago, after Mikey’s funeral, but never in a million years did you think he’d come to Christmas dinner. Richie doesn’t seem as shocked as you think he should be. “Carmen? He’s here?” You nearly whisper it, afraid to be heard if he’s nearby.

He stops walking. “In the kitchen, yeah, why? You talk to ‘im in a while? Figured he’d’ah told ya, me ‘n Nat had to convince ‘im. A real jagoff about it, by the way.” His tone doesn’t say anything more than his words do. Maybe he’s forgotten about everything, or he’s trying to spare you. Maybe he never knew all that much to begin with.

“No,” you answer, quiet with an ache in your chest you haven’t felt in years. “We don’t…we haven’t really talked since the last time I was here…” And I don’t want to change that at the moment is what you don’t say, bile in your throat at the thought of peeling back scabbed wounds.

Before Richie can comment, a loud voice comes to you from the front room: “Is that my little Birdie?”

Cicero. You missed him, honestly.

He huffs himself out of his seat in the living room and welcomes you in the foyer, bringing your attention away from Richie like you’d been hoping to. “Oh, I missed you,” he says, giving a brief kiss to your cheek.

You hug him in return, but really you’re just hoping to get away from the kitchen. “Missed you too.”

Resting his hands on your shoulders, he smiles and looks at your face. “You’ve only gotten more beautiful since the last time I saw you. Like an angel.” He doesn’t let you protest, he only peeks behind you to look at Richie, who leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Ain’t she beautiful, Richie?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, unamused. “A real treat she is.”

Cicero looks back to you and speaks lowly. “Ignore that son ‘f a bitch. He’s just jealous ‘cause you’re my favorite.” He winks, gestures to the living room, and takes a few steps while he brings his voice back to a normal volume. “C’mon, tell this ol’ geezer about New York—can’t even remember the last time I was there, musta been ‘83—”

If the rest of the night is like this, you think, Carmen might not be so much of an issue. He could be nothing at all, like he always wanted to be.

He promises himself that he’ll say something by the end of the night. He has to, he thinks, and if not to avoid being an asshole, then to avoid getting reamed by Richie. Carmen realizes he has the upper hand, too, whether he likes it or not: he at least expected you to be here. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying to hear your name.

The first time is when he’s cutting onions as Richie opens the door, and he gets lucky enough to hear nothing else but the door shutting afterward. An afterthought, a mirage maybe.

In between that and the second, his name slips by your lips. You whisper it, of course, because you hate him—you hate him for the way he treated you, and for the way he didn’t, and for the fact that he wasn’t man enough to ever speak to you about any of it, or speak to you at all. And despite the fact you try to hide it when you say it, he hears you; he doesn’t think anything could keep him from doing that much. Especially not when it sounds just like you did years ago on those half-broken steps to the back porch, after everything went to shit and there was a hole in the fucking house and you couldn’t stop crying if you tried. He was there for you like he always was: letting you lean your head on his shoulder as you wept, one arm holding you tight to keep you grounded while the other hand nursed a cigarette to keep himself sane. And his name sounded just like it does tonight when you turned to look at him with bleary eyes so many years ago, whispering Carmen? so sweet he wanted to taste the lip gloss that flavored it. That night he did, for a fleeting moment. Before he ruined it.

So of course, he hears you say his name, and he knows it’s you. He doesn’t think anything could keep him from knowing you.

The second time he hears your name it’s like a confirmation. A confirmation that it’s real, you’re real, and you’re here, and it isn’t his mind playing tricks on him like it does when it’s late at night and he’s walking the streets and thinks he sees a girl that looks like you. The rest of the dialogue after the fact goes blurry, the timers going off turn into a monotone buzz, all he hears is chopchopchop against the cutting board until Uncle Jimmy calls you beautiful. He’s sure you are, but he doesn’t want to see it and believe it even more. Your heels click against the hardwood a few times, and he’s not sure where Ma went, but Richie’s standing behind him saying something he can’t decipher and he wants to tell him to Fuck off but he can’t, not now, not tonight.

“Cousin!” Richie snaps, pushing his shoulder. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

He sighs and looks over his shoulder but stays gripping the knife. “No, sorry, say it again—‘m listenin’.”

“Right. So when’s the last time you talked t’her?”

His hand squeezes a little harder, the knife suffers for it. “Talk t’who?”

A quick bang of a hand to the counter top leaves the onions rattled. “Don’t play stupid with me right now, Cousin—” a harsh finger points in Carmen’s face— “or I swear t’God I will fuck you up once this dinner’s over.”

He pauses. He looks past Richie into the foyer where you once stood but quickly goes back to work. Chop. “Look, I dunno, it—it’s just been a while, I dunno the exact fuckin’ date, alright?” Oh, but how vividly he does.

“Yeah? How’s five years to the fuckin’ day sound? Pretty damn accurate, or what?”

No response. Chop.

“You’re a real piece’ah fuckin’ work, y’know that, right?” Richie sounds about as angry as he’s ever been, but it’s different this time: it’s quiet, it’s controlled, it crawls up Carmen’s spine.

“It’s not—it’s not like I meant to, to, uh—”

“ ‘To, to, uh’ what?” he mocks. “To pull the shit you did then go fuckin’ AWOL on ‘er?”

Another beat of silence. Laughter trails in from the living room, and he starts to wonder if it’s you who made it ring. He shakes his head, scrunches his nose. “H—…” Rethinking whether he wants the answer to his question, he puts the knife down and leans into his hands before looking over Richie’s shoulder again. “How, uh…how is she?” It’s muttered, ashamed, the way he asks it, brows furrowed with regret and slithers of hope. “ ‘S she doin’ alright?” He heard bits and pieces of the conversation from just a minute ago, but part of him needs this: to hear it crystal clear, to have it branded beneath his 773 tattoo you traced with an anxious finger, to have the pain be inadmissible such that he can’t forget it.

Without needing to look him in the eye Richie knows to soften his approach. Carmen’s eyes are wet, he’s got that solemn air to him that he gets when he’s thinking about something that forms lumps in his throat, he swipes his hand by his mouth like the words were bitter to say out loud.

He turns over his shoulder like he’ll get caught and looks down at the chef. “She’s good, Carm,” he sighs, nodding his head slowly and with raised brows. “Real good…Like Cicero said, she—she’s beautiful, ‘n she’s gotta career lined up for ‘er. But—” he hesitates when Carmen looks up— “The look on ‘er face, man, it—it changed when she found out you’re here.”

Something indescribable flows through his veins. “Wh—what d’ya mean?” He shakes his head in denial. “Like, like, it—what’d she look like?” He waits expectantly, and part of him hopes something hard and fast’ll put him out of his misery.

Richie swallows. He smooths a hand over his hair, lets it fall to the nape of his neck while his eyes dance elsewhere. “Listen, she…she just looked like—” He kisses his teeth, unsure of how to phrase it, weary of the first thing to come to mind and whether the subject was worth mentioning at all. He should lay it to rest.

But Carmen is ever the stubborn boy at heart. “Cousin.” Fingers drum against granite. “Looked like what?”

“...Like I’d just stabbed ‘er in the gut.”

The rest of the family is enthralled by you, though whether it’s because they haven’t seen you in five years and miss you, or because it finally gives them an excuse to make Lee let someone else talk, you’re not sure. But by the time they let you get a breath in it feels like three hours have gone by, though when you peek at your watch, it’s barely been thirty minutes. You’d forgotten how exhausting the family is when they’re all together. Your head hurts. It’s too hot. You could use a nap.

Cicero looks at you a little softer from his chair. “Would you like a drink, hon? I should've asked ya before we sat you down for an interrogation.”

“Oh, well,” you start, pausing to let it seem like you aren’t dying for that opportunity, “I’ll have one. Is there wine?”

“Of course there is. I’ll grab a glass for ya—” he begins rising from his chair, but you stop him.

“It’s alright,” you insist. “I don’t mind getting it—in the kitchen?”

He nods, and you’re on your way. You pass by Richie and the Faks in the foyer and try to hide the deep breaths you’re focusing on, eyes shut and shoulders shrugging as Richie eyes the kitchen before you enter like you’ll be walking into a war zone.

It’s exactly what you’d expect: Donna with a glass in hand, Carmen assisting, an ashtray full nearby. Natalie has joined them, so you must have missed her on her way downstairs, and Pete hovers beside her as she speaks to him with a worried look on her face, disjointed from the other two Berzattos.

You’ve nearly psyched yourself up enough to interrupt when Donna notices you, almost instantly placing her glass on the counter. “Oh, Birdie, I—” She looks happy, you think, but with her it’s never been easy to tell. “C’mere, honey.” She opens her arms to you and gifts you a hug, patting your back as she says, “It’s been so long, my beautiful Bird—” she pulls away to get a better look at you and plants a kiss to your cheek, just like Cicero— “Oh gosh, you’re so beautiful, all grown up.” She smells thickly of tobacco.

“Thank you,” you laugh, dazed by so much affection from her, “Cicero said the same, it’s just been a while.”

“Well—” she picks up her glass promptly after her hands leave you— “It’s true, you’re practically glowing. He knows what he’s talking about.” She takes a hefty sip like she can’t get enough, and quickly looks to her son. “Isn’t that right, Carmen?”

From where he stands nudged into the corner, focused on the countertop with nothing to do but wring his hands, his attention perks up to his mother. “What was that, Ma?”

You can’t ignore the fact that she hasn’t acknowledged Natalie nor Pete since you arrived; you’re stuck, looped in with Donna and Carmen and somehow obligated to stay there until you’ve been dismissed. You know how she is. Carmen won’t look at you, either.

“Look at Birdie,” Donna coos, and she gestures to present you to him. Your stomach turns. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” She smiles coolly, looks to Natalie only for a brief moment to rub salt in the wound.

Carmen, reluctantly, looks at you. His golden brown curls are disheveled as always, made messier by anxious runs of his fingers every few minutes. His mouth seems caught in a persistent pout that he won’t let up, and if it were years ago, you’d stay by his side until he broke you just to keep someone in his corner. Beneath his eyes rest dark circles, and he wears a forest green sweater you’ve never seen before. There’s a split second of eye contact that has your breath caught in your throat. You haven’t been able to look at him in what feels like a lifetime, let alone hear his voice—not even over the phone. It’s different than you remember, a little huskier, more fatigued. You wish you couldn’t care.

He gives a shallow nod and a shrug to Donna’s question. “Yeah.” His eyes meet yours accidentally again before looking back to his mother, apathy bordering on distaste. “She looks nice.”

You look nice. You don’t know what you thought he would say. Part of you wished he would’ve said exactly as Donna did, or that he’d use the word beautiful, or stunning, or pretty, even. But he’s never been one for words—his consolation offerings were limited to a shared cigarette and sitting beside you, and you’ve always resented that part of him since your last Christmas together. If he’d been better with words, it would’ve been just that; there wouldn’t have been the hand on your back turning into an arm wrapped around your shoulder, he never would’ve pressed his lips to your temple for the first time since you were in kindergarten, you would’ve never been close enough to smell tobacco on his breath. You never would’ve known what American Spirits taste like off of anxious lips or what it feels like to be worth everything and then nothing at all.

Donna kisses her teeth and gives you a sympathetic look as she cups her hand to your neck. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t listen to him. He’s just in a mood today.” She sips her wine again, which quickly turns into the rest of the glass.

That’s not a mood, you think. That’s just Carmen.

By the Berzatto standards, dinner preparation blows over without a hitch. The house smells divine, nothing is broken, no one has stormed out. Ma sits down with only five glasses of wine in her system. No one mentions the gaping hole in the seating arrangement at one head of the table—not even Lee.

Carmen feels the weight of it on his shoulders, and he thinks you feel it too. You sit for a few minutes as everyone settles with your head in your hands, eyes closed as you breathe. Every time you open your eyes they shoot to Mikey’s seat, only for your hands to cover them again with a sniffle. Richie keeps a good eye on you, even though they’re getting glassy from watching you, and he rests a soothing hand on your back before leaning down and whispering something Carmen doesn’t catch. You shake your head, perking back up again as you dab at your eyes with your sleeves, looking to Richie and mouthing the words I’m okay with a smile plastered on. Carmen’s skeptical.

Uncle Jimmy insists on saying grace as a way to honor both you and Carmen being in Chicago for the holiday, and instinctively he looks to you, looking for something to hold onto to let things feel normal with you, but you keep your eyes closed. Since you walked into the kitchen nearly an hour ago he hasn’t been able to get his mind off of the sweetheart neckline of your dress, or the locket pendant hanging close to your chest. Mikey gifted it to you, he remembers, when you earned your undergraduate degree—presented in a black velvet box when you saw him after the ceremony, you cried. Carmen wasn’t there; he was in Copenhagen, doing other things. He can’t quite remember what.

Grace gives way to a more quiet bustle of the dinner, where talking is more or less limited to passing plates and taking first bites, making sure everyone has said hello to everyone. He sits almost silent, taking a measly bite every few moments to avoid an excuse to talk. He notices you don’t navigate this dinner like you have the countless ones before: you’re engaged tonight, laughing with Richie beside you and looping Sugar and Pete into your banter; you’re no longer the teen you once were, who would sit at the end of the table with him to stay quiet and barely munch on dinner, the two youngest with Mikey to your sides, pestering the both of you to Eat, ‘fore Ma tells you to. And it’s not a bad thing, either. You always had that way about you like Mikey did, where you could make conversation with anyone, make them fall in love with you, make them think you’re their best friend. He’s always thought you were his, anyway. You look happier than he’s ever seen you. Ever since he could remember, he had a feeling you’d outshine him.

It’s like Ma said—you’re glowing.

It’s nearing fifteen minutes since the food being served when Sugar nudges him on his right. “You alright, Bear?” She keeps it quiet, under the radar. “You haven’t eaten much.”

He nods and takes a bite to cover his tracks. “Yeah, yeah—just not that hungry, ‘s all.” He hasn’t eaten today. It’s the nerves, really, of seeing everyone—of seeing Ma, seeing you. Brings him back to New York, where his morning ritual included huddling over the toilet and rinsing his mouth until he couldn’t taste stomach acid anymore. He’s hoping that with being in the kitchen all day, she doesn’t pry. “Thanks, Sug.”

She furrows her brows but drops the subject with a bit of a pout. “…Okay.”

“So,” Stevie starts, at the opposite corner of the table, leaning over his plate to smile at you from down the table. “Birdie—can I call you Birdie? Is that okay?”

You smile that smile you always do when you’re caught off-guard before shrugging lightheartedly and taking a bite. “Uh, sure. I mean, everyone here does.”

Richie makes eyes at you, weirded out, and Carmen tries to follow, but you only link with the older of the two. He’s shut out.

“Great. I’ve been wondering—why does everyone call you that? I mean, I know Sugar here’s got an origin story, so what’s yours?”

“Oh, this is such a sweet one,” Ma chimes in, hands over her heart. “They was so adorable, her ‘n Carmen.” The words have warmth blossoming in his chest and rising to his neck.

“Yeah,” you laugh, “I’m probably not the best person to tell you; I was really little.” You try to stifle a smile at the thought, and Carmen knows it’s the same thought as his: Mikey loved that story. “Richie’s probably man for the job.” You look up to the man on your left and pat him on the back to startle him. “Aren’t ya, Rich?”

“Uh, yeah, fuck that.” He nods to Carmen. “He can tell ya, Stevie, he was the one dancin’ with ‘er like an idiot, not me.” He shoves three bites’ worth of food into his mouth so he won’t have to talk anymore.

Sugar cuts in, “He was also five, he had nothin’ to do with picking that name.”

“Yeah?” he taunts, mouth still full because he can’t help but put up a fight, “Then you were eleven, missy, so you can tell it. You remember.”

The room starts spinning, there’s back and forth between Sugar and Richie, and Neil’s roped into it, and then Michelle’s convincing them to calm down, but Richie’s still going at it, starting to tell the story, but Ma says it’s not right, and Sugar cuts in again, and the room is still spinning and his head won’t stop pounding and there isn’t enough water in the world to clear his throat.

“Alright, alright!” It’s Uncle Jimmy now, almost shouting, waving his hands to simmer the room. Carmen would thank him if he could speak. “I’ll tell the damn story, you all settle down, eh?” He clears his throat, sips on his drink. “Our Birdie here, when she was real young, now she was a singer. All the time, some tune. Didn’t even have t’be a real song, she’d be hummin’ it anyway.”

You’re sheepish as Uncle Jimmy praises you, grinning to yourself and rolling your eyes at the embarrassment. Cute, Carmen thinks. He smiles and takes a bite of his food.

“An’ remember,” Uncle Jimmy continues, “This was late ‘90s, we didn’t have none’ah that YouTube, Spotify music bullshit, whatever’s popular with you people now—so anyway. We had this boombox for the longest time—”

“Yeah,” Richie interrupts, “Was a real piece a shit, that’s for damn sure.”

Cicero points to Richie while looking at Steve. “Correct. So one Christmas, many, many years ago—”

“Don’t make it sound so cryptic,” you giggle, and Carmen has a tiny fire lit in his chest, eyes trapped on your smile. He remembers that night—not so vividly, but enough.

“Right, right. I apologize, sweetheart.” Uncle Jimmy turns back to Stevie. “One Christmas the weather was especially bad—snow storm, crazy winds, Christmas lights flyin’ everywhere—and the power goes out. An’ our boombox ain’t workin’, got jammed or somethin’.” He shrugs, makes a face that’s unassuming. “So whatta ya do for the music, then? Everyone knows you need holiday music, eh?”

With you, Carmen laughs for the first time tonight. He likes it that way, uninterrupted by the noise of the other guests, who are all listening fondly and eating their meals. It’s like that special Christmas all over again. You’re so pretty when you’re laughing, part of him is a little jealous that anyone else gets to see you like this.

“So Mikey comes up with a great idea. We already got a singer, right? So we just need ‘er to do the holiday songs. So we get ‘er, ‘n we ask her to sing for us all—me, Donna, Mikey, Richie, Sugar, ‘n Carmen, that was it ‘cause ‘ah the storm—but she won’t do it.”

“They were tryin’ to force me, Stevie!” You smile up the table and back at Uncle Jimmy. Carmen beams back at you even though you’re not looking. Richie is.

“An’ she’s cryin’,” Uncle Jimmy continues, “An’ she’s all nervous, she can’t do it, whatever. Then our little Carmy Bear over there—” he shoots him a look with a smug and pointing finger, and Carmen flushes, grinning at his plate to hide from you— “Now he’s her knight in shinin’ armor.”

Everyone smiles at that—you, Richie, Sug, Ma, and Carmen, and everyone else—because that’s the truth. At least it was, for a while. You and Carmen keep your smiles downcast, hidden from the other, and Richie and Sugar make eyes at one another, looking between the two of you.

“He gets ‘er outta her hidin’ spot behind the couch where she was cryin’ an’ he brings ‘er a wooden spoon for a microphone, and he whispers somethin’ to ‘er—to this day I dunno what, coulda been anythin’ for all I care—and all of a sudden she wants to sing again. She sings Rudolph, Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, all the stuff the kids knew, an’ she does it all with this wooden spoon, with our little Bear holdin’ ‘er hand the whole time.”

“An’ he didn’t even do anythin’!” Richie points out. “Just stood there, swingin’ ‘er arm like a jagoff—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Uncle Jimmy waves off, “But he did it for ‘er. And so,” he says, a finality in his tone, looking back at Stevie across the table, “Birdie is born. Our little Christmas song bird protected by the Big Bear. An’ the rest is history.”

Stevie smiles and nods his head. “That was sweet. Really, really sweet.”

“Oh,” Ma laments, “I just love that story. They were such babies then, so cute. It was always Birdie ‘n Carmy doin’ this, Carmy ‘n Birdie doin’ that. Always on their little adventures together. He took her everywhere.”

Carmen smiles to himself, head down as he eats his food. He doesn’t think of his childhood often, more so the teenage years if anything, when he was failing school. Hearing back such a memory brings up a sense of nostalgia—not necessarily for being a kid again, or doing those stupid things, but for how easy it was.

Ma is right: it was you and him together for the ride, up until it wasn’t. He never cared as much after reaching high school. You were in different buildings, and he saw you around but didn’t spend as much time with you anymore. He outgrew you, it seemed. Even in his early twenties when that fire rekindled, he devoted himself to his work. You were still close, closer than you were with anyone else in the family, and nothing would ever change that. But life ran its course.

And it ran pretty damn fast.

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toomuchracket · 3 months

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secret admirer (dad!ross x reader fluff)

day 1 of valentine's week by bff @abiiors!! in this one... the kids want to know how you and ross got together. cute as shit. enjoy <3

it's at dinnertime when you're first asked the question.

ross is quietly coaxing keir to finish his peas, to minimal success. eilidh swallows a mouthful of gravy-soaked mash and turns to look at you curiously. “mummy… how did you and dad meet?”

“you already know, bean,” you take a sip of your wine and smile at her. “met dad and your uncles when i helped design the stage for one of their first shows.”

ross takes a break from lecturing your son about the merits of eating your five-a-day to look at you and wink. there's a warmth in those dark eyes of his - the same one that got you hooked on him in the first place, actually - and you know he's thinking about that fateful first meeting too. “yeah, when i had to save mum, eilidh,” he chuckles. “from matty talking about his vision at a hundred miles an hour. her eyes were proper glazed over and everything, you know.”

“they still go like that when he talks to you now sometimes, mummy,” keir adds, still pushing peas around his plate. his dad and sister laugh, while your jaw falls open at the fact you've been clocked by your four year old.

he's not wrong, though.

eilidh's giggles fade into soft hums. “but how did you end up being boyfriend and girlfriend?”

ross’s eyes meet yours again. he smirks, taking a sip of his own wine. “d'you want to tell the story, love?” he asks, foot sliding up your leg under the table, flirty. “or shall i tell them how i swept you off your feet?”

“oh, is that what it was?” you tease, trapping his leg between your own.

“of course.”

you laugh. “you and i remember it differently, then. but alright,” you stretch, shuffling in your seat before looking at your kids’ anticipated little faces. “here's what happened…”

2013

“should we do something different for valentine's day?”

you turn to look incredulously at matty, exhaling your cigarette smoke. “is further context required there, or are you asking me out? because absolutely not, if so.”

“oh, charming. thank god i see you as a little sister and no more,” matty winces, taking a drag of his own cigarette before he speaks again. “i mean for the show on the 14th. we could do, like, pink lighting instead of white, or something.”

you hum. “i don't hate the idea. but i think sticking with the black and white thing is maybe a good idea for now. cohesion, recognition, establishing identity as you gear up to release the album, all that jazz, yeah?”

“good point.”

“i do like the pink, though. maybe we could do something with it in the future?”

“yeah. i'll keep it in mind. usual staging it is, then,” matty turns to face you, resting a shoulder on the brick wall. “so, given that you've theoretically rejected me…

you roll your eyes.

“... who are you seeing on valentine's day?”

“nobody. we've got a gig, remember?” you ash your cigarette glumly. “i'll be selling t-shirts with your face on them up the back of the venue all night.”

“and i love you - platonically - for that,” your friend grins. “but what about after the show?”

“after?”

“yeah.”

you ponder. “probably just going home to shower off the residual weed smell i'll inevitably take on, to be honest.”

matty laughs; his face drops when he realises you're not kidding. “oh. you're serious.”

“mhmm.”

“but,” he looks baffled. “you're twenty-three. you're cute, objectively. you're sweet. you're fun. there's really nobody you want to spend valentine's day with?”

well… your lips part of their own accord as if to speak; you quickly snap them shut before you make a sound. no. you can't tell anyone. especially matty, of all people.

apparently, though, you don't close your mouth fast enough - your friend notices, and giggles, eyes lighting up. “who is he? go on, tell me. promise i won't tell anyone, honest.”

“not a chance.”

“pleeeeeeeeeease?”

“no, matthew,” you take a final drag of your cigarette before stamping it out. “i'm never telling anyone, because it'll never go anywhere between me and him anyway, and thus i am perfectly fine just letting the crush i have fade without acting on it. i'll develop another one soon, anyway.”

no you won't. you've never fancied someone as much in your life as you fancy…

“there you are. was wondering where you'd gotten to, matty,” ross wanders round the side of the building, relief evident on his face. it seems to light up when he sees you, but that's most likely your brain playing tricks on you. “oh. hiya, love. didn't know you were in today, s'nice to see you.”

love?!

shut up. it's ross. he calls everyone that, dipshit.

you clear your throat. “hi, ross. s'nice to see you too. you look… well.”

you pray neither of the boys noticed the awkward pause while you came up with an alternative for “devastatingly attractive”, or that your voice didn't sound as small and squeaky as it sounded to you.

thankfully, neither of them mention it. ross just smiles, and all you can do is focus on not squealing at how cute his dimples are. “thanks. you look good. hair's nice like that.”

“oh,” you self-consciously touch the ponytail you hastily shoved your hat-messy hair into earlier. “thank you.”

he smiles again. “so, what are you gonna develop another of? were you talking about work?”

you say “yes” at the same time the gobshite next to you says “yeah, but then we moved onto talking about how she has no valentine's day plans but she also won't tell whoever she has a crush on that she wants to shag them because she thinks it’s unrequited.”

for fuck's sake.

sighing, you facepalm. ross blinks. “fair enough.”

“you don't think she should tell him?” matty looks aghast.

“what i think is that you should stop pestering her about it,” ross looks pointedly at matty, then turns to you. “but - and i don't want to overstep the mark here, love…”

“no, no, it's fine.”

“... you’ll never get what you really want unless you ask for it,” he finishes, a pleasant smile on his face. “what have you got to lose by doing so, anyway?”

this. our friendship. potentially my job, if i fuck it up enough.

“yeah, i suppose,” you murmur hesitantly. “i'll consider it.”

and you do - in fact, you're still considering it when you next see ross, during setup for the gig on the big day itself. he appears when you're pushing the box light into position on the tiny stage, quickly laying down his bass to run and help you, despite your protests that you've got everything under control.

seeing his arms flex as he works, though, and the way the stark white light somehow manages to warm up those dark eyes? you most definitely do not. still, you refuse to say anything to him then. or before the show, when he automatically passes you a beer so you can be included in the pre-gig cheers. or afterwards, when he risks being pounced upon by drunken fans just so he can help you pack up the merch stall, cracking jokes despite his tiredness.

it's only when you're loading the boxes of t-shirts into adam's car that you actually start to think that mentioning the crush to ross might not be a bad thing. you close the boot with a weary sigh, turning to face ross and high-five him - like you always do - with gratitude. and then he does something… strange.

he hugs you.

it's not a long hug, and definitely one of the “thanks, mate” variety, but still. it's not a common thing to happen between the two of you, ross’s arms wrapping around your shoulders and your waist and pulling you into his chest. it's warm. cosy. safe. and as soon as he lets go, you miss him.

before you get a chance to dwell on that, though, he speaks. “you coming to the pub with us now?”

“us?” your brow furrows. “who's us?”

“everyone except adam and waughy,” ross grins. “you're not the only one with no valentine's plans, love,” his face contorts into panic. “wait, fuck, i just assumed, because you said last week-”

“ross, relax, babe,” you smile, beating yourself up internally for the way the pet name just slipped out; you blame the joy that fizzed up in your stomach when he essentially admitted he's single. “i'm coming to the pub.”

he smiles again, relief evident in his eyes. “alright. good. i think we'll have a good night.”

you do, actually, despite matty monologuing the whole walk there about “you should just phone that guy you like and tell him. for the love of god, at least one of us needs to pull tonight. s'depressing if we don't”. it's actually george who manages that first, disappearing after the first round with a redhead and returning, lipstick-stained and gleefully dazed, half an hour later. matty's next, chatting up girls at the bar and collecting phone numbers by the handful, pointing out vaguely handsome men to you with “yes? no? maybe?” to no avail.

ross doesn't pull at all.

not for lack of trying from the female clientele in the pub, though - every time he leaves the table, you watch heads turn in his direction, and some bodies following. envy tinges your vision green whenever a girl approaches him, but you needn't worry; no matter how pretty or persistent or personable the girls are, ross politely chats as he waits for the drinks, bids them goodbye, and comes back to you. well, to the table. where he sits next to you.

it makes you feel good. so good, in fact, that you decide to tell him how you feel, right then and there. you take another sip of your wine - dutch courage and all - and rest your elbow on the table and your head on your hand, facing ross. “i'm glad i came out tonight.”

“so am i,” he mirrors your pose, smiling. god, you love his dimples. “it's been a good night.”

“yeah. not a bad valentine's day at all.”

ross giggles. “as good as it gets for singles,” he takes a sip of his pint, then looks at you a bit more seriously. “you spoken to that guy yet? the one you like?”

you bite down a giggle, shaking your head. “d'you think i should? ask him out?”

“if you really like him, yeah.”

“but,” you look down at the table, absentmindedly running your index finger round the rim of your glass. “what if he doesn't like me?”

“why wouldn't he?” ross's voice is soft - so are his eyes, you look up to discover. “you're great.”

“really?”

he nods. “really great.”

your heart glows. your face does the same. “thank you, ross.”

he shrugs. “i'm just telling the truth, love. now,” he grins, tapping your phone. “ask him.”

bless him.

you exhale, smiling. “alright,” you turn round to compose yourself, then look back at ross with a smile. “would you like to go for dinner with me?”

for a second, you falter as ross's brow furrows. “what, now? like a kebab- oh,” his jaw drops, and he blinks a few times. “really? it's me that you have a crush on?”

“yeah,” you bite the inside of your cheek, nervous. “is that… really bad?”

“hmm? no, no, not at all! just surprising, s'all,” ross takes your free hand in his own. he looks dazed, but he's genuinely smiling. “i had no idea you liked me like that.”

“and here i was thinking i was doing a shit job at hiding it.”

ross laughs, softly stroking the back of your hand with his thumb; warmth erupts under your skin wherever he touches. he looks at you, so tenderly you want to look away. “yes.”

your turn to be confused. “yes i was doing a shit job at hiding my crush on you? or…?”

“no, love,” ross chuckles, squeezing your hand. “yes, i'd love to go for dinner with you. tomorrow too soon?”

you feel weightless, joyous, positively giddy. but you have to stay cool, so you simply beam at him. “tomorrow's perfect.”

present day

“...so, we went for dinner - pasta, before you ask, keir - and that was it. dad said he wanted to be my boyfriend before we'd even gotten to the tiramisu,” you smile at the memory. “and then we were like that for a while, and then we got married, and then we had you two. and now, here we are.”

“that's it?” keir frowns at you, then looks up at his dad. “but you said you swept mum off her feet.”

ross snorts, ruffling his son's hair. “yeah, not literally, keeks. i just meant that she was very impressed by me.”

“i don't get it.”

“well, ask matty to explain metaphors to you when you next see him, then.”

you wince (ross laughs at that), turning to your daughter, preoccupied with petting ash the cat, who climbed onto her lap halfway through your talk. “thoughts, eils?”

“hmm,” she makes a face. “it's not a very exciting story, mum.”

“cute, though, no?”

“kind of, i guess.”

“wow, you two are hard to impress,” you sigh, turning to ross and smiling despite your kids’ boredom. “worked out well for us, though, didn't it?”

“absolutely, love. couldn't have worked out any better,” ross leans over the table to kiss you; you return it with relish.

“ewwwwwwww! gross!”

“dad, please don’t do that to mum in front of me ever again.”

#mads muses #mads does writing #dad!ross #eilidh #keir #ross macdonald x reader #ross macdonald fanfiction #ross macdonald fanfic #ross macdonald fic #ross macdonald fluff #ross x reader #valentine75

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imaginebeautifulworlds · 4 months

Text

Loved By Seven | Chapter 3

Genre: Hybrid!AU, Poly!AU, Mate!AU, romance, fluff

Pairing: OT7 x Reader

Characters: Human!Reader, Peacock!Seokjin, Serpent!Yoongi, Hawk!Hoseok, White Tiger!Namjoon, Merman!Jimin, Leopard!Taehyung, Wolf!Jungkook

Summary: Hiking was just an activity to get you out of the apartment, the last thing you imagined was ending in a whole different world by touching a jewel. That not being enough you end up meeting seven hybrids, and they all claim you shared the Connection with each of them making you their partner for life

Notes: Hi! I swear I didn't dissappear it's just that adut life is really complicated and I kinda forgot my inspiration for this series, but after reading the first two chapters I knew I wanted to write again so here I am. I already have the script for the fourth chapter, that actually was going to be in the third but I just wrote a lot for this one so it had to be passed to the next chapter. For those who are still here thank you so much. Likes, reblogs, comments are always appreciated. English is not my first language so pardon me if anything is misspelled or grammatically incorrect. Also the main idea came from a webtoon but I can’t remember it’s name. Enjoy!

While you and Jiwoo are in dreamland Taehyung decides to order a pizza since his pantry is basically empty, which upsets him because he can't take care of you as a good partner would I have to buy groceries first thing in the morning. During the waiting time for the delivery he just watches you sleep, even if he thinks it's creepy, in his eyes you're so perfect and he's so happy he finally found you that he doesn't care, as long as you don't know of course; after 35 minutes the pizza arrives with an ecstatic Taehyung giving a very good tip.

Walking toward his bedroom, the leopard finally wakes you up after having an internal battle about letting you sleep or feeding you. You start to feel light touches on your face, not knowing what they were but liking the warmth they provide, you get closer to the source; awakening more you realize those touches are little kisses on your cheeks, and never been woken up like that you open your eyes a little bit, only to find a boxy smile, brown eyes, dirty blonde hair and a pair of animal ears with yellow spots surrounded by black on top of the head. A little bit surprised, but not scared, you fully open your eyes because of the closeness between you two. "What happened?" Your voice comes out a little bit groggy, something Taehyung finds cute "nothing happened, I just decided to order pizza and it just got here" he says turning towards the bedside table to hand you a plate with pizza on it "Thanks Taehyung" you say staring deeply at the pizza, it surprises you that in this world there is something called pizza and it's really similar too, which only adds more questions about this place and the similarities it has with your own world. However your train of thought stops when your stomach makes a very loud rumble "I'm really hungry, sorry" you say sheepishly looking at the plate but definitely not at Taehyung "It's okay, you've had a long day Beautiful" he says adding the pet name just because he loves this flustered side of you, apparently your stomach was so loud Jiwoo says "Hey N/N, did you buy pizza for yourself again?" And wakes up completely to recognize her surroundings "Oh it's Taehyung" she says looking for her piece of pizza but can't find it "Mmm...Taehyung, did you only bring pizza for F/N" she asks unbelievably "No?...I mean of course not, yours is down the hall" the leopard nervously responds looking everywhere but Jiwoo "I'll bring it immediately" he answers walking out of the room to bring her a slice.

While you were sleeping and then enjoying an awesome pizza someone was climbing up the same mountain you climbed down that day, just with a very different purpose...a more evil one. When they got to the cave they immediately noticed something different...like something is missing, walking inside faster they find that the precious gem, the most powerful thing there is in this world, is not where it's supposed to be. "Damn it" they scream angrily "Who the hell took my precious gem".

After enjoying a very delicious pizza, OMG is possible that the pizza here is better than the one home you couldn't help but think while drinking the soda Taehyung, who left to wash the dishes, brought for you. Feeling really tired from the bizarre and eventful day you ask Jiwoo "Hey, where is all of our stuff…and isn't this room really big for a guest room?" with a smile Jiwoo tells "This is not a guest room, I'm pretty sure it's his room" "What? So when we came in he deliberately put me inside his room?" you ask with surprise and eyes wide open "Yep, I'm guessing he wanted to be with you, but I don't think in a sexy way…yet" "Jiwoo!...don't say that" you whisper-yell afraid Taehyung might hear the nonsense she just said, at this point you feel blushing so much in just a day is going to affect your health "Oh, and I took everything out of the backpacks and accommodated in the bathroom or that drawer I found empty, well a lot of drawers are empty like he's expecting someone to fill them one day" Jiwoo says the last while wiggling her eyebrows at you and the only thing you do is throw the nearest pillow you could find at her, landing on her face. Taehyung couldn't help but smile while listening to the conversation you two were having, it's not his fault his animal ears are very sensitive and have better hearing, and in all honesty Jiwoo wasn't wrong; when he was looking for a place to live he knew he had to have a big space for when his partner moved in which included leaving empty drawers where they could leave their stuff without problem. "No, but for real N/N I think he wanted to stay here with you because after putting you down on the bed he walked out and I think I heard my name, maybe leading me to a guest room, but there was no way I was going to leave you alone with a man we barely know" "Thanks Ji" you throw her a grateful smile, Taehyung hears this and his smile turns into a sad frown Does she not want me? He couldn't help but think No, no…maybe she just wants to feel comfortable with someone she knows…yes, yes that's it…I just have to win her trust and we're gonna become closer…and-and then we can sleep together and I can get to know her and she can get to know me all these thoughts transform that frown into a big smile again.

Knocking on the his room's door, Taehyung finds you trying to get up "Hey hey Beautiful, what are you doing? You heard Nia, you can't put pressure on your ankle" he rushes to your side and grabs your head and stomach to put you back on the bed "Mmm Taehyung? I need to change myself into my pj's" you show him what's in your hands, a pair of pants and shirt, and a tiny smile I think he really cares about me "Oh, uh sure-sure" he takes a step back and touches his neck in embarrassment "Pretty smart huh? N/N is very through, we had a lot of important stuff in our backpacks, who knew they could become handy" Jiwoo says stepping out of the bathroom, Wow…she even knows how to take care of others, my Beautiful is so smart and cute and likes to take care of others it's the only thing the leopard can think after hearing that "So, do you need help to get to the bathroom?" he asks already putting his hands under your neck and knees "Oh no there's no nee…" you start but Jiwoo interrupts "Don't worry big guy, I can help her just fine…you should go and sleep too, today has been a very long day and you should take rest" the smirk she's wearing grows wider when Taehyung unconsciously pouts "Taehyung? Ji is right, you must be exhausted too…you know carrying me today, dealing with us and everything" you smile at him in appreciation and a little embarrassed after saying the carrying part "It's okay I don't mind taking care of you, it's a great honor…but I guess you're right I am a little tired so I'm going to grab my PJ's and head for the guest room" So this IS his room you and Jiwoo think, he walks towards the walk-in closet and exist with clothes in his hand, however before leaving the room he approaches the side of the bed you're in and crouches down next to you "Goodnight Beautiful" he closes the distance between you two and you're thinking OMG he's going to kiss me on the lips he deviates and kisses your forehead, and you feel how that kiss is way more romantic than anything else he could've done. The leopard separates from you seeing how you have your eyes closed and very red cheeks. Opening your eyes you see the biggest boxy smile yet, knowing you now have him in your mind he stands up and exists saying "Goodnight" to Jiwoo, she just waves her hand back at him.

Replaying what just happened in your head you're unknowingly touching your forehead, Jiwoo snaps her fingers in front of you to take you out of your daze "N/N...N/N hey hey!" "Huh? Jiwoo did that just happened? Did he really kissed me?" still with your hand up your head you ask with big sparkling eyes "N/N" she sighs "He just kissed your forehead…let's get you up and into the bathroom so you can change" nodding at Jiwoo's words you grab her shoulder and support your arm on the bed and take a boost to get up without putting your bad foot on the floor. With Jiwoo's help you hop to the bathroom floor "I can take it from here Ji" "Are you sure" "Yeah, I need to do certain things here by myself and when I get out you can help me hop back to the bed" "Okay, be careful" you nod and close the door, turning around you hop towards the toilet and relieve yourself after all that happened today you really needed to go, thinking it would be best to change your clothes while sitting you do it successfully; getting up from the toilet you hop until you're in front of the sink and proceed to wash your teeth with your toothbrush Ji had left ready for you, watching your face on the mirror you see how sweety and dirty your face is I need to wash my face with that in mind you start looking through Taehyung's stuff until you find a face soap and moisturizer Taehyung I'm sorry for going through your stuff but I really need to at least wash my face…I miss my skincare products you sigh and open the faucet to splash water on your face and with a little of the liquid soap you make foam and wash your face, you spend a minute getting rid of all the dirt and sweat from the day and open the faucet again to wash all the soap from your face and then take a bit of moisturizer to apply it to your face. In another room a happy leopard is thinking I hope my Beautiful is using my products, I know Jiwoo said they brought certain necessities but not everything can fit into those backpacks. Once done you open the door and Jiwoo gets up from the bed and walks towards you, offering you her shoulder you grab it and start hopping towards your side of the bed, laying down Jiwoo puts your foot on top of a pillow and walks for the wall turning off the light and goes back to her side to lay down "Goodnight Ji" "Goodnight N/N"; after hearing you Taehyung also goes to sleep knowing you're now resting, in his house, under his protection.

On your second day you and Jiwoo wake up next to each other under the sunlight entering through the curtain but also because of the ruckus you're hearing outside the room. "What the hell is that guy doing so early in the morning" Jiwoo says covering her face with her arm to prevent the sunlight hitting her eyes "I don't know maybe we should go and see" once you say that Jiwoo gets up and goes to your side to help you up and walk/hop to the bathroom to wash your teeth. Once that is done you go towards the sound and find Taehyung murmuring "Damn it, I hope she didn't wake up by that pan falling" "I guess that's an understatement, by the way you did wake us up" Jiwoo enters with you to the kitchen, and the boy turns around surprised with big wide eyes "I-I didn't hear you getting up, I'm sorry…Did I wake you up?" saying the last with a sad pout on his face Why is he so cute? Shouldn't he be intimidating being a leopard and all? You couldn't help but think watching his face and sitting in a stool in front of him (separated by the aisle of course) . "Ummm…yes" you say with a nervous smile "But don't worry, I mean after all we are your guests…What time is it?" you say confused "It's 7:30…I wanted to leave you breakfast before leaving for work, but I woke up late since my phone died and everything went downhill from there" "Wait, phone?" Jiwoo asks surpirsed, and Taehyung only shows her an actual cellphone just like the ones you have in your world but it looks way more advanced "Mmm…have you never seen a phone before?" Taehyung asks Where are they from? Because everyone has phone, don't they? "We know what a phone is, I guess we just didn't think you would have too" You answer him "Why wouldn't I have one?" While saying this Jiwoo exists the kitchen and comes back with your phones "Ours don't work here" she shows him Wow these ones are kinda old no wonder they don't work Taehyung thinks but doesn't say anything.

Interrupting his examination on your phones, his own chimes with a new message from his manager Hey Taehyung we are all ready for the shoot, where are you? "Damn it" He murmurs "Do you have to go?" He nods sadly at your words "It's okay we can cook it's no problem, we are already imposing so much to expect you to cook as well" and he grimaces because there's not much to cook with "It's just that there is not much to cook with…I'm sorry, I'm such a bad partner" he ducks his head with his animal ears also down in embarrassment and sadness "I swear I can take good care of you…it's just yesterday was grocery shopping day but I found you and your ankle was hurt and-and…" he's just rambling and talking so fast you interrupt him by calling his name "Hey, hey Taehyung? Taehyung?" he raises his head to look at you, and you notice his eyes with unshed tears and still animal ears down just like a kitty I have to say something to calm him, something that can work, that way he can go to work otherwise I'm afraid he's going to stay here and without a job…whatever his job is "It's okay…not having groceries doesn't mean you're a bad partner…uh…this is a way for me to show you I can be a good partner as well don't you think? I mean proving to you that I can cook…and you're a-a good partner because you took really good care of me yesterday" you smile at him Is she accepting me? Is she falling for him already? There were two kind of thoughts after your words. With a boxy smile and no more tears in his eyes he says "Okay, I'll leave now" "Okay, have a great day at work" you wave while he picks up his phone and keys, once he's at the door Jiwoo talks "Wait Taehyung, what day it is?" "Well, yesterday was the last day of the weekend, today is Alday the first day of the week" with a confused stare he answers What a strange question "Okay, thank you, have a nice day" "Bye Beautiful" he opens the door and turns to you "Please eat" "Bye Taehyung" you say in a soft tone and very bright cheeks, and he closes the door once he got that cute reaction out of you.

"Well we're definitely not in Bastion" Jiwoo says once the leopard is out of the apartment "So are we really considering the possibility of teletransportation" you say observing her walking towards the other side of the aisle facing you "I don't think is a possibility anymore N/N, I mean unless we are having the same lucid dream we're actually talking with people who have animal traits, animal parts and can transform into animals" "Also, it's a world so similar yet advanced than ours" you add "Wait, I'm hungry. Let's make something before we continue this" Jiwoo laughs "Please don't change…ever" you throw her a smile at her words.

Wow he was not lying when he said there was no groceries you smile a little remembering his sad face and I'm not lying about how I almost coo when his animal ears got down just like a kitty…he's definitely making me feel things…but I have to pull myself together I just met him and we're from very different worlds you sigh at that last thought while hopping and looking through the refrigerator and the pantries "Sooooo I can make us meat with tomatoes and onion sauce, hard eggs and milk, is that okay with you?" you turn to look at her "Yes, but you shouldn't be standing up you're gonna make your ankle hurt" Jiwoo says worriedly "First, I'm not supporting my ankle" you show your bandaged ankle at her "and second, you can't cook even if it's to save your life so this has to be on me…hey were are the tuppers from the night at the mountain?" you start cooking the eggs and the meat "Heeey, it's not my fault I'm not particularly skilled at cooking and I took them out yesterday and put them at the dishwasher I guess he washed them" "Oh okay" a small smile passed through your lips while you chop the tomatoes and onions for the sauce "N/N what was that about being a good partner for him by cooking" you turn at her words and watching everything was cooking well, you walk to the aisle and sit to rest your ankle "Well…I mean you saw his face, he was so sad because of groceries and I knew he wasn't going to take any answer so I said something I knew would work…besides he had to go to work" you defend yourself "So you believe him? The whole partner Connection thing?" "I don't know Ji, we are in a different world like you said and it is known that some animals partner for life so what if here it's something like that" "Wait are you saying you are accepting him?" she raises her eyebrows in a sexy joking manner, you stand up when the meat starts to sizzle "I don't know…I do feel something when he looks at me and when he calls me beautiful" you say the last word lower and with your heart racing just by thinking of the he says the word, with so much emotion and tenderness "OMG I can't believe it took for us to be in a whole different world for you to be interested in someone" Jiwoo's tone is like she's offended, and yeah, once you turn to see her face there is an offended expression on it "But who knows if it lasts, maybe is a malfunction because how can we be together when we are from so far away" "I think…maybe…this is the reason we came here" you look at her with thoughtful expression "I mean when you two are looking at each other it's like I'm not even here…and I'm pretty sure you forget about your best friend at those moments" and you can't believe she's pouting "I-I-I do not!" "I can't blame you, he's really cute and hot" she smiles and winks at you, feeling your whole body palpitating at how fast and loud your heart is moving inside you, and knowing the best thing to do to avoid her is turning around, turning off the stove and plating the breakfast. Jiwoo stands up to take the plates and puts them on the aisle, you hop and sit on the stool and start eating with her doing the same in front of you with a teasing smile.

Chapter 4

Taglist: @lovely247 @apathina @kalala22 @singukieee @tinyoonsblog @arantxaglz @btsiguess-kpop @lachimolala22019 @goldeneclipsedragon @sophiaj650 @sukunasstomachtongue @djodjom1 @uarmyhore @to-see-without-eyyes @chatsgotmytongue @kyuupidwrites if you don't want to be on this taglist anymore let me know :), and if you want to be just leave a comment saying so :)

#kpop #kpop stories #kpop scenarios #bts #bts series #bts scenarios #bts hybrid series #bts hybrid au #hybrid!au #hybrid bts #hybrid au #bts hybrid x reader #bts x reader #bts poly au #ot7 x reader

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phangneh · 25 days

Text

Giọng Nói Trong Vực Thẳm

✨Manhwa : Into The Light Once Again

✨Elmir royal family x Fem!Reader

✨Warning : princess!reader, lost memory, yandere elements (both platonic and romantic), protect, ... (will add more)

📌Note: this is just a fanfic, there are many details unrelated to the original story line. English is not my native language, if I make grammatical mistakes or use incorrect words, please forgive me.

🎭Summary : You have a voice that is said to change the world, when you sing, your sweet voice makes people happy and all things flourish. One day, your kingdom was destroyed, you had to live with the pain of losing your family and being severely mistreated. But it seems that you will die in misery, there will be people who will come and take you out of the abyss.

"O God, when this song ends, come and take me away"

"Let me live forever, peacefully in your magical arms"

My dear, your voice can change the world...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looks like there's a noise on the ground, you think. But you're not really sure, is it really noise? Or are your ears just imagining for themselves?

It's been a long time, even a little warmth of sunlight you haven't even seen, two years of being confined to a dark underground prison, all your senses and body have been worn out. Dark, cold, snake centipede insects you are also used to.

When will you be freed?

Why aren't you dead yet?

Eventually, you find yourself lying on the moldy, slurping ground. A finger can't move now, is God taking you?

The noise doesn't go away, but at this moment you don't care about it anymore. When you close your eyes, it feels like you're leaning on your mother's lap, and she sings you lullabies. There is the voice of your mother, of your father, of your brothers and sisters, it seems that you are with them.

And then you don't feel anything anymore.

...

You wake up, light creeping into the corner of your eye. Brilliant, and uncomfortable. But it's also warm and comfortable. Your head is blank, strangely enough, you don't have any memories in your head. You can't think of anything, you're so strange around, you wonder where this is, there's a lot of mixed emotions, anxiety, fear, restlessness in you,... Suddenly the door of the room opens, a woman enters and is alarmed to realize you have woken up, she is so shocked that she almost dropped the tray in her hand.

"She's awake!"

She speaks something you don't understand. You're vague, weak, but still aware enough that two people came in later, they both looked in a hurry, and seemed surprised to see you open your eyes. Who's that? Do you know them?

"Are you okay? How are you feeling?" A soft voice that you can hear, she speaks a language that you understand, you want to answer, but your throat is too weak to say something.

The owner of the voice was a woman with a gentle and beautiful face, her eyes were like beautiful purple jewels.

She looked very worried... Why?

"Hurry up and call the priest here!" Another voice, but that of the younger girl, they were the same, they both had cloud-white hair, but she had blue eyes... It was like that lake, clear and shining. She was as beautiful as an angel.

"It's going to be fine, you're safe."

You are confused, why are you here, who they are, why are you like this, so many questions in your mind.

What happened?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Chapter 1]

[Chapter 2]

I hope someone will like it (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧

#manhwa x reader #isis de elmir x reader #into the light once again #isis de elmir #aisha de elmir #Iris de Elmir #Tyrion de Elmir #yandere platonic #yandere romantic #yandere platonic x reader #🔮phangneh #fanfic

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prettyprettypaci2 · 6 months

Text

Therapy - Part 4

💕 Part 1 💕 Part 2 💕 Part 3 💕

"Rise and shine! Were you able to get some rest?"

As unwelcome as the interruption is, Miss Heather's voice is a far more pleasant alarm clock than the teasing and pinching that wakes you every morning at home. You open your eyes with a gentle sigh, the edges of your vision greeted by whatever light sneaks through your fluffy unicorn-themed sleep mask. Just five more minutes and you could have finished the dream.

In the dream, you felt like your old self again: a normal adult living with your step-mom until you could save up enough money to move out. You went to bars with friends, ate hamburgers, played pool, joked, flirted. You wore denim jeans and comfortable shoes and never anything with ribbons.

You scrunch up your nose in concentration, trying to anchor the memory before it fades, but a bolt of panic hits you and erases the vision from your mind. There's a dampness on your chest, and you're suddenly terrified that you're stewing in the mother of all diaper leaks. Shifting your weight on the giant teddy bear you're using as a mattress, you're relieved to discover that the culprit is a thick geyser of drool draining from behind your pacifier. You tense your lips and halt the flow with a slurpy intake of air. Mr. Kazoo will add a few more splotches to the mural of spit stains you've painted him with, but at least he won't smell like one of your soaked diapers.

"A lull long-uh?" You gurgle around the pacifier's rubber nipple. You don't bother to remove it anymore unless you're being fed or have a lot to say. Ever since Miss Heather suggested adding suckling therapy to your home life, it feels odd to go any length of time without something in your mouth. The pink elastic pacifier clips your step-mom had sewn into your bedtime onesies were now more decorative than functional; the massive pink shield may as well be pasted to your lips.

"I don't think your step-mom wants me to just watch you take a nap," Miss Heather replies warmly. "I'm glad you were able to doze off, though. I'm told you haven't been sleeping well."

It's true. For weeks you've been lying awake at night, crying softly as you wonder about your future. One early morning, your step-sister Lauren had walked into your room to find you grinding your diapered hips against Mr. Kazoo. You had just been trying to get a bit of relief, taking advantage of the mushy padding in an effort to feel something -- anything -- touching you down below. You wince as you remember how she laughed and laughed, making endless jokes about you and Mr. Kazoo finding true love. Once Olivia was informed, it was only a matter of time before they planned that stupid wedding in the living room. Your ankles still chafe from being squeezed into that pair of glossy white Mary Janes, but Lauren insisted your shoes should match the voluminous gown they had dressed you in for the ceremony. You still haven't dared to tell Miss Heather about how you became Mrs. Kazoo.

For Lauren and Olivia, it was just another way to have a laugh at your expense. But the experience really bothered you. Who else would you marry at this point? You've been wrapped up in diapers so long, you barely remember what it's like to sit on a toilet. You can't show up to a job interview -- let alone a date -- slurping on a giant pacifier and buttoned into a pastel cotton onesie. Is this really what the rest of your life looks like?

You lift the unicorn sleep mask from your eyes and yawn behind your pacifier. You pinch the cold wet spot on the torso of your fuzzy pink sleeper and pull it away from your skin. You're thankful that your braided bun kept your hair out of the drool pool, at least. Giving Mr. Kazoo a gentle pat on the head, you struggle to stand on the thick wool booties swaddling your feet before collapsing onto the familiar couch with an indelicate squish. You must have used your diaper while sleeping after all.

"So," Miss Heather says, taking her seat across from you and opening her pad. "Any changes in your diet?"

You think about the question for a moment and then shake your head "no." The vegetable purées, cut-up bananas, and gooey bowls of oatmeal aren't particularly filling, but you've long since gotten used to your step-sisters' "home cooking."

"How about exercise? I know you don't go outside a lot. Being too sedentary can cause sleep problems, too."

You think about the hours you spend strutting around to model outfits, as Lauren and Olivia take turns to see who can dress you more ridiculously. You massage a rug burn from your new "crawling game" where one of them hides a toy in the house, and you have to find it without getting off your hands and knees. You shake your head "no" again, indicating exercise isn't a problem.

"Hmmm," Miss Heather bites her lip in concentration, making a note on her pad. "We haven't talked about your diapers in a while. Are you getting changed before you go to bed?"

You try to blink away the memory of Olivia slathering you with lipstick while Lauren shoves your heavy, smelly, balled-up diaper in your face. You were forced to leave a big smooch on the plastic, to prove how much you loved wearing them. You nod with a sigh; your step-sisters never missed an opportunity to mock you during a diaper change.

"Well then," Miss Heather says, flipping through a few notes before setting her pad down. "I'd say your sleeping problems are just a part of growing up. People have very different schedules depending on their age. Your body might just be trying to recalibrate itself to adulthood."

You snort, and a little trail of snot begins draining from your nose. Miss Heather reaches for a box of tissues, but you've already clumsily wiped your face on the fuzzy sleeve of your sleeper. You pull out your pacifier with a loud, wet pop and smile acridly at Miss Heather.

"Adulthood? You're making fun of me. Do I look like an adult?" You sniff hard to suck some more mucus back into your nose.

"Why?" Miss Heather asks, cocking her head inquisitively. "What does an adult look like?"

You throw an open palm up in exasperation, as if the answer is so obvious it doesn't merit explanation. "Like you! You wear jeans and shirts, you have normal shoes, you don't wear diapers! You have a job and you probably own a house and...and have a boyfriend!"

Miss Heather purses her lips for a moment. You're not sure if she's trying to stifle a smile. "Do you wish you had a boyfriend?"

You think you could burn a finger if you touched your face right now. Your cheeks are as red as apples.

"I'm sorry, that sounded like I was teasing you," Miss Heather says, crossing her legs and folding her hands against one knee. "My point is that you don't feel a sense of belonging with your peers because you avoid normal interactions. People your age are going out, socializing, maybe getting in a bit of trouble. That's healthy. You've come a long way with accepting your diapers, but you're still so worried what the world will think if they see a bit of plastic here, or something a little rounder there. It's making you miss out on this important part of your life."

You can feel the heat in your face creeping in behind your eyes. "I'm a freak," you say. Your lower lip wobbles.

"You're not a freak. You're different. You have wants and needs that other people don't have, but you share the need to be loved. To exist out in the real world. Don't shut yourself away."

The room is silent except for the soft whimpering of your tears. Miss Heather offers you the tissues again and you take one, blowing your nose loudly.

"Would you like to join me for a walk?" Miss Heather asks, like the idea just popped into her head.

"Outside?" You sniffle.

"Yes. There's a little bakery just around the corner from my office. I'll buy you a pastry and we can get some sunshine before the weather turns. We'll get you changed out of the sleeper and into the dress your step-mom packed for you."

"It's too short," you moan. "People will see!"

"And if they do?" Miss Heather shrugs. "They'll think 'that person needs diapers,' and go about their day."

You can feel yourself shaking like a leaf, and your teeth begin to chatter despite the warmth of Miss Heather's office. "I don't know..."

"I'll be with you the whole time. I could change your diaper first, if you like. Your step-mom gave me some spares, just in case. And some baby powder."

You blush at the idea of your therapist seeing you like that. But you suppose she won't force you to kiss the used one.

"Can we bring Mr. Kazoo?"

Miss Heather smiles warmly as she stands and reaches out to clasp your hand. You stop shivering.

"I'll buy him a pastry, too."

💕 Part 5 💕

#ab dl diaper #ab dl lifestyle #ab dl mommy #diaper training #diaper sissy #diaper bulge #diaper pee #ab dl girl

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ashensgrotto · 11 months

Text

The Sea's Sacrifice (Part 2)

Characters: Azul Ashengrotto / Jade Leech / Floyd Leech x Fem!Reader

Total Word Count: 14.7k+

Part 1 Part 2 (You Are Here) Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Synopsis: A potential job as a marine biologist’s assistant leaves (Y/N) feeling something fishy going on behind the scene…

Author’s Notes: Original Idea came from @merakiui ’s annonymous ask with a short story / headcannon -> https://www.tumblr.com/merakiui/684490143936167936/ooohhh-i-love-those-writing-ideas-you-had-for-sea?source=share

and I absolutely love this concept and wanted to take it a step further. I don’t write yandere nor fanfiction as much as I did a few years ago. However, I do hope I do this piece justice; I will have links to the next part once it is completed and ready for viewing.

Also, this is a work of fiction. I disagree with anyone that justifies the following behaviors which are represented in this fic (if I think of more, I will add them as I go):

rape/non-consent/dub-consent, possessive/controlling/dominating behaviors, and manipulation

Come my love be one with the sea

Rule with me for eternity

Drown all dreams so mercilessly

And leave their souls to me

***

You don’t see the twins for the remainder of the day.

When you make mention of the encounter in passing to Crewel that evening, the man only smiles - and not in a warm way whatsoever.

“It would seem that our puppy here has peaked their interest,” the eccentric man grinned, an unsettling look on his face as he bares his teeth, “It’s interesting how Floyd has taken the first step, though - I thought for certain Jade would’ve been the one to approach you first.”

“Floyd? Jade?” you arch a brow at the black and white cloaked professor, “Those things have names?”

“They are not things, pup,” Crewel taps his cigarette case against the palm of his hand before pulling one out and lighting it up, “To answer your question, yes, the mers do have names. While you were waiting for them to make their first appearance with you, Trein and I have been working on cracking their communication code. All three speak in chirps, clicks, and coos - though their growls are both intriguing and nerve-wrecking. We believe, based on how quickly they chirp or click, they are either warning each other of danger, food, or saying each other’s names.”

“And how did you figure out their names?”

“It’s a mere guess - but the sound waves we see on our monitors follow a similar pattern as the sound waves in the air following the pronunciation of the names ‘ Jade ’ and ‘Floyd. ’ We’ve also hidden cameras in the enclosure and have heard them speak in our language during playback sessions after certain incidents - such as the attacks on our coworkers.”

“And part of my job is to see how much of our language they know and potentially teach them more?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to know how much they know or teach them,” Crewel chuckled, “one can’t be too careful with so much knowledge after all.”

‘Knowledge was power,’ you recalled someone telling you once long ago, ‘and too much power could either destroy you or save you.’

“Regardless,” Crewel continued, “I, personally, think it would be interesting to see exactly how much they know about us land dwellers. It would allow us to know if they are watching us and, if so, where we should look to find more - maybe even see how they live and coexist with each other, what parts of the ocean they are likely to hide out in… maybe even see how they mate!”

You sputter, “M-mate?!”

“Of course it’s perfectly natural for animals to go through mating seasons,” Crewel answered with a shrug, “For scientific purposes, it would be interesting to see if they mate like their animal forms or if they follow the human side of romantic courtship.”

‘I’m beginning to think you and the rest of this group are a bunch of perverts,’ you thought to yourself, grinding your teeth together, “And what are you going to do about… that particular question?”

“I think that is enough questions for the day,” Crewel raised his arms above his head, a popping noise indicating a cracked back as he let out a yawn, “Come, puppy. Both of us need rest - we’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

***

You didn’t see the twins when you first came in the following morning, nor even after depositing your stuff beside the coat rack and your lunch into the freezer.

At first, you thought maybe they didn’t exist and you had dreamt up the encounter; but the memory of Crewel’s grin and comment about interacting with ‘Floyd’ kept replaying in your mind as you prepared the merfolks’ breakfast. As you leaned down to dump the second bucket into the pool, a sudden splash of water soaked you from head to toe - forcing you to drop your bucket and fall back on the concrete flooring, sputtering as giggles and clicking noises filled the room. You brushed your damp hair and salted water away from your eyes as they fell on a familiar figure leaning over the edge of the pool.

Skin the color of seaweed shone under the dimmed fluorescent lights while a set of heterochromic eyes gleamed in delight at your surprise. A grin spread across the mer’s features, revealing a set of shark-like teeth that flashed in satisfaction, the dark teal strand falling in front of his features.

You huff, grunting as you slowly stand and arch a brow at the creature, “Was that really necessary?”

The creature only beamed wider, clearly pleased with your reaction.

“Honestly, you scared me - nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The creature clicked a few times before pushing himself away and swimming around close to the edge, watching as you grab the last bucket and bring it to the edge.

“No more surprises, ok?” you eye the creature as you reach in and pull out a squid that was about the size of your palm - much larger than a fry, but too small for an adult - offering it to him, “I give you this, you won’t splash me again, deal?”

The moray mer chirps, moving his head in a nod and shifting his body slightly before you toss the squid in his direction. He catches it mid-air like a dog with a tennis ball, the squid dangling out of his mouth as he beams at you. You watch him carefully as you dump the contents into the water and he begins his meal. He starts with the tentacles, pulling them apart and gnawing on them while his webbed hands dug into the mantle of the miniature sea beast - strings of muscle, blood, and ink staining his features before crunching of bone echoes around.

“Geez, take it easy,” you grumble, “no one is going to take it from you.”

The mer stops and regards you with a look that means, ‘Shut up, I’m trying to enjoy my meal.’

You return the buckets to the side of the freezer before grabbing your notebook and take a seat at the pool’s edge, opening it and beginning to jot down notes.

6:05 am: One of the mers has made an appearance this morning. Based on what I was told by Professor Crewel last night, I believe this one is Floyd - one of the twin morays. It’s hard to differentiate between the two of them, but if I had to venture a guess - Floyd is far more playful than his brother -

Nails clicked against the edge of the pool, forcing you to look up to see Floyd leaning over the edge, studying the word on the notebook. He shifted his gaze from the words before looking at you and back again.

“What’s up?”

Floyd chirped at you, crossing his arms and resting his chin on them, eyes watching your every movement as he continued to click and coo.

He stayed like this for the next several hours, clicks and chirps echoing in the room as you shifted between taking notes and partially listening to him. You figured he was telling you something, but since you didn’t understand him, you could only nod and hum in his direction as if you did understand.

“Hungry,” he says eventually, the word throwing you off guard for a moment.

“Did you just.. Say ‘hungry’?” you asked, blink incredulously.

“Hungry,” Floyd said again, a grin spreading across his features, his eyes narrowing as he eyed you like a piece of shrimp.

“Alright, one moment Floyd,” you move to stand, only for your ankle to be caught by a webbed grip.

You turn, confused to see a look of surprise on the mer’s face.

“Name?” Floyd inquires.

“Are you asking if I know your name?” when the mer nods, you smile, “I was told your name. But, excuse me, I never introduced myself - I’m (Y/N). I’ve been tasked as your keeper.”

It was a white lie - a big one at that - but you weren’t sure if Floyd understood what ‘keeper’ meant nor if he understood that the three of them were under observation. However, you did want to be cautious in the event that in the case Floyd and the others did understand what was going on around them, you wouldn't be seen as a threat.

Floyd spoke your name softly, tasting the words on his tongue before grinning, baring sharp teeth as he shouted, “(Y/N)!”

You couldn’t help but giggle a bit, murmuring behind a hand that covered your mouth, “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

Next thing you knew, Floyd launched himself from the edge of the pool and disappeared into the murky water, leaving you curious as to what he was up to. However, if he intended to splash you again, you weren’t going to stick around to find out.

You stood, stretching your back and legs before moving towards the freezer, with the intention of pulling out the three buckets for lunch when Floyd’s voice came again, “(Y/N)! (Y/N)!”

You turned with bucket in hand as Floyd approached the edge, his brother in tow - though he stayed at least a foot away from the edge, but keeping a close eye on you and his twin. You reach the edge a squat down, offering a smile to the second moray mer and a hand outstretched in a non-threatening manner.

“Hello. You must be Jade, right?”

‘Jade’ lifts his head, allowing you to see his full face and neck, the water lapping at his shoulders, as surprise etched across his features. He blinks slowly, moving a little bit closer before his voice, soft and deep, speaks.

“Know name?”

‘So, Jade knows a few more words than Floyd,’ you think to yourself before nodding, “Yeah, I know your name. I told Floyd that I was told both of your names - I was assigned as your keeper for the time being.”

“Keeper?” Jade askes, head cocking to the side like a dog would.

“Yes, I’m in charge of taking care of you during the day. I’ll be here most of the time, except at night when I have to leave. But I’ll be here to feed you in the morning, afternoon, and evening, and spend time with you guys during the in between hours.”

The twins looked at each other, both clicking and chirping - eyes shifting between your crouched figure and themselves. The looks they shared during these few moments made you feel a bit uneasy, like they were sizing you up for a meal; it reminded you of the lewd glances you received from drunks at the bars you used to work when you first started working, hands sliding up your uniforms before one of the bartenders would step in and smack them away, reminding them the girls were not for touching. It made you shudder, goose pimples rising along your arms.

Jade seemed to notice, clicking softly at his brother as his features relaxed, heterochromia eyes softening on your figure.

“Hungry,” Jade’s voice brought you back, “We… are… hungry.”

***

It only took about a week for Jade to eventually warm up to you, the three of you getting along - even with Floyd’s continued antics.

From what you observed, Jade was the eldest of the two moray twins - he was courteous to you and most of the staff that had on more than one occasion popped in to check on you during your sessions with the two and often kept Floyd from getting too much out of hand; although he seemed to be the one that would antagonize his younger brother with a few clicks and chirps in his direction before Floyd would splash you with water or attempt to pull you in for a swim. Regardless, Jade was always there to pull his brother back while Floyd shrieked in mer - their native tongue that you supplied in your notes, thrashing about while the eldest cooed in delight at how quickly Floyd could be worked up.

Jade was also very intelligent, often poking at the books you had brought along with you and chirping with curiosity. Unlike his brother, who had the attention span of a three-year-old, Jade listened intently to each word and pronounced them back to you with a few stutters here and there before saying the word like he was born to speak. He couldn’t form coherent sentences without the occasional click or chirp, but then again - speaking your native tongue was like you learning to speak his, it would take time and practice before he could reach that point.

The easiest words for Jade are your name, the word ‘pearl,’ and greetings. He always glowers when the time comes for you to leave before grumbling in the water, bubbles appearing around his face as he sinks under the surface with only the top of his head and eyes peering out from beneath the enclosure’s water surface. Floyd had picked up on this and began copying his brother, both of them looking like angry puffer fish each time you leave the enclosure and lock the door behind you.

Trein stops you one evening on your way out, a black and white cat in his arms, “How are things going, little keeper?”

“I think I’m making progress,” you answer, holding out your filled up notebook from the first month to him, “Crewel requested I give you this at the end of the first month.”

“I should hope so,” Trein took the notebook, shifting the lazy cat in his arms around to flip through the pages, “I saw that you’ve become quite comfortable around the twins - Floyd nearly drowned you in the pool the other day, yes?”

“Almost, though I think he was just playing around,” you answer, “he’s like a little kid - so energetic.”

“Perhaps… How's the research on our cecaelia?”

“The cecaelia?”

Trein raised one brow as the cat harrumphed at you, “Did you forget there are three of them?”

“I suppose I did,” you gulp before shrugging sheepishly.

“Do not forget that there is more than just the twins in that enclosure,” Trein warned, closing the notebook with a loud snap in one hand, “The sea is as dangerous as its mysteries that lurk beneath its surface. The twins may be comfortable around you, but the cecaelia is something no one has ever seen, much less interacted with. If it were to pull you under the waters tomorrow, we’d never know what happened, and I doubt the twins would do much to save you either.”

“I won’t let anything happen,” you answer with a strong resolve, brows creasing inward, “besides, if Crewel’s hunch is correct, I might be able to get the twins to persuade the mer out if I play my cards right.”

“You better. Remember, you only have two months left. I’d like to see some progress before the end of next month.”

***

As was expected, the twins were no help at all.

Each day for the next week, you attempted to discuss the octomer with the twins - you figured if you could get more information about the mer in question, you might be able to indicate something about him in your notes. Unfortunately, the twins couldn't completely understand you - even when you drew out a picture of what appeared to be an octopus and tapped a finger against the drawing. They did, thankfully, seem to understand you were curious about the third member of their trio, with Floyd chirping "Octo-chan" a few times before disappearing under the water.

The only piece of information you could gather was a word, spoken by Jade when you first asked about the mer.

Azul.

But, azul was a color - blue, to be precise. What does "azul" have to do with an octopus? You contemplated this for several hours after the twins left you to your devices one morning. They had greeted you in their usual fashion before taking their leave and disappearing under the water. It had been about two weeks since Jade had spoken the word and even when you asked about it, the clicking and chirping that came from both mers had you scratching your head in confusion.

Maybe "Azul" wasn't a color, but a name? Or code?

You scratch the back of your neck as you look at the chart you've drawn out - hoping that you might get some answers. "Okay, let's see," you push the notebook forward and roll to lay on your stomach as the bottom end of the pen traces through the drawn lines and words, "Floyd and Jade are twins - that much is straightforward - and are literal polar opposites of each other. Other than looks, both of them are connected by the octomer who may or may not be named Azul. However, how are the three of them connected? How did they meet?"

You circle the question before moving on to the next part, "As for Azul - he doesn't seem fond of humans as the morays seem to be his protectors. We know he is an octopus, based on eyewitnesses during their capture - however, we don't know much else about him."

You tap your pen against the notepad before flipping through the other notebook that sat beside you, rereading all of the notes you had gathered during the course of the week when discussing the octomer to the morays. You shifted to a kneeling position, your body getting tired of laying flat on your stomach when you felt a pair of eyes watching you.

You turn your head toward the pool, eyes nearly popping out as a head dunks itself low, the top mop of white and lavender shaded hair falling across a set of unfamiliar sea blue eyes.

Dove gray skin glowed in the dimmed fluorescent lighting as the sea blue eyes peered at you curiously, pupils horizontal slits that expanded and constricted as the two of you locked eyes with each other. When he raised his head, the water revealed several long strands of silver that rested about chin length on the left side of his face - the rest of the starlight colored hair cut short with water dripping from the tips and creating little pointed tips on the ends. Full lips were slightly parted with surprise, a little beauty mark resting just below his bottom lip and nearly blocked by the long strand. Unlike Floyd and Jade, his ears matched that of a human - rounded and uncut by earrings many humans wore. Below him, you could only see blackness - a darkness that cut through the murky waters of the pool as multiple limbs shifted in the water.

Overall, the octomer was stunning.

You took a deep breath and smiled softly at him, holding out a hand to him, “Hello. It’s nice to finally meet you. Are you Azul?”

The octomer looks around cautiously before returning his gaze to you with a slow nod.

“You have a beautiful name, Azul. I’m (Y/N) - though I’m sure the twins told you about me.”

Azul nods, slowly reaching a hand out towards yours open one.

“(Y/N)?” the voice of Crewel comes from the entrance of the enclosure.

Startled, Azul disappears under the waves as the twins appear, a heavy wave of water dousing the two of you - causing the two of you to sputter in surprise. Jade growls at Crewel, snapping his jaws in a threatening manner while Floyd leans over the edge of the pool, getting into a protective stance in front of you and snarling at the professor before shifting his gaze at you with worry.

The only thing you can think of as you watch the scene before you unfold is, ‘Did I manage to become a part of Jade and Floyd’s group? If so, what happens now?’

#twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto #floyd leech #jade leech #twstファンアート #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul x reader #yandere jade leech #yandere floyd leech #yandere #yandere jade x reader #yandere floyd x reader #twst jade #twst floyd #twst azul #twst wonderland #fanfic #yandere x reader

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jtstoryweaver · 8 months

Text

Child or Double, Part 2

(Part 1 of this story is here.)

You pull the old children's clothes out of your dryer and hold them up critically. They'll be a bit big for the girl, but they'll do well enough for now.

"Little sister, are you around?" you ask the empty hallway.

There's a shuffle behind you, and you turn to see two young girls behind you, hand in hand. The one on the left is warier, while the one on the right is flickering gently—here one second, faded the next. You offer the clothes to the child on the left.

"Could you please take these to your sister? If she wants to come out of her room, I'll be making breakfast in a minute. If not, you can take her breakfast up to her."

Little eyes squint at you, and the girl on the left takes the clothes silently. The pair vanish, clothes and all.

As promised, you head downstairs and start clattering around with plates and pans. Pancakes, you think; even if the terrified child in Alan's old bedroom doesn't want any, the rest of your children will happily clean them up. They don't <em>need</em> to eat, but some of them enjoy it anyway.

There's a shuffling noise on the landing above, and light footsteps pad hesitantly down the stairs. You make sure to pretend you haven't noticed, moving to the far side of the kitchen before looking towards the door.

Two wide brown eyes peek back at you from around the door frame, and you smile. "Hello," you offer.

"'lo," she whispers.

"What would you like to eat?"

Her gaze darts towards the heaped platter of fresh pancakes. "You made pancakes."

You nod, setting the plate on the kitchen table and taking the milk out of the fridge. "I did, but you don't have to eat them if you don't want to. My kids are very happy about finishing off any leftovers."

Tiny white teeth dent her lower lip. "Cereal?"

"You can absolutely have cereal," you agree, opening the cupboard so that she can see the selection. "What kind?"

She points at the rice pops, and you pour them into a bowl and add milk.

A little more of her is visible now, and her bright red top tells you that she's wearing the clean clothes you sent. There's a pang in your heart, pain mixed with pleasure at seeing Alan's clothes on another child. "Are you comfortable eating at the table, or would you prefer to take them back to your room?"

Her eyes widen even more. "What if I get milk on the carpet?"

You smile, putting her cereal on the table and then backing off. "I promise you, that carpet's been through worse than a little spilled milk. I can always scrub it later."

Her lips press together in determination and she marches out into the kitchen. You half expect her to grab the bowl and spoon and scurry back to her room, but she pulls herself up onto the chair and digs in.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. So brave, this little one.

A moment later, part of the reason for her courage walks through the kitchen door. It's the girl's Doubler, still hand in hand with the child who used to look like Alan. "Is there room for us?" the girl's Doubler asks.

"Always, sweetheart," you tell her. The girl scrambles up next to her sister, the still-flickering child perforce taking the next seat along. You're almost certain that the additional child is Duncan, the Doubler who haunts your attic.

You're proved right a moment later when Duncan looks up at you. "M-mom? Is it okay if I look like this?"

"Of course it's okay," you reassure the most nervous of your children. "You can look like whatever you want. Did you want a new name?"

"N-no." Wonder of wonders, Duncan smiles tremulously at you. "I like being Duncan. I just like being a girl too."

"I'm proud of you, my daughter," you assure her.

Not being particularly demonstrative, Duncan looks away shyly. But the little smile is still on her lips, and she stops phasing in and out of reality.

The girl, who's about halfway through her cereal, pauses to stare at you. "What's your name?" she asks.

"Elaine," you say, leaving it open as to whether the girl tells you her name in return.

She nods. "I'm Diana."

From across the kitchen, you nod in acknowledgement. "I'm pleased to meet you, Diana."

Duncan nudges the Doubler sister. "Do you have a name?"

"No," she says, her lips turning down in a pout.

"Sara!" Diana declares. "I always wanted a sister called Sara."

The newly named Sara lights up. "I like it!"

Milk splashes on the table when Diana drops her spoon to hug her newly named sister, but you're not worried. Like the carpet in Diana's room, the table's seen much worse than a little spilled milk.

(Okay, breakfast went on longer than I expected and I have more story to tell, so keep an eye out for Part 3!)

#my writing #child or double #trans child #urban fantasy #original fiction

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suddencolds · 4 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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