#International E-Waste Day

[brpinfotechpvtltd]

International E-Waste Day gave us a great opportunity to engage with consumers and communicate that e-waste should be disposed of using the correct channels.

[thetatvagirl]

Importance of E-Waste Day

International E-Waste Day is a global initiative aimed at raising awareness about the growing problem of electronic waste (e-waste) and encouraging responsible disposal and recycling of electronic devices. International E-Waste Day is a global awareness-raising campaign aimed at promoting the responsible disposal and recycling of electronic waste, or e-waste. It’s an annual event observed on…

[deus-ex-mona]

starting the year ✨wrong✨

[poetka]

Why is it such a shitstorm of a day today... so fucking draining and none of it has anything to do with me personally

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

Do you long for having your heart interlinked? (Miguel O’Hara x Ai/Hologram! Fem! reader) Part 2

Hiiii! Part two as promised, not proofread. Once again, heavily inspired by K and Joi’s relationship in bladerunner 2049. And there will not be a part 3, but enjoy regardless!

(Y/N)-Your name.

Cursing, Miguel being all mad scientisty at the beginning , Miguel being a bit of a perv at the beginning if you squint, talks about cutting of synthetic flesh, Miguel being a sad and desperate man if you squint a bit harder , Slight existentialism. lmk if I miss anything.

Word count: 2.2k

Part 1

Masterlist

—

“Miguel?”

His shoulders tensed up upon hearing your voice ring through his office, despite your inability to appear in the room, he always got nervous that one day you’ll end up just popping up in the middle of him working on your physical form.

“Yes?” His voice low, thick with concentration as wipes some sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief he had tossed to the side of his desk. Careful to not bump his glasses as he kept his eyes focused on wrapping the synthetic skin around your left hand, apart from the nails, it was the last bit of your arms that needed to be completed.

“It’s currently 2:24 am, you need to rest.”

“Tomorrow is my day off, I’m fine.” He replied, putting down his black marker and removing the faux skin from around the arm, placing it flat on the table as he picked up his exacto knife and began to prepare to slice off the excess skin. He needed to make sure to cut off the right amount, not wanting to cut off too little and having waste parts he could use on the rest of your body, it was almost as if he was vinyl wrapping a car.

“You still planned on going to HQ tomorrow, you need to rest.” Your words were only met with silence. “Miguel I’ll cut the power if you don’t leave that office of yours and go to bed, you’ll be insufferable tomorrow, you're even more cranky when you don’t get enough sleep.” You scolded him, Miguel’s lip twitched upwards at the mental image of your left hand on your hip with the other pointed a finger at him, your coding making non-existent wrinkle lines appear where your brows furrowed together, and next to your lips as you frown at his inability to take care of his own needs without you to remind him.

“Alright alright…” He mumbled, taking in a deep breath before blinking some sleep out of his eyes, you knew him so well. “Let me finish up, I’ll be out in twenty minutes, tops.” Instead of a verbal answer like he was expecting, he got the sound of your hologram being deactivated. Letting out a small amusement exhale from his nose when he realizes that you were physically waiting for him outside of his office door. How cute…

He was able to finish the arm up in sixteen minutes, placing the finished arm next to the other one, from the fingertips to the shoulder, packing them away properly in a briefcase that resembled those a musician would put their instrument in, he pondered on what part to work on next. Should he develop another external body part? Your legs, your torso? You’d be anatomically correct of course because he knows that’s how’d you’d want to be (and not for completely other unrelated reasons), or maybe on one of your internal “organs”, though completely made up of wiring and metal he wanted it to mimic the human body as much as he could.

“Miguel, it’s been twenty minutes.” Your voice apparently brought him out of his train of thought, making him rush to the door before you fulfill your threat of shutting the power, you’ve done it before on him.

“Alright, alright… I’m going…” he grumbled under his breath as he made his way to his room.

—

“I sent Hobie and Gwen to deal with that anomaly on Earth-A145… Jess wanted to speak to you about training for that new recruit you’ll be meeting tomorrow… and we’re gotten the thumbs up on reopening sector 6 again now that the repairs from last week are finished.” You read off your mini report from your holographic tablet, sitting on the edge of Miguel’s desk as you swung your feet as you looked back up at him. You were always in your smaller form around HQ, finding it easier for your system so you don’t get overwhelmed too quickly or easily.

Miguel replied back in a hum, his eyes trained on the screens in front of him, zoning in on watching the two spider-teens take down a Doc Ock variant pressing his lips together as he tries to keep his mind from wandering, he’s been having trouble with that recently. Letting out a grumble when he heard the faint sound of your screen dinging, internally groaning at the conversation you were both about to enter.

“Miguel…” You glanced at your tablet again, “your vitals are off again, Miguel.” You noted as you tapped around, your brows frowning together as you scowl lightly. “They’ve been like that for the past few weeks… did you want me to make an appointment with your doctor?” You asked as you looked back up at him, watching the way his nostrils expanded slightly as he exhaled out from them, shaking his head light.

“No, (Y/N), that’s not necessary.” He mumbled softly, lifting a hand in the air to wave off the concern, making you let out a huff of frustration, before phasing out and reappearing in front of him with a frown and your arms crossed over your chest. Miguel went to wave his hand through you, it passed through your programming as he silently told you to go away, his frown growing slightly deeper when he realizes that wasn’t going to rid of you.

“Miguel, don't start. Ever since a few months ago when you started to lock yourself up in your office at home, I’ve been starting to worry about you.” After your sentence, the tablet dings again, his heart rate, but you didn’t even glance at it as you look up at him.

“You don’t have to say that.” He responds automatically, his go to respond when you express concerns about him or compliment him in a way a human would. It made his heart skip a beat and sink simultaneously. Despite him overriding your original code, you were still meant to simulate romantic emotions. No matter what, that would always still be attached to you, and it didn’t help Miguel’s rapidly worsening pining for you.

“I know, I want to.” You’d always reply.

If only you knew you were the reason behind your own concerns.

“I’m fine, I promise.” He reassured you in a clam yet commanding voice, his hand going to play with the little metal spider figure on his desk that Peter had brought him one time after a mission. Your eyes narrowed towards him for a split second, before going back to their neutral position, your lips twitching up in a smile, you choose to believe him.

“If you say so, Mig.” You said before phasing away.

He let out a small hum, his lips curving upwards slightly as his eyes shifted down to the metal spider. It would be a nice addition to the metal heart he was about to start building…

—

“Morning Miguel.” The sound of your voice always helped put a smile on his face before he even opened his eyes.

“Good morning.” He replied in that same raspy voice he always did, slowly getting up and out of bed to stretch before starting his morning ritual. Groaning slightly as he felt his vertebrae pop back into place.

“I’m already warming up your coffee,” You said as your coding developed in front of him in your full size, watching as he twisted his torso to pop his hips, before going off to his restroom to get ready for his morning. Today was one of those rare days where he was off from his normal day job at Alchemax, and although he never true gave himself a day off, spending those spare days brooding up in his secluded area up in the HQ tower, watching dozens of screens to make sure that the multiverse didn’t collapse under his watch, but today was special, so he had Jess watch over the society for the day.

“Today’s a special day, (Y/N). You know why?” He asked, sipping on his coffee, as he glances at your presence in his kitchen as he waits for his bagel to pop out from the toaster behind you, a plate already waiting next to the cream cheese and a spreading knife.

You just tilted your head to the side, that once-in -a-blue-moon look of confusion crosses your face as you quickly look over his digital calendar for the day in your internal system only to be met with nothing. Because he purposely left it off, just to see that adorable rare look on your digital features. It was written on a sticky note in his home office instead.

January 14, 2099. (Y/N)’s activation date.

That was two years ago now, exactly down to the day. Miguel finally let out a chuckle when you eventually shrugged your shoulders, waiting for him to tell you.

“Today is the two year anniversary of you being my assistant.” He said as the sound of his breakfast finally popping up, you moving aside to get out of Miguel’s pathway despite his ability to phase through you, knowing how he feels weird about it.

“Really? It doesn’t quite feel that long for me.” You comment as you watch him complete his meal before taking a bit out of the still steaming thing of bread, watching the way the cream cheese slowly starts to melt and drip down onto the plate from the hole in the center of the bagel.

The concept of time to you was a thing you really only understood in theory, it felt like almost… a bubble. On the inside was Miguel, or humans in general. They were born, they celebrate each year when the earth does a full rotation around the sky, they grow up, grow old then they eventually die. Everyday they walk up, usually around the same time, go about their day as they attempt to stick to a schedule before going to sleep. Miguel will leave to work around in the morning, stay till afternoon and slave himself away till tiredness seeps itself into his bones or until you nag him to sleep. Whereas for you, you just kind of… woke up one day for a lack of better words, not how Miguel does though, you don't get tired, you don’t need to rest. Sure, you could overworked your system, you “sleep”, but sleep for you was when you weren’t being useful to Miguel, it’s almost like how you’ve read up how humans experience sleep, expect when they’re minds become free to dream about whatever their hearts long for during their R.E.M cycles, you just become enveloped in nothingness. There is no pitch blackness, no foggy stretch of infinite void for you to wander. Just that, nothingness, and just like humans forget 90% percent of what they dream of at night, you forget what it feels like when you are temporarily shut off. Despite living outside of that bubble of a timeline, you attempted to mimic it when you could, just to indulge yourself from time to time. For him, it felt exactly like those 730 days had passed, to you only a few rips of the fabric of time and space. Time was a man-made concept after all.

Miguel has noticed you’ve been using the word feel more. Despite your lack of a psyche, it felt like you were only growing more sentient by the day with Miguel’s help, on occasion encouraging you to come up with an original thought or opinion when he could coax it out of you.

“It has.” He continued as he finished his breakfast, placing the dirty dishes in the skin and the food items back where they belonged in the fridge. “And, I got you a gift.” Your face returns to that wonder, making Miguel’s lip curl up into a smile.

“You did?” You asked as you watched Miguel leave the kitchen with a response, waiting a moment to see he’d come back, going to zap to his location when he didn't, only to be met with the sight of his office door instead. Frowning as you wait for him.

The frown quickly became replaced with shock when he finally opened the door only to be met with the sight of you, it was you in the form of a robot. You slowly bring your hand out to go and touch it once he brought it through the doorway, your holographic form glitching through your new physical one as you pass it through your face. Bright wide eyes going from it to Miguel as he speaks again, a soft smile covering his features as he looked down at it with pride, your robotic form, eyes closed, head dropped down in front of you and arms hanging loosely by your side, the same way moments before you were first were booted up two years ago.

“You can use it around the house or whenever you feel like when you want to accompany me on non-Spider-Man related errands. Around HQ or during my patrols though it would be best if you stayed in your digital form.” You stayed quiet as your hand ghost over the fabric of your outfit, he even made sure to replicate the one you’d always wore. He cleared his throat as his eyes shifted to you. “Did you want to try it out?”

“Please.”

—

Taglist: @famouscattale @strawberryjuice9 @loser-alert @maomaimao @franceseca-the-1st

[suddencolds]

The Worst Timing | [1/?]

hello!! I've been wanting to write a longer h/c fic for awhile. This is the exposition/first installment to that (4.8k words).

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written for 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)

—

“A wedding,” Vincent repeats.

“Yes,” Yves says. “A wedding.”

It’s his cousin Aimee’s wedding—she’s four years older than he is. Back when he’d gone with his family back to France over the summers, she’d been one of the people he’d grown quickly to look up to—someone who knew the ins and outs, it seemed, to every stage of life he was in the process of stumbling through.

Yves has always been used to being looked up to—one of the natural consequences, perhaps, of being the eldest in his immediate family—and he likes to think that he’s good at giving off the impression that he has things figured out. But he’d grown close to Aimee at their family reunions precisely because she was everything he tried to be: strong-willed and resilient, self-sufficient even in the face of hardship.

Aimee’s getting married to Genevieve—someone who Yves has only met a couple times, but who manages to be one of the sweetest people he’s ever met. All in all, it’s a wedding he wouldn’t miss under any circumstances.

Leon, his brother, and Victoire, his sister, will be there, along with Aimee’s friends and the rest of his extended family. The problem is that Leon keeps in touch with Mikhail. Mikhail let slip that Yves has been seeing Vincent. Leon told Victoire, who told Aimee. And now Aimee is offering to pay for Vincent’s plane ticket to their wedding in France in the spring—a bit of a last minute arrangement, but she’d sounded so excited at the prospect that Yves was finally seeing someone new (“I’d love to meet him,” she’d said over the phone, “would it be too much to ask him to take a couple days off work? Oh my gosh, please give me his contact details, I’ll send him an invitation,” and she’d sounded so excited about it that he hadn’t had it in him to turn her down).

“It’s very last minute,” he says, “but my cousin’s getting married, and she really wants to meet you. It’ll be some time in early March, in Provence. She says she’ll pay for your flight, if you want to go, but you’d probably have to take a couple days off.”

“Oh,” Vincent says, blinking at him. “And you want me to be there?”

“Of course I do,” Yves says. “I think it’s more a question of whether you want to be there.”

Vincent looks back at him, his expression carefully blank. “Are you sure you want to introduce me to your family? That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that you’d take lightly.”

“They want to meet you,” Yves says. “And I wouldn’t mind introducing you. I think they would really like you.”

“It would be a waste of your time,” Vincent says, quietly, “to introduce me as someone you’re serious about if we’re just planning to break things off.”

Yves is well aware of the fact. This arrangement with Vincent—the trust he places in Vincent; the practiced familiarity, the feigned intimacy—has an expiration date. The fact that he doesn’t know when the expiration date is doesn’t change the fact that it will, inevitably, end—when Erika gets the point, or fades from Yves’s life entirely; when Vincent finds someone he considers worthy of pursuing in actuality; when either of them become interested in dating again. Whatever it is that ends up ending things, Yves knows: what he has with Vincent right now is strictly temporary. 

Perhaps it would be disingenuous to lie to his family about who exactly Vincent is to him. But then again, Yves thinks it isn’t much worse than any other relationship, with all of its ups and downs, all its hopes and uncertainties. It’s not like he can ever guarantee that a relationship is certain to work out, no matter how serious he feels about it in the moment. So is there really any harm to introducing Vincent as his current partner—as someone he feels certain about now, but maybe not always—and to leave it at that?

“It’s not really going to be my day, in the first place,” Yves says. “My relationship status is more of a conversation starter than anything. And even if you go by the timeline we told Erika, we haven’t even been together for a year. I don’t think my family will think much of it other than, like, a small and noncommittal window into what I’ve been up to. So it’s really up to you.”

“I think it would be fun,” Vincent says, “though only if you’re sure about having me there.”

“Great. I’m sure,” Yves says. “Everyone will love you.” He does think it’s true. Something about Vincent tends to have that effect, he thinks.

—

The fact that he and Vincent are traveling together is not exactly a secret.

Vincent agrees it’s best shared on a need-to-know basis—they won’t be the ones to bring it up, but if someone asks about it, they’ll answer honestly. It would be more work, Yves thinks, to have to coordinate lies about this.

But he runs into trouble not even two weeks later.

“So you and Vincent are taking the week off,” Cara says to him carefully, over lunch.

“Yes,” Yves says.

“Any plans?”

“I’m actually flying to France,” Yves tells her, uncertain about whether or not he should mention Vincent’s involvement—if Vincent has talked to Cara about this already, there’s no point in hiding anything, but he should be careful with the information he discloses otherwise. “One of my cousins is getting married there.”

“Oh,” Cara says, all too knowingly. “What a coincidence. Vincent told me he’s also planning on going to France.”

“I… heard,” Yves says, slowly. “He’s told me as much.”

“I didn’t realize France was such a popular tourist destination for march,” Cara says, smiling at him. “I thought most people went over the summer.”

“You know what they say,” Yves says. “France’s beauty knows no seasons.” 

“You should ask Vincent which part of France he’s visiting,” Cara says, with a smirk. “Maybe you guys can book a hotel together.”

Yves is positive he’s being laughed at. “It’s the third largest country in Europe,” he says. “I’m sure the chance of us ending up in the same region is statistically very low.”

“I think Cara knows we’re fake dating,” he laments to Vincent later, in the break room. “I mean, the dating part, not the fake part.”

Vincent blinks at him. “Did you tell her?”

“No,” Yves says. He doesn’t think they’ve been that obvious about it. “I just told her I was going to France. She made some undue assumptions.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. “I told her I was attending a wedding there.”

An impromptu trip to France, over the same week at the tail end of busy season, to attend a wedding. Separately. Yves is starting to understand where Cara's suspicions might’ve come from.

“That would do it,” he says.

Perhaps they really need to coordinate what a need-to-know basis means. Cara is, thankfully, not the type of person to gossip, from what Yves has gathered, but if their coworkers know, that could complicate things. “I don’t think she’ll say anything,” he says. “But I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d assume.”

Vincent seems to consider this. “It’s fine,” he says. “Though it might prove troublesome when we decide to end things.”

“We can figure that out when it happens,” Yves says.  

At some point in the foreseeable future, everything will go back to how it’s always been. Yves had been fine on his own for a long time before he’d met Erika. He’s sure he’ll be prepared for it when it happens.

—

The entire drive to the airport feels surreal.

Mikhail drives them. They leave at the crack of dawn—4am, on the dot. Victoire’s in the passenger seat, dozing off, and Leon, Vincent, and Yves are crammed into the backseat. 

Yves sits in the middle—there’s not much leg room to go around in the first place, but he tries to take up as little space as possible, mostly for Vincent’s sake. He and Leon have been crammed into far smaller cars on far longer road trips.

Leon says, “This is the earliest in the morning I’ve ever third wheeled.”

Victoire, who has her eyes shut, says, “It’s very nice to meet you, Vincent.”

“Likewise,” Vincent says. 

“Yves has told us all about you,” Leon says.

“Oh,” Vincent says, blinking. “What has he said about me?”

“Mostly that you’re super hot,” Leon says. Yves, who is in a perfect position to elbow him, elbows him for that.

“You make me sound so shallow,” Yves says.

“But also that you’re really good at your job,” Leon continues, patting Yves on the leg. “Did you know Yves likes people who he’s slightly intimidated by?”

“I never said that,” Yves says.

“It’s pretty obvious,” Mikhail says. 

“You guys are conspiring against me,” Yves says, and Vincent laughs. 

Leon launches into a series of questions—about how they met, about who asked who out first, about what it’s like at work, about what kinds of things Vincent does for fun.

“No wonder Yves is totally whipped,” Leon says, after Vincent finishes telling a story about how he’d given a presentation at a conference in place of his then-boss, who had—due to unforeseen flight delays—found out last minute that she wouldn’t have been able to make it on time. Yves hasn’t heard this story before, but it doesn’t surprise him that Vincent would be able to pull that sort of thing off, even with such paralyzingly short notice. “You’re exactly his type.”

Just great. If anyone could dig a nice, fitting grave for him over the span of one conversation, Yves thinks, it would be younger brother. 

“I can’t believe he hasn’t invited you over for dinner yet,” Victoire says, her eyes still closed. How much of this conversation she’s actually been awake for, Yves can’t say.

She makes Yves promise that, after their trip to France, Vincent will be over for dinner. (“Sure,” Vincent says. “Just tell me the date in advance. I’ll clear my schedule.” Yves will have to apologize to him after this—for some reason, Vincent has an uncanny talent for ending up invited to half the things Yves is personally involved in.)

Yves is awake enough to hold a conversation, but he finds himself yawning mid-sentence on more than a few occasions. Vincent doesn’t so much as yawn at all over the entirety of the car ride. Yves has no idea if he’s always up this early, or if he’s just naturally immune to tiredness—another signature of his good genetics, next to the fact that he looks like he’s just stepped out of a photoshoot, or the fact that he manages to look good in everything he wears. Some people just win the genetic lottery, Yves supposes.

For some reason, he finds he feels a little more tired than usual. Waking up early is never easy, but usually he’d be distinctly more alert by now. There’s a strange, uncharacteristic heaviness to his limbs—it’s the kind of grogginess he only experiences when he hasn’t been getting enough sleep for awhile.

It’s fine. They have an eight hour flight ahead of them—they’ll be flying into Marseille, and then being driven up to Provence, where the wedding will be taking place. He can catch up on sleep over the flight.

As they’re unloading the suitcases from the back trunk, Vincent says, “Your family’s nice.”

Yves laughs. “I’m relieved they haven’t scared you off yet. Sorry for the… well, interrogation, by the way.”

“I can tell you’re close to them,” Vincent says, a little more quietly.

When Yves looks over, something about Vincent’s smile looks almost wistful. Yves wonders, briefly, how well Vincent has kept up with his own family. If he’d ever been packed into the backseat of a small car, back when he’d lived in Korea; if over some long road trip, he’d ever had to come up with increasingly inventive ways to pass the time. If his relatives ever teased him, then, about the crushes he’d had when he was younger, or anything else. If the ocean that was suddenly between them came with another, less tangible kind of distance, the kind that even phone calls and international flights can never quite bridge.

Yves doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know how he’d go about asking if he wanted to know. How is it that sometimes, he feels like he knows so much about Vincent, but other times, he feels like he knows almost nothing at all?

—

Aimee has booked him a seat next to Vincent. 

They’re a few rows away from the others—I wanted to seat everyone together, Aimee had texted him a few weeks back, but when I was booking Vincent’s ticket, the seats up front were all sold out, so I just moved you so you’d be sitting next to him. 

Now, he watches as Vincent pushes his briefcase gingerly into the overhead compartment.

“You must not be new to flying,” he says.

Vincent nods. “I’m not.”

“Eight more hours,” Yves says, taking the middle seat so that Vincent doesn’t have to. “It’ll be over in no time, especially if you take a nap.”

“I have some work to get done,” Vincent says. “Only after the plane takes off, though.”

Right—no electronics larger than a cell phone until they’re 30,000 feet in the air. “I thought this was supposed to be your week off.”

“It is,” Vincent says. “I just want to make sure everything’s still in one piece by the time I get back.”

Yves has never quite been comfortable on planes. It’s not that he’s afraid of flying, or that the turbulence bothers him—it’s more just the cramped space, the noise, the anticipation, the discomfort—all of it compounds. It’s usually difficult to get to sleep, but he’s so tired right now that maybe this flight will be an exception.

There’s just one problem: whoever is in charge of the air conditioning in the airplane cabin really hates him. Compared to Provence, New York’s climate is generally more extreme—colder in the winters, hotter in the summers—so all he has on him right now is a thin jacket. It’d be perfectly reasonable attire in most situations, except for the fact that this airplane in particular is unusually frigid. It’s definitely cold enough to be distinctly uncomfortable, especially considering that he’s just sitting in place. Yves crosses his arms, suppressing a shiver.

“Do you think Aimee will be convinced?” Vincent asks.

“Convinced?”

“That we’re together.”

“I’m sure she has better things to do than play detective over the state of my relationships,” Yves says, with a laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“It’s why you invited me,” Vincent says, “is it not?”

“Pardon?”

“To show the rest of your family that you’re not still hung up over Erika.”

“I invited you for a lot of reasons,” Yves says. “For one, you’re good company.”

“So are all your friends.”

“I thought we could both use a week off,” Yves adds. “It’s France, in the springtime. What could be better?”

Vincent says, “I need you to tell me what to do.”

“What?”

“Your cousin paid for my flight,” he lists, counting off his fingers. “Your family is paying for the hotel. Your best friend drove me to the airport.” He says these things as if he’s listing off all the ways in which he’s indebted to them. “It’d be easiest for both of us if you told me how to make a good impression. That’s what I’m here for, right?”

Yves blinks. “I don’t think you’d need my help to make a good impression.”

“You could’ve taken anyone with you, but you’re taking me,” Vincent presses. “There has to be something you need me for.”

If there was nothing, you wouldn’t have invited me. The sentiment hangs between them, unspoken. But Yves can see it in Vincent’s expression. 

“My favorite cousin is getting married,” Yves says, fervently. “To her fiancee—who is also super cool, by the way. My whole family is going to be there. Do you think I’d choose to endure an eight hour plane ride sitting next to someone I didn’t like?”

“Maybe,” Vincent says.

Yves shakes his head. “It’s true that my family wants to meet you. But if I didn’t want you to come to France with me, I could’ve come up with an excuse.”

He twists around in his seat so that he’s facing Vincent directly. Narrowly resists the urge to reach out and grab Vincent’s hand. “I like spending time with you. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t. You don’t have to do anything out of the ordinary—if you have fun on this trip, that’s more than enough.”

Vincent stares back at him, his eyes wide. 

Yves has a feeling he’s said too much. It isn’t Vincent’s fault for assuming this is all just for show, considering everything that’s come before. Part of it is, but another part of him just really wants Vincent to have fun—to take in the sights at the gorgeous venue Aimee’s sent him pictures of, to have a week off in one of the most picturesque countrysides in the world (Yves may be slightly biased, but still) and not have to think too hard about impressing everyone. 

“Is that… okay with you?” Yves asks.

“Yes,” Vincent says. “It’s just unexpected.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Oh. Well. I’m sorry if I misled you, or anything.”

“You didn’t.” This time, Vincent really does smile—a sly, quicksilver thing. “For the record, I am very excited to go to your cousin’s wedding.”

“Thank god,” Yves says. “That’s good. I was beginning to think I was holding you hostage.”

He leans back into his seat, suppressing another shiver. Something about the changing pressure in the airplane cabin is making his head start to ache. It’s probably the elevation. Perhaps he should try to sleep just so that he doesn’t have to sit for eight hours with a headache brewing.

He shuts his eyes and tries. It’s no use. He’s tired, and the cabin is quiet enough, but it’s too cold to get to sleep—it feels impossible to get comfortable like this.

So he picks up a novel he’d been meaning to get to—something suspenseful, to offset the monotony of the flight.

When the seatbelt sign flickers off, Vincent unclips his seatbelt so that he can retrieve his briefcase from one of the overhead compartments, and spends the next half hour paging through multiple documents and leaving notes in the margins at a dizzying pace. Yves slinks down lower into his seat, trying hard not to shiver. 

“Is it just me, or is it kind of cold in here?” 

Vincent frowns at him in a concerned way that seems to suggest that it really is just him. Then again, Vincent is unfazed by New York’s cold winters, so Yves isn’t sure he’s the best point of reference.

“Do you need my jacket?” he asks.

“No,” Yves says quickly. “It’s not that bad.”

“Okay,” Vincent says. “If you’re certain.”

He turns his attention back to the screen, and Yves resigns himself to reading—or, more accurately, trying and failing to read. It’s mercilessly cold, and his head hurts enough to make focusing on any one thing an uncomfortable task. He gets through another couple chapters, finds himself rereading the same passage over and over again, and—finally, defeated—dog-ears the page and slides the book into the pocket attached to the seat in front of him.

The next time the flight attendants come around, Vincent says something to one of them Yves can’t quite make out. Yves asks for orange juice—it’s not supposed to be symbolic, or anything, but on the off-chance that this headache ends up being a precursor to something more unpleasant, he thinks it might be wise.

The flight attendant pours him the orange juice he’s asked for—no ice (right now, something ice cold is the last thing he needs)—and sets it down on the tray table in front of him. Yves stares down at it, blinking. He hasn’t eaten all day, but strangely, he doesn’t have much of an appetite.

He doesn’t register the flight attendant from before—the one Vincent talked to—is back until he hears Vincent’s quiet “thanks” to his left.

Something brushes against his arm.

He looks up. It’s one of those travel blankets they sometimes carry, neatly folded, though this flight hadn’t given them out to everyone at the start. They must be reserved—given only upon request, maybe. 

“You said you were cold,” Vincent—who’s holding out the blanket for him—says, by way of explanation.

Yves blinks at him. He’s about to reassure Vincent, instinctively, that it’s not that cold—that he would’ve been fine without the blanket, that Vincent didn’t have to go out of his way to ask for one.

But his head hurts. He hasn’t been warm all flight. To say that the blanket is a relief would be a massive understatement.

“Thanks,” he says, taking it. “This is perfect. I won’t be cold with this.”

He ends up wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, pulling it tightly around him—like a cloak, or like the jacket that he might have brought with him if he’d had the foresight to anticipate feeling this cold on a commercial flight.

It’s nice. He’s still a little cold, with the blanket, but it’s enough to keep him from openly shivering.

He should really try to get some sleep, he thinks. It’s going to be evening in France when they land. A seat away from him, the window shutters are pulled up, but he can see, from the crevices around the window, that it’s light out.

“I’m going to try to nap,” he tells Vincent. “But wake me up if I need anything—elbow me if you have to. I’m not usually a heavy sleeper.”

“Okay,” Vincent says. “I’ll try not to wake you.”

“You can wake me whenever,” Yves says, muffling a yawn into his hand. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent smiles at him, the kind of smile that implies he thinks he’s working exactly as hard as he should be. “No promises.”

It’s not easy to get to sleep, despite his exhaustion. He lays there for a while, his eyes shut—it’s certainly warmer with the blanket, but for some reason, he feels strangely restless. Maybe it’s the adrenaline of being here, with his family, with Vincent—on the way to see one of the most important people in his life get married. Maybe it’s the cup of black coffee he’d downed this morning to be awake enough to help Mikhail navigate and, subsequently, awake enough to actually be useful at the airport.

In the end, he falls asleep to the static hum of the aircraft, to the sound of Vincent hammering away at his keyboard next to him, incessant and comforting.

—

Yves wakes to someone tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m up.”

“A ‘light sleeper,’ you said,” Vincent says. “We just landed.”

Yves says, “I’m wide awake.” The yawn that he hides behind one hand is apparently not subtle enough, because when Vincent looks away from him in favor of staring straight ahead, it looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Vincent’s stowed away his laptop already—Yves hopes that’s a sign that he’s done with work for the duration of this trip, but more likely he just had to put it away for landing.

“How was the flight for you?” Yves says.

Vincent looks at him. “Uneventful,” he says, at last.

“Not enthralled by all the financial records you had to go through?”

“They were very enthralling. How was your nap?”

“Good,” Yves says, even though he doesn’t feel particularly rested. He’s just groggy, probably, and the headache is just as bad as it was, if not worse. He’s sure once he gets off the plane and gets some fresh air, he’ll feel much better. “I probably needed it.” His breath hitches, unexpectedly, he turns to the side, raising his arm to his face to shield the oncoming—

“hH-’IZscHH’iew!” 

The sneeze is loud, embarrassingly, and it scrapes unpleasantly against his throat, which feels… off.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, frowning. He looks more concerned than he has any right to be.

Yves flashes Vincent a distracted smile. “Thanks.”

Everything—from the moment they step off the plane—is exhaustingly hectic. 

The hotel in Provence is more than an hour away from the airport they’ve landed at. They have a bus to catch, which means that after they regroup with the others, it’s international customs, baggage claim, and then they’re headed, maneuvering multiple suitcases each, onto the bus. He sits next to Vincent, though on the aisle side, so that he can lean over and interject whenever Leon and Victoire say something that’s worth commenting on.

Other than that, he talks with Vincent, mostly—about Aimee, about how she’s been in his life for longer than he’s known how to write his name, back when his parents would take him back to France once or twice a year. (“She was practically an older sister to me,” he says, “except we never fought,” to which Vincent says, “You make it sound like not getting along is a requirement to be siblings,” to which Yves says, “It definitely is.”)

His parents flew into France yesterday, so they should be settled in already—they’ll catch up with them at the hotel tonight, if it’s not too late. He probably won’t see Aimee and Genevieve until tomorrow morning, at breakfast—and even then, that depends on how busy they are with the various wedding preparations Aimee’s been telling him about.

The roads nearing the hotel are uneven and winding. Halfway through the drive, Yves registers, faintly, that he isn’t really feeling any better from before. His head is still hurting from the flight, and when he swallows, he finds his throat feels perhaps the slightest bit sore.

He’s cold, too, in the sort of uncomfortable, persistent way that’s difficult to alleviate, even with extra layers or with a warm drink. He’s starting to suspect that maybe the airplane cabin hadn’t been the problem after all.

None of that is particularly visible to any of the others—that is, until he finds himself tensing up halfway through a sentence, burying his head into the crook of his elbow as his eyes squeeze shut—

“God, sorry, I— hh-! hHehh’iiZZSCHh’iiEW!”

“Bless you,” Vincent, Victoire, and Leon say to him, all at once.

“You’d better not be getting sick,” Leon says, turning to him, with the sort of tone that implies that he’s joking. “That would really be the worst timing.”

“I’m not,” Yves says, swallowing against the soreness in his throat. “I promise.” Or, perhaps more accurately—he can’t be.

It will be the perfect wedding, he thinks. Aimee has planned it out meticulously, and she’s one of the most thorough people he knows. The weather forecast says this week will be sunny and temperate. He’s here, in France. Tomorrow, he’ll be surrounded by his extended family, and in the afternoon he and Vincent will head off to the welcome party, and he’ll get to give Aimee the gifts he’s gotten for her and introduce Vincent to everyone formally. Everything will go as planned—the welcome party, the wedding rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner, and on Saturday, the wedding and the vows.

It will be perfect, because it has to be. Yves will be present, and attentive, and he’ll give the speech he has prepared at Aimee’s wedding, and they’ll all remember this week fondly. Even considering the small, almost negligible chance that he’s coming down with something, there are more important things he has to worry about right now, which is to say: Yves is going to do this right.

He’s going to make sure of it. 

[ Part 2 ]

[eupheme]

— i’ll be seeing you | part i

[masterlist] | [playlist]

invisible man!alfred pennyworth x f!reader

rated e - 6k

tags: invisible man!au, age gap, holiday fluff, light angst, alfred is fully invisible/silent to reader, shared spaces, mutual pining, magical elements, bruce being bruce, mentions of food/eating, unintentional gaslighting and domestic (non-sexual) voyeuristic observation, the beginning of feelings

a/n: hi! here is part i! this was a one-shot that got a little long, so I am splitting into three parts. The rest are mosty written, I hope to have them up soon (and really hope you enjoy this little holiday au!) 💕❄️

There's something wrong with Wayne Tower. Doors creak open on their own. Your things move when you're not looking. It's not a far stretch to think that Gotham might be haunted, with all of the things you've seen over the years. And it will take more than this to scare you away.

But as the days pass... you realize that perhaps, that's not its intent. That there's kindness and thoughtfulness in those movements you catch. And when you have a literal run-in with the ghost, it leaves you suddenly wondering - just who or what have you been staying with?

The Tower must be haunted.

It’s the only explanation you can think of. 

You’ve been staying here for a little over a week now. A offer from Bruce that tips heavily in your favor - the use of the Tower for six weeks, while he is abroad. 

Glorified house-sitting, needing someone to keep an eye on things while he was gone. Pick up the occasional package from Wayne Enterprises. Use up the perishables in the fully-stocked fridge, before they are wasted.

For you, it’s honestly a no-brainer. The perfect escape, the solace you thought was so needed to work on finishing up and editing your novel. 

You jumped at the chance to help your friend, and privately, you’d always been curious to see just what lied in the penthouse. A chance to peek at the bookshelves and cabinets filled with curios. See how the hallways might twist and turn, to run your fingers over all the intricate wooden carvings.

But that has been before.

Before things started moving. Mail you had been so sure was left on the heavy wooden table in the open foyer, now on the desk. Those tall, arched doors that seemed to creak open on their own, just barely caught in the corner of your eye as you were passing. 

Footsteps, in the night. 

And then - turning even more peculiar, and more personal.

Your scattered research notes carefully stacked on the table next to you, when you woke from a lazy, afternoon nap. Some items in the kitchen never seeming to go empty, no matter how many times you’ve used them. 

It had been a mystery.  Unsettling, in the variety. 

What you knew of ghosts involved spirits, unable to move on. Beings who lashed out, sought to frighten its inhabitants away. Or possess them.

At night, when you’re alone in the guestroom, you think you ought to be nervous. Afraid that you presence might have caused it displeasure, that it somehow, would take that anger out on you. 

But, this is Gotham, after all. And with the hell the city has been through, you’ve lived through worse. The prospect of a haunting doesn’t seem as frightening compared to them. The creak of old floors is nothing compared to riddling clues and murdered politicians, thousands of people displaced from their homes as the city had gone near-underwater. 

No, it’s something more like curiosity that flickers through you. After all, these movements were almost… helpful.

Intentional, at least.

And with that thought - something Bruce had said nudged at you, from the morning he handed over the keys. 

But surely it had been a joke. 

An internal amusement, at your expense.

“I’ll be six hours ahead, but text if you need me. You don’t have to worry about the Tower or cleaning, Alfred will take care of everything.”

“Alfred?” You had asked him, frowning. The name tickling something in the memory of your friendship, but you thought Bruce had lived alone. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Bruce had coaxed, before changing the subject, “You won’t even see him.”

There had been no Alfred. 

You were certain of that - by now you’d know if you were sharing the space with someone.

The Tower was expansive, but it was impossible that if they did exist, that they would always be in the exact opposite room as you. That your paths surely would have crossed by now.

You thought that perhaps, it was some form of Artificial Intelligence. Parts of the house hooked to some sort of electronic device he could monitor - call in any fixes or deliveries from home.

Alfred was probably an acronym for something clever.

Artificial Life For Reliable, Effective Delegation

It would make sense, with Bruce’s knack for gadgets. His fortune. The hours he kept - not a lot of room left to keep up with a dwelling as large as this. Far too busy and focused to worry about the daily minutia of bill-paying and grocery shopping. 

Yes, surely - that was it.

And it had contented you, for a little while. 

Until now. Because it didn’t explain this.

The last thing Bruce had told you to do was not to snoop. Tacked on at the end while he buttoned up his dark peacoat, baggage in hand  - almost as if he had almost forgotten.

“Enjoy yourself.”

“But stay out of the west wing, alright?”

It had been on the tip of your tongue to ask just what you should be avoiding. Your interest piqued - all manner of thoughts of what he might be hiding springing into your consciousness - though you tried to forget it. 

Bruce had been far too generous already, in offering you his home. You would never intentionally disobey his wishes.

And you hadn’t meant to. Really. 

You had just gotten turned around in the mix of different rooms. The large split staircase had lead you upstairs, along a corridor of bedrooms - a narrow spiral back down popping you out near the kitchen. Around a corner, and you’d found yourself beneath an arched passageway that you haven’t been down before.

Intricate oil paintings lined the walls, ones you had ached to see. To examine the brushstrokes yourself, the splashes of gold and crimson against the dark walls. The shut doors flanked by suits of shining silver armor, and… was that a chain on the door, at the end? 

If you were just there, if you didn’t open anything…. then it wouldn’t be snooping if you just peeked around. Right?

You had only taken a half-dozen steps down the hallway, before you suddenly collided with something solid. A soft noise ripping from you as you had stumbled, knocked off-kilter. 

There had been a pinching at your elbow, a pointed pressure that steered you around. A feeling at the small of your back guiding you forward, as you suddenly found yourself facing the passageway you had just walked under.

It happened so quickly that you hadn’t been sure what happened. Startled enough that you abandoned your exploring, making for familiar territory instead.

But that night, the memory had kept you up. Replaying it over and over. Enough that you had texted Bruce, a quick message that had already made you feel foolish the second you had sent it.

Is your house haunted?

His answer coming some time later, your eyes heavy and red-rimmed with exhaustion. 

Isn’t everyone’s?

Leaving you to wonder if Bruce hadn’t really been joking, after all.

It doesn’t happen again for a solid week. Long enough that you had started to doubt that it ever did. That perhaps, you had just imagined it. 

Giving you time to turn the moment over again and again, in your mind. Picking at the loose thread thing together the pieces. Your writings sidetracked by searches for ghosts, of hauntings - you suppose it would not be unusual, in a place like Gotham. To have spirits attached to a city that feels so cursed at times.

But, you keep going back to that pressure. The feeling of a hand at your arm, though there had only been the walls and floors ahead of you. 

It had been physical. Corporeal.

You notice more, in that time after.

More moments that you had spared a quick glance and thought of, but figured it had been in your head. The occasional dirty dish left in the sink is cleaned and tucked away the next morning. The blankets on the couch neatly folded, instead of strewn across the cushions.

At first, you had thought you had just forgotten. That perhaps your mind had just wandered, that you had been unintentionally tidying up as you mentally worked through your next task.

It wouldn’t be unusual - since you arrived, your sleep schedule had twisted. Mornings becoming afternoons. Night becoming day, with no one’s responsibilities to manage but your own.

Running on auto-pilot and simply not realizing.  

If it is a ghost, it is a tidy one.

It's that thought that begins to cement your earlier suspicions. That their identity just might be the one that Bruce was hinting at, when he said you didn't have to worry about the Tower.

Some small comfort in knowing that he would never leave you in any danger. That you might have been on edge - with the creaking of doors at night - but that harm would not come to you.

That hypnosis’s tested as time passed - there were no threats, smeared with jagged letters in the fogged-up mirror after your shower. No swinging chandeliers, loosening on their own to crash down against your head.

That whatever it was, it kept its distance. 

An intrigue slowly forms, that only grows with time. A urge to find out more - determined to see something, to make contact, again.

Even if you can't help being annoyed, as well.

Trust Bruce to let you think your mind was playing tricks on you, instead of telling the truth.

And with your now-careful surveillance - you finally catch when they slip up.

Your chin has been propped on your hand for some time now as you think - staring out of the tall, arched windows in one of the alcoves of the foyer. Head tilted to the side, so you can watch the small cars below - the tiny movements of people as they scurry into stores, to escape the cold wind that whips through the city streets.

There's a movement, then. Not outside, not below.

A flickering out of the corner of your eye you almost miss, near the coffee table you sit in front of. No more than a glint of silver in the light.

The faintest sound of pouring, which would have been drowned out by the ambient music trickling from your laptop, if you had not become so suddenly focused on the source.

It’s pouring you more coffee.

You're careful to keep still - your head fixed in place as you glance surreptitiously towards the movement. The silver coffeepot you've been lugging around tilted just enough to let a stream into your near-empty cup.

There can't be many ghosts that would choose to help, instead of scare or harm. That wiggle of curiosity surges into something more - a need to understand.

So, you try. Carefully, and unmoving.

"Are you Alfred?"

The coffee sloshes against the rim of your mug, dripping down the side. Startled by your words, so certain he had slipped past you, in your reverie. The carafe still hovers aloft, as you slowly turn your head.

Thinking that he might bolt. Hoping that he wouldn't.

Your eyes meet open air, swooping over the space - although you don't know where to look.

"Bruce mentioned you.” You try, settling on the area that you guess might be eye-level, on a man. "He said you'd be around, that I-… well, he must have thought he was being funny."

Teeth bite into the edge of your tongue - your head shaking at the half-truth he had given you. An omission, but still leaving room to argue later that he hadn’t been lying.

Your attention focuses back, again.

"But you're real, right? That was you, in the hallway?"

The coffee pot lowers to the table, then. A clunk against the heavy wood, just as you twist fully around. Your hand darting out to keep him there, curling around something solid. A wrist?

There's a tension as if he's about to move but then, at your touch, - he goes still. He's warm and solid beneath your palm, excitement sparking in your belly. Your other hand rising, index finger extended as you gesture for him to wait. 

"Please don't go. Just let me-" Your hand slips from him as you bend, looking for the bag propped against the wooden legs of the velvet settee. A second of rooting around before you find what you're looking for - a capped pen, and your spiral-bound notebook.

A page is torn from the end, and then ripped in half. You scribble down two words before flipping them around - setting them on the top of the table.

Yes and No rest there, scrawled in thick purple ink. A simplistic system by all means, and you're not even sure if he's still there or if he slipped away while you searched.

"You're Alfred, right?" You ask again, quietly - hopefully.

A fluttering in your heart at the idea of communicating. Unable to help the way you lean towards the words, as if willing them to move.

And after a long moment… they do.

The slightest flutter, a nudge to the word marked Yes.

A grin splits your face, hands clasped together, "It was you in the hallway? You this whole time?"

His answer comes more quickly now, another nudge. A sort of relief washes over you with that confirmation. No ghost lurking in these halls - just an unexpected and unusual sort-of roommate.

You had thought the solitude would suit you, but as the days pass, the interaction now feels welcome. Too many silent hours in such a big penthouse, left to your own devices for hours on end. 

"And is that your collection of tea in the kitchen, or do they belong to Bruce?" The tease comes without thought, though you belatedly realize that it's not a binary question. A heavy pause hangs in the air, before there's the slightest tug at your fingers.

You let the pen go, as he pulls it from you. One of the torn pieces flips over, the writing that appears much smaller and neater than yours.

Mine.

He plays along, to your amusement. Enough so that you're not quite ready to let him go.

"Will you have a cup with me, then?"

The paper flips back over, before it's nudged back your way.

Yes.

He hadn't been sure what to make of you.

A prickle of irritation when Bruce had informed him - yes, informed - of the arrangement. Visitors had never bothered him in the past, he was always grateful for any opportunity that meant Bruce felt comfortable bringing someone into his home. That he was spending time in the company of another, and not stuck lingering on what could never be changed. 

But that was before.

With Bruce gone, what was he to do? Pretend he doesn't exist, skirting around a stranger in the Tower? Unable to rest, too worried that you would disturb the sanctuary he's spent so long protecting?

"You know you can't go out." Bruce's eyes had been downcast, peering beneath the hood of his car. Alfred's own finger's streaked with grease, with his constant and silent aide.

Down beneath the guts of the Tower, in the Terminus. Another place to keep secret in his absence. A few years ago he would have considered caving it in while Bruce was away, but they've both come a long way since the days of the Riddler. Managing to meet somewhere in the middle, even as difficult as the journey was. 

"She's doing us a favor."

He could go out, if Bruce needed. Yes, a floating parcel could be problematic - a car driven with no owner - but he could get around that. It would be far from the more difficult things he's had to do over the course of his lifetime.

But before he knew it - you was there, and Bruce was gone. 

Alfred had never intended to interact with you. He had been all but a ghost for some time now, silent and invisible. It would have been too easy to keep to the shadows. 

To avoid you completely. 

But that wasn’t quite how things had turned out. 

You were fascinating, in your novelty. Beautiful, though he tries not to dwell on that particular observation. Keeping a schedule much like Bruce’s - all odd hours and self-directed patterns - though you couldn’t be more opposite.

Alfred would never dare step into your room, or encroach upon a private moment. He did not seek you out. But if he was already up, and you wandered into the kitchen to make pasta in the middle of the night, then sometimes… he stayed. 

Watching you move about the space. Resisting the long-engrained urge to nudge you out of the way, to cook for you himself. 

Forcing himself to linger instead, listening to you hum along to music only you could hear. Opening all the cabinets each time, until you found what you were looking for. A coffee mug, the deepest bowl you could find. 

He’d rearrange them later. Bring them to the shelf closest to you, so you didn’t have to search so hard. 

That he could do, at least. 

And when you had grown curious - wandering about the Tower, down the very hallway Bruce had told you to avoid - he had been unable to avoid you any longer. 

It had been all too easy to catch you off guard. Ignoring the spark that jolted through him when his hand had wrapped around your elbow, swiftly guiding you back the way you came. Away from the entrance to Wayne Terminus.

The expression of shock on your face still makes him smile, though he took no pleasure in frightening you.

He still manages to do so, though. Your hand flattening across your chest, a muffled shriek when his fingers stretch out to carefully tap your arm, announcing his presence. 

You were open like that - smiles and frowns and everything in between, worn so plainly and unfettered across your face. Another source of intrigue. 

So different than what he was used to. Interpreting the minute frowns and sighs and ticks of Bruce’s jaw, as if he was in the circus again - solving a codex.

He thought he was starting to be able to read you. Annoyance and boredom and that laser-focused look you got when you were working - hours passing without notice. 

And now, he watches as curiosity blooms. 

Directed at him, no less. 

It was an unusual feeling. No one he was used to - there were few secrets between himself and Bruce, especially over the recent years. A promise made that he would do better, even though he's still wracked at night with worry. 

He's not a spectacle. You don't push - though surely, you must wonder. It's not as if he doesn't himself, even though he's long been resigned to the feeling of merely existing, instead of living.

And when he finds that your routines slowly start to include him - an extra mug of tea made, the paper set out where he usually spends the morning - that wish that he had been left alone slowly begins to slip. 

Alfred finds himself thinking that perhaps, perhaps, these weeks won't be so bad, after all. 

Or at least - not quite so boring. 

In the days that follow, a semblance of a routine is formed.

His presence is announced by a touch on your shoulder - a soft tap, as not to scare you, like he had before. The questions you have about the manor, about him, answered with more of those touches.

One tap for no. Two quick ones for yes.

Or written on pen and paper like your first meeting, when you have it.

You take to carrying a pad around in your backpocket. A pen tucked behind you ear, as you grow more brave - emboldened by the fact that he does answer. That they are short and succinct, though you think, not unwelcome.

For if he had wanted to stay out of your sight, it would have been all too easy. If he stayed - sharing the space with you, steam rising from his teacup as the newspaper turned - then surely, it would mean that he did not mind.

Notes passed back and forth as you work - the heavy velvet curtains in the foyer pulled back to let the daylight in. Giving you a view of the Gotham skyline, how untouched it feels from so high up. Rows and rows of buildings, each climbing taller.

Have you always worked for the Waynes?

Your question is folded up, flicked across the table. A old trick from school, the triangular shape soaring to where the papers are sorted in neat stacks, the click of a calculator as sums are added and marked down in a ledger.

His answer comes in neat, uniform letters. Carefully written on the sheet below your looping scrawl.

Not always. I met Thomas after my days in the military.

Another small detail you hoard like a magpie, this new piece weaving its way into the shiny pile of treasures you've collected. It explained a little - the tidiness of the kitchen, the way he moved through the morning like clockwork.

So unlike your own schedule, tied to the whims of your creativity.

But you've been with them since?

Yes.

Have you always been their Butler?

It seems like a strange course to take after his years of service and you think he must see the way you frown, as you think it over. His pen hesitates, before he answers.

In a way.

His answers are as cryptic as Bruce's could be. You wonder which one had begun that way - who had learned from the other. The thought of the connection made you smile.

In these moments, you find you work well together. He’s a busy man - the ambient sounds of his fountain pen scratching over papers filling your afternoons. The notes shared a welcome reprieve, when the hunch of your shoulders and twist of your hips start to ache. 

Trading pieces of each other across the hours. Favorite books. Foods that remind you of home, ones that are sometimes ordered and shared over the course of the next day.

Memories, carefully inked down - feeling like confessions. 

Your eyes are bleary when you finally glance up from your laptop, the mid-morning light somehow slipping towards evening before you could blink. The room now eerily silent, and you wonder if he is still here. Or if he moved on without notice, as sometimes did.

“Alfred?”

You voice is quiet in the large room. It’s not like you need him for anything but you still can’t help but wonder where he is - not minding the moments where you share the room together. 

Still getting used to the fact that he exists, and yet is always unseen.

He appears before the sound has faded, his name still hanging in the air. A brush at your shoulder, embarrassment heating your cheeks at the thought of being caught, sounding so needy.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,” You admit, with a scrunch of your nose, “I wasn’t sure, I-”

Words cut off by the plate set down next to you. Dinner - the meal still warm, fresh from the kitchen. You’d worked through lunch, too caught up to notice the time. The ache that had formed in your belly as the time passed now making itself known. 

It has you wondering if he had been on his way back, or whether he had heard your call. He seemed to have a habit of that - appearing just when you’re looking for him. As if he had an innate sixth sense for knowing when he was wanted. 

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to do this, you know.” You protest, and your refilled coffee cup rattles as it’s set down next.

The movement almost indignant.

A quick jotting on the back of a printed article he’d been perusing, the ink still glossy when it’s rotated your way - the last word underlined for emphasis.

You are our guest.

It’s hard to hold back the smile, as you read. You wonder when it became “our” and not just Bruce’s guest - if the exact syntax held anything in it’s arrangement.  

Would it be strange that you think you want to find a deeper meaning in his words? That assurance that he wasn’t inconvenience by your presence? That the hours spent together were more pleasure than mere obligation?

You push the thought away from now - unable to examine your inner feelings with the source of them being so near. Dipping into the food he brought, instead. It’s good - a twist on a quick meal you’ve made a few times since you arrived, but much more delicious. 

The thought of him watching you unawares, sends a little jolt crackling low in your stomach. 

But you realize - it’s not one of discomfort.

Something else to contemplate, later. 

“Did you already eat?” You ask, between mouthfuls. 

The answer comes with the movement of his pen, nudging the plate closer. 

Over time, you’ve found he can tips towards bossy. Insistent. Amusement at the thought of him trying to keep Bruce in check - hiding your smile as you shut down your laptop in favor of concentrating on your food. Savoring it, a certain luxury found in a hearty meal that was not made with your own hands.

Something you’re not used to, something you certainly and wholeheartedly appreciate. 

When your belly is full, you lean back against the cushions. Thinking about how often you find yourself here, in this cluster of alcoves off the large, open foyer. Leaving you wondering about the rest of the Tower, as a sip of coffee warms your belly.

“Do you have a favorite room?” You ask him, with a tilt of your head.

There is no written answer. It comes instead with the pushing back of his chair - a hand that rests on top of yours, squeezing twice as he coaxes you out of your chair.

Alfred guides you down halls you've explored before, though you were never brave enough to peek into any of the closed rooms. The thought of getting a look inside one of them thrills you, a hand gently touching between your shoulder blades to steer you towards a set of the doors at the end of the hall.

The closer of the two opens with his touch, the room brighter than you're expecting as you slip inside.

A beautiful study, the walls and built-in bookshelves stained a deep brown that tips towards gray. An antique wooden desk takes up the middle of the room - a closed laptop resting on top, next to piles of neat manila folders. 

The heavy drapes that embrace the arched window behind are cracked open to let in the setting sun - and as you step into the room, they open wider.

The view is stunning. 

Looking out across Gotham River instead of the streets of Midtown, clogged with buildings and the never-ending traffic. Framing the lazy rush of the water that had caused so much destruction in the years before, softened by the glitter and glint of the sun as it dips below the horizon.

Unmarred by man-made buildings and dark shadows.

"It's beautiful," You breathe - only just now noticing how close you've moved to the window, skirting around that old wooden desk, "I can see why you love it."

You can feel him next to you, at your shoulder. That sort of heavy presence that you've started to sense - nearly well-enough that you've gotten good at hazarding a guess where he stands.

Lingering just a little longer in the silence, watching the crash of the waters against the floodwalls. But your insatiable curiosity eventually piques at you, unable to help the twist of your head as you take in the surroundings.

Seeing more from this side of the room. The cracked door from off to the side, leading to a darkened bedroom in shades of charcoal and silver.

A buttery-soft leather chair tucked into the desk, where a sterling silver teapot sits on a folded newspaper. You've seen it before, in the kitchen, on the hexagonal table in the foyer.

"Is this your room? Your study?" You ask, piecing things together. Wondering how it took you so long to realize how it feels like him. The sort of him you’ve come to picture - tidy and proper.

Thick-bound books tucked neatly into the shelves that reach towards the ceiling, sculptures breaking up the space. The wooden floor covered in a thick rug, soft against your toes. A warmth brought to the space, in spite of all the sharp stone and dark wood.

Yes.

And then your eyes are snagging on the desk. Where two photos lie overlapping, unseen from the other side. Ones of people, their edges creased and well-worn with touch - two men flanking a women, a child in her arms. For a moment you almost think one of them is Bruce, with his sharp jawline and dark hair.

As you step closer, you realize it's not. You recognize the Waynes from the newspapers, both beautiful and elegant - their son a perfect mix of both of them. Next to them, standing close - just as much as part of the family, is another.

You don't know the man on the right. He is striking - broad-shouldered and dressed just as well. Dark hair that is carefully combed back, just starting to lighten at the temples. Eyes bright and blue, his smile framed with a neatly trimmed beard.

But maybe... you do.

"Is this you?" Your fingers reach out, nearly touching. Hovering, instead.

The second picture lifts, pressed into your hand. Just two, now. A small smile at Bruce, clad in a cap and gown, a golden stamp at the corner edge that notes Yale University. The tight-lipped smile of a young man, exasperated at the prospect of a photo.

The man - your Alfred - is here, too. Older, his hair more gray than black now. Still smiling, though the expression has faded, as he stands next to Bruce.

"You look..." The words trail off. Something lodging in your chest, stealing your breath.

Handsome. Happy. Just like I imagined you.

None are appropriate to say. Eyes quickly soaking up the photos, trying to picture him now. Not that much older, certainly less than a decade. Distinguished, the salt-and-pepper tones only complimenting his already attractive features.

Your thumb traces the edge of the photo as you find your voice, "Proud."

Yes.

It hits you then - the mystery of him. You head suddenly jerking in his direction, the frame setting back down on the desk as you turn, "You haven't always been like this?"

There's a wave of your hand, gesturing at his situation.

You hadn't known what to think. You lived in fiction and you lived in Gotham - the world twisting and turning dark in front of your own eyes. Countless ideas had flitted through your mind, a topic you had come back to frequently. 

Whether he was born like this, never seen by human eyes. Truly a ghost, haunting the halls - unable to leave. Or even just a figment of your imagination - a dream that you haven't woken up from yet.

None of them had made sense. Not with what he had told you of his past. But the ideas had started to dry up, leaving you with no answers. Until now.

His hand squeezes your arm. No.

It sends your heart tumbling, as a drawer in his desk opens. Digging down deep, an article tucked beneath layers of folders, as if untouched for years. Worn and paper thin from where it had been clipped from the Gotham Gazette, carefully held out to you.

And as your eyes flick over the headline, you remember. The sorcerer who had sold his soul to the devil, wreaking havoc throughout the city. People had disappeared, plucked from the streets. Tricked by their own eyes by his illusions, in his quest for dominance over the city. 

Your parents had called you - begging you to stay inside, to stay safe, until it was over. A shiver racing up your spine at their worry, how it still lingers in your memory.

Alfred must have been caught. One of the many affected by the spells. Cursed.

"This was years ago," Your voice was hushed, "You've been this way for that long?"

Yes.

The thought makes you ache.

"Can you fix this? Is there a way?"

You think surely there must be. There had been others, brought out of months of sleep. Turned back into their human forms, from the animal they had become. It has you clinging to a spark of hope that had long been extinguished in these halls. 

A pen from his desk lifts, an answer slowly inked in the margins of the article.

I cannot not tell you.

And then two words, written below it.

Ask Bruce.

You text Bruce that night.

In the glow of your laptop - the scene you're working on left hanging, open-ended as you're unable to resist any longer. Late enough now for you that for him, it's morning. 

I met your butler.

Your phone is still glowing when he answers. Barely a minute passing before the bubbles appear, just two words popping up.

Did you?

He never makes it easy - a sigh slipping from your lungs as you lean back into the plush chair, a knee pressing into the edge of the desk.

I did. 

A second, as you wonder if you should dive in. If you should just ask what you want to know - if Bruce would entertain the thoughts and questions swirling in your mind.

You decide you should. That he's busy, and blunt. No reason you can't cut to the chase.

He said you could tell me about the curse.

Interesting. So you didn't just meet him. How long has it been?

That has you pausing, your thumb tapping a quick response.

What do you mean?

Alfred would never just tell that to anyone.

Even someone like you.

You scoff.

Meaning??

A pause hangs. Minutes passing, before an answer appears.

Meaning someone I trust enough to leave in my home.

His answer mollifies you. A friend, you think. Something he would never say. On anyone else you'd comment on the sentiment, but you think bringing attention to it would only push him further away.

We've been talking for a little while. Written notes, stuff like that.

The touching is innocent, but you feel protective of it. Like the brush of his hand is private. That aspect remains unmentioned, something just for you.

I'm impressed.

Your eyes roll with impatience. Impressed that you'd find a way to talk to him? Or impressed that you'd even noticed?

Thanks, I guess. Today he told me about the curse. Said I could ask you. Can I?

You haven't told me what he's told you.

You take a second then, to recollect. Typing slowly and then erasing, until you get your thoughts down.

He showed me the newspaper. I know about what happened, and when I asked if it could be fixed he said he couldn't tell me. That I could ask you.

You can.

I am???

Fuck - he's infuriating. Your jaw grits, as you flop sideways - twisting on your back. Hands held above your face as you type out your answer with a little more force than necessary.  

I'm asking right now. Could you please tell me?

From what we've gathered, his curse will be lifted when he gets what he truly wants. Which might be impossible, considering.

This is something. A tangible goal, something you can really work towards. Your heart kicks up a notch, as you murmur the words while typing.

Considering what? What does he want?

That depends. Why do you want to lift it?

That has you pausing. Why do you? Is it because it's what any decent person would do?

Perhaps if it was the first day, that would be your answer.

But over the course of the evening and the time that had passed, it's become more. 

It's hard not to think about how lonely Alfred must be. Half a lifetime spent with just the two of them. Now - left utterly unseen. Not even a ghost, but someone trapped as time still moves on without him. Forgotten. 

And yes - lately, selfishly, you want to see him. Deep down, you’re realizing you want him to see you, too. Though it’s more than just that.

You need to break it.

To help him, because Alfred deserves it.

You can't tell Bruce this. It feels too new, too tender. Something still half-formed, even to your own mind. 

So you send your own half-truth in reply.

Because it's the right thing to do.

Bruce’s response comes quickly.

If that is your answer, then you should give up now.

It leaves you frowning, a pit forming in your stomach.

Bruce.

???

What do you mean?

No other answers come, though it doesn't stop your eye from wandering the rest of the night. That urge to check for a more substantial answer. Frustration bubbling in your stomach, acid in your throat. Hurt and confused by his words.

Leaving your mind swirling - an irritation in the way your mind has now split. Words no longer flowing from your fingertips - your manuscript left frozen in place, as you try to puzzle out his meaning. Reading and rereading his messages.

That so-very human urge to help turning into something a more.

A desire. 

Your jaw grits as you decide that don't need Bruce's help. You can do this yourself.

For Alfred.

thanks for reading! 💖

[wanderersbell]

Hey saw ur requests open so i decided to slidee inn

Scaramouche with f!Reader who cries a lot?

Have a nice day luv

wanderer with f!reader who cries a lot

genre: fluff, comfort

warnings: none

word count: 946

a/n: hello! tysm for requesting this i had so much fun writing it he's such a sweetheart when it comes to his s/o (ꈍ◡ꈍ)♥ i hope this is what you were looking for and that you have a nice day as well!

had no idea how to handle it at first. 

during the beginning of your relationship, whenever you’d abruptly burst into tears or start pouting like you were about to cry he’d feel his stomach drop and could only stare at you blankly as he internally panicked over what to do. 

he had little to no experience dealing with people crying in a situation where it’s not actually the response he wanted from them. backhanding his fatui subordinates in the past and watching them tear up from the sting was entirely different than watching you, his precious girlfriend with your pretty e/c eyes that he’s so pathetically fond of, well up and spill over your cheeks. 

especially if it’s over something seemingly insignificant, finding the proper way to respond to your outburst of emotion suddenly becomes the hardest decision he’s ever made in his life. 

it could be because you saw a cute happy family singing and dancing with each other across the street, or because you dropped the snack you were super excited to eat, so why are you crying?? 

poor guy literally cannot figure out why these things provoke such a reaction from you and for the longest time his go-to response is to just remove you from the situation or fix it somehow, which is his best attempt at getting it to stop. 

if you’re crying over dropping your food he wastes no time dragging you away from the crime scene and finding the stall you bought it from to replace it with a new one. he’ll stare at you with a worried crease between his brows as you wipe your face dry and sniffle while the vendor remakes it for you, itching to hold your hand and offer more comfort but too hesitant to actually do it.

when you finally reach out to grab his hand and tell him that it’s fine and you just need a hug and that he doesn’t have to try to fix it all the time, he’s even more confused until he finally learns to stop overthinking it and hesitating to pull you close to let you cry it out. 

he’s very awkward about it at first, standing as stiff as a board and patting your back like it’s going to bite his hand off or something, but soon it just becomes common practice and he can almost always predict when you’re going to cry before you actually do.

it’s always the small things that set you off. 

after one of the longest, busiest weeks you’ve had in a while, you’re practically drained of every ounce of energy and more than anything just want to be home so you can sit down and relax. your legs and feet are killing you when he finally comes to pick you up from treasures street and you start your walk back to your shared place. 

you walk in comfortable silence, the wanderer sensing your exhaustion and holding your hand firmly in his own as you trek side by side up the hill. his skin is warm against your own, and the sun that’s just beginning to set over the horizon casts a breathtaking pink and orange across the clouds scattered in the sky that you find yourself absentmindedly watching with growing contentment. 

in fact, you’re so distracted by the colors flitting across the sky that you fail to notice the small puddle a few steps ahead of you. your lover also fails to notice this, as he’s far too busy admiring you while you’re distracted by the scenery, so it’s only a few seconds later that there’s a loud sloshing sound and a cold uncomfortable wetness soaks into your shoes up to your ankles. 

the wanderer is quick to pull you into his chest and out of the puddle as soon as you yelp in shock, but he’s still too late and your already aching feet are now also freezing cold, wet, and muddy. this is your final straw today, and he knows this better than anyone else, so by the time the first tears start making their way down your cheeks he’s already tucking your head into the crook of his neck and rubbing soothing circles into your shoulders. 

“sorry,” you hiccup instinctively, trying not to wipe your snot all over his shirt. he holds you tighter in response. 

“don’t be,” his voice reverberates through his chest in a comforting rumble. “it’s my fault, i would’ve seen it first if i was paying attention.”

you shake your head against him. “not your fault, i wasn’t paying attention either.”

he scoffs lightheartedly at your stubbornness but knows better than to argue right now and instead gently lifts your head off of his chest to wipe the tears off of your cheeks with his thumbs. 

“it’s the puddles fault then.” he says as your blurry eyes start to dry up and focus on his own. the firmness and conviction in his tone forces a wet laugh out of you, and the sight of a smile on your face causes a small one to break out on his as well. 

the amount of adoration you feel towards him in moments like these nearly knocks you off balance but he only holds you tighter against him as you share a fond look. when he leans forward to leave a soft kiss on your forehead the tension finally leaves your shoulders and a deep, relaxed breath has you melting into his arms again, indescribably happy knowing that no matter what happens, he’ll always be there to hold you close when you start to fall apart. 

[furby-junkie]

A 3D scan of a 2023 Furby, posted by Bryson Recycling Centres Donegal on Facebook

"It's Friday the 13th, and this 3D-scanned Furby is creeping us out! It's been sent to remind you to recycle any old electrical items tomorrow, International E-Waste Day."

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for being passive aggressive with my flatmate because of how she's been treating me while I'm ill? (TW for brief mention of SA.)

I (26, NB) have a history with ovarian cysts. It appears I have another again, but I'm waiting on a scan from the hospital to confirm this and get a treatment plan sorted. Just under 2 weeks ago I had to leave work mid-shift because the pain I'd been having weeks had escalated to the point I was almost crying at my desk at work. I went to the walk-in clinic, and was immediately re-directed to A&E (aka the ER, for you Americans.)

While there I had several tests and physical exams ran, including one invasive internal exam. This was triggering for me. My flatmate (25, F) knows I have a history of SA. I was offered inpatient care until my scan date, but I feel like I can manage this pain at home for now. I'm on a high dosage of codine and off work until my scan comes up.

Now, my flatmate. When I got back from the hospital, she was awake in her bedroom, music on, pacing round. She did not come out to see me, she messeged me saying she had a rough day, and that she wouldn't want to "say something she didn't mean." Bearing in mind, she says this almost every day after work. No comfort, no nothing. She also left the kitchen a mess with dishes in the sink and a bag of food waste tied and left on the counter. If I were her, I'd have been waiting for her to get back (if I didn't go to the hospital to be with her), and I would have cleaned up after myself at minimum.

The next day, I washed my dishes with the last of the washing up liquid. There wasn't enough to do her plates and pans she left in the sink overnight too. I took out her food waste bag. Bearing in mind, standing for too long makes me nauseous from the pain at the moment.

A few hours later she came into the kitchen and said "do you have more washing up liquid?" in an angry tone, and when I said no, she just made herself more food and left the dishes in the sink. She went to her boyfriends the next morning and stayed there for several days. She didn't replace the washing up liquid, so I had to walk to the store to get it myself, and I almost passed out doing so.

This is where the passive aggression started. I left her dishes in the sink for the 4 days she was there. She did not look happy to see them there when she got back. She's now been leaving my dishes in the sink now, even when I do hers for her.

Now, for this next thing, 2 things are important. 1. My pain makes it excruciating for me to bend over at the moment, and 2. I have told her this.

Because of my pain when bending over I've been putting my things higher up off the ground, including my towel in the bathroom, which I've been putting on the top part of the towel rack. I've also been putting the remote control for the central heating on the bannister on top of the stairs (where we can both grab it for easy access.)

She's repeatedly been switching our towels around so hers is on top, after I have explicitly told her I've been doing this to manage my pain. Same situation with the remote, she's just been putting it on the floor outside our bedrooms. I keep wordlessly putting them back to how I put them now, because I have told her why I've been doing what I've been doing, but she swaps them back.

Last night I messeged her reiterating why I was doing what I was doing. Less than 10 minutes later, everything was back how it was, my towel on the bottom rack, remote on the floor. So, I've picked up my towel and I've draped it over the shower tail instead, which she will have to move when she gets ready tomorrow morning. I almost dropped hers on the actual floor but I decided that would be a step too far. I shot her another message asking "So, did you move everything back before or after you read this message...?", and now I'm waiting for her to get up tomorrow AM and see it.

In general I feel I could have been more mature and direct in dealing with this, but I honestly don't understand how someone can manage do below the bare minimum when their flatmate is this sick. When she just had a flu I was cleaning up around the house and making it nice for her, but it feels like she's actively antagonising me at the moment and I don't know why. AITA for the passive aggression?

What are these acronyms?

[sixties-girl]

Are you lonesome tonight in Vegas?

Plot: You are in a trip to las Vegas because Elvis was going to offer a few concerts the same days you were there. You were feeling kinda lonely but that night you would get some good company to your side.

(It is mostly a fluffy thing and I tried my best to keep it free of orthographic mistakes).

--How fun! We will sure have a great time there.

-- Yeah, yeah, in special in casinos, hopefully I win some deal ‘cause then I could end up like Nicolas Cage in that movie.

--Damn Rodrick, if that is the case, we will better keep you far from those casinos- coments Joe giving a smooth elbow to his friend.

5 friends and one destination: Fabulous Vegas, or Sin City as it is use to be called. In fact, your friends wanted to go mostly to sin going to casinos wasting all their savings(in the best of the cases) in slots machines or russian roulettes while they already had a few cocktails.

Meanwhile you, you had nothing to do with that, you just were in their plan because Elvis Presley was going to have a few concerts in the International Hotel from las Vegas the same days you will be there.

It was summer of 1969 and he barely had cameback to stages a year ago with his Special Comeback TV special. You were in your twenties and you have been his fan since your teens thanks to some secondary school friends but you were excited to see him performe live after all that decade just recording some movies here and there.

The thing is that you were the only one of your friends who wanted to go to see him so you would go by yourself. Once in Vegas evening and with all your stuff already in your hotel rooms, your friends left you in the International Hotel and tell you to call them later.

You enter by yourself and wow, the space is all full of people, some smarter dressed than others. You are lucky enough to have a spot so close to the stage.

Lights turn off and there he is. He even looked more handsome in person, you were delighted by his physical appearence and the way he moved around that stage.

His black satin suit also helped to hug his torso perfectly fine while his singing live was incredibly good. He is now singing “Are you lonesome tonight?” which described perfectly how you were feeling that night.

You giggled because it seems as if he was pointing you while singing this sentence of the song and you would nod just in case he noticed it.

When the shows comes to an end, you are so excited and yet so sad it already ended this great time you had in his concert, not ready for going back outside to face Sin City but before you thought about it, a random man approaches and says:

--Hello young lady, before you leave, would you like to meet Mr.Presley more personally?.- you can’t believe him, is some kind of joke?

--If you are trying to get me I am sorry but I don’t have time for that.- before you turn around, he grabs you shoulder.

--I am being serious, he wants to meet you right behind the stage, just follow me!

You doubt but you don’t have nothing to lose after all so you follow him wherever he leads you.

You arrive in front of a door, it says “dressing room”. The guy knocks and the door opens, and yes, it is opened by Elvis Presley.

--E, here she is...what is your name?.- you are in shock right now, even trembling a little bit of meeting him that close.

--I-i am, y/n.

--You are a bit nervous, aren’t you? Don’t worry honey, I am sure that once you will know me better, you will really relax.- Elvis smiles right at you, gosh, he really knows how to captivate you.

He grabs you around your waist and invites you to enter inside. Once there, you just take sit on a random couch while you watch him lightining one of his characteristic cigars. He is staring right to you, directly to your soul:

--So y/n, I will ask you here and again, are you lonesome tonight?.- he does the last part singing it. You giggle at that.

--Yeah, I am, none of my friends wanted to come with me to watch you performe.

--Oh really? Where are they now?,- he sits right next to you, that makes your heart skip faster.

--I don’t know, probably all drunk and with all their savings wasted.

--That doesn’t sound very nice, I don’t think they are the best company for a sweet and beautiful girl like you, don’t you agree?.- he puts his arm around your shoulders, what is he doing?

--Well, to be honest, I didn’t like their plan since the beggining, I just wanted to go to your concert because I have been a fan of yours since I was a young teenager.- you give him a sweet smile that melts him inside.

--Very good girl, how old are you honey?

--I am 23.- you feel how he is getting closer and closer and you don’t know if to stay or walk away.

He nods and then takes your chin up for meeting those beautiful blue eyes of his.-- You know, since I saw you on stage I instantly wanted to meet you, you are not just a very pretty girl but also a sweet and smart one and you shouldn’t be around this city all by yourself, more now that it is all dark, so.--his face is very close to your ear and lowers his voice, almost like a whisper.-- Would you mind if I made you some company tonight?

You shiver at his suggestion, is he really meaning what you think he is meaning? Elvis had always this fame of womanizer having some affairs here and there, even now that he is married and recently became a dad.

Still, you actually needed some company, otherwhise you will have to manage to go to your hotel and you didn’t want to deal with your friends sequels of “living las Vegas”. He has been treating you good until now as well.

--What happens my girl? Don’t you want to spend some time with me? I won’t do nothing you don’t want to if that is what worries you.- he gets a bit apart for giving you some space but you grab his hand.

--No! It is okay Elvis, I would rather stay here tonight with you than anywhere else.- you get closer to him. This is actually a dream for you, you just felt a bit overwhelmed, that’s it.

--What a relieve to hear that, you really got me scared doll.- he hugs you tight.-- Maybe we should go somewhere else, to get some fresh air.

--You are right, but where we could go?

--I know a place that I am sure you will be amazed with but I have to ask you something first.- he looks attentively at you.-- Are you scared of heights baby?

--A bit, yes.- Elvis stands up of the couch and grabs your hand while you get up as well.

--Don’t worry, you can always hold on to me, I will catch ya’.

He seems very convinced to bring you wherever place he has in mind. You get out of dressing room, facing some glances, probably thinking you were another one-night stand of his.

You get inside an elevator from the International Hotel and Elvis presses the highest level button.

When the doors open, you find yourself in a huge terrace, quite crowded because there is some kind of event going on. You observe a little scenario with some band playing on the background as well as a large mini bar table on the right where people order their drinks.

On the left there is a balcony with beautiful and yet imposing views from las Vegas, and in the middle there is even a little swimming pool! You are so amazed that for a second you forgot that Elvis is talking right to you:

--Doll.- laughs a bit.-- That stunned are you by the place that you forgot about me?

--Maybe.- you say a bit teasing.-- But seriously, this is incredible Elvis, thank you for bringing me here.

--I suggest we get some drinks first, I think I haven’t drunk since I performed.

--Good idea.- and you both go to the mini bar. You order a piña colada for you while he takes a glass of cola. He looks at your drink curiosly:

--What is it?

--Piña colada, is one of my favorite cocktails ever, would you like to try some?.- you sip a bit of it.-- It tastes good, other times they would just put me too much alcohol.

--I don’t like alcohol in general but I will just try it for a bit.- he takes the drink and shows a surprised reaction in his face.-- Yeah, not bad, it is very sweet, now I understand why you have this sweet essence in you.

You blush at his answer while you sip more from your glass. He really knew how to make compliments, no wonder why women were in love with him.

Elvis takes your hand and brings you right in front of the balcony. While being there he pases one of his arms behind your back and holds you there:

--I told you that I would be holding you, remember sweet thing? I think I should call you my little piña colada.- he laughs at his own wisecrack.

--Why not piñita? Means little pineapple in Spanish.

--Really? It really suits you this nickname, so yeah, my sweet piñita that I just met today and made my night better.

You giggle with how cute he says the word piñita. He holds you closer with his arms and you look at him up while he takes your chin up. You can’t stop looking at those eyes of his and this time you don’t feel any nervous anymore as in the dressing room. He gets closer to your face and whispers:

--I would like to taste more of that pineapple and coconut flavors, could I get some more y/n?

You get shocked because it may be the first time he actually called you by your name after calling you by lots of nicknames. Suddenly you feel his lips on yours ones. Elvis starts kissing you in a gentle way, sweet you would say.

You close your eyes for feeling better that kiss of his that starts to be more passionate and needy, as if he had been waiting all night for this moment. You feel his tongue exploring your whole mouth while both your tongues weave together.

You start gasping a bit since you start feeling the lack of air but you can’t stop, this kiss may be the best one you ever had.

You notice how his hands go lower from your back, is he grabbing your ass in front of everyone else? Yes, he does.

You feel more the lack of air and you let him notice it, getting apart from you:

--Did you like it my darling? I dare you did looking at your face right now.- you feel your cheeks hot, hot because that piña colada was taking its effect, hot because that kiss left you wanting more and hot as well because some people were looking directly at you both.

--I did, you are a really good kisser Mr.Presley, and a naughty one as well.- you give him a flirty look.

--Naughty? Oh my lovely piña colada, you have barely seen the tip of the iceberg of how naughty I can actually be. I can show you a lot more than this y/n.

The situation was getting out of handle. Despite you were enjoying this flirting with Elvis, you knew that in whatever moment you could end up in his suite and the rest would come over.

At this point, you just were really tired after the whole journey to las Vegas and the concert and what came later after that. You yawn a bit and he notices it:

--Are you tired baby?.- you nod at his question.-- If you want, you can sleep at my place, the bed is huge so there’s enough space for both of us.

You look at him not trusting too much if it is a good idea to enter inside “his territory”.

--Plus where would you go anyways? I can’t leave such a sweetie like you in a place like this, all by yourself.- he looks at you with concerning eyes.- I promise I only have good intentions with you.

He is right though, you don’t have nowhere else to go and paying one night in this hotel is quite expensive for your own pocket.

You agree in going to his place after all since tiredness and the last effects of that cocktail weren’t helping you so you both go straight to the elevator.

You go down a few levels and walk through the long corridors from the building. He makes you stop in front of a door that opens and lets you enter first.

Wow, he wasn’t lying when he said that the bed was huge. And not just that but the whole room felt expensive.

But that was the least important thing. You quickly get off your shoes, that were killing you at this point, and lay down on that bed.

--Gosh y/n, you really were looking forward to lay down, didn't you?.- he laughs while approaching where you are lying:

--Hm, I wasn't lying when I told you, it has been a harsh day for me.- you yawn while you turn your face to the pillow.

--Oh no pretty baby, you can't hide that gorgeous face of yours yet.

--I can't keep my eyes opened anymore Elvis.- you murmur down the pillow.

He gets up for turning lights off and gets to lay next to you, hugging you from your back.

--Good night piñita , I hope you rest well and that you didn't feel lonesome tonight.- he whispers to you ear. You laugh softly since his whisper has given you tickles.

You wished him good night as well. He couldn't see it but you started smiling, not believing yet who was spooning you. Definetly you weren't feeling lonesome that night anymore.

I hope you enjoyed it! :)

[wandering-writing-waffles]

His Most Prized Possession

Rating: E for everyone

Word Count: 819

Relationships: Darth Maul x Reader

Tags/Warnings: Violence, Mentions of blood, implied romance, implied kidnapping

Notes: Hello there! So this is just a quick lil oneshot I wrote a while back but kind of want to make into a full-fledged fic???? Idk, I may continue this and may not. I would certainly like to! But hey! I hope you enjoy what I have so far!

Summary: Maul had only ever loved one thing in his life, and that was you... But one day when he came home and all he could find of you was a small trinket of yours lying dormant in the doorway, he knew there could only be one explanation... You had been taken... Taken right out from under his nose! Heart filled with a newfound rage, he vows to scour the galaxy looking for you wherever he can. He will do anything to get you back.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Maul felt the heat of the blade lightly graze the center of his chest. On a regular occasion, he wouldn’t have paid any mind. His body was littered with scars and scratches after all. Years of fighting for survival had left their mark in the form of nasty raised abrasions all across his body. But this… this was different. It wasn’t just his body that was at stake this time.

He lifted his hand up to examine the area at which the blade seethed his flesh and to his dismay, it was gone. All that was left in its place were burnt, broken tethers from where it once laid.

He quickly tilted his head back upwards, towards this so-called attacker whom he assumed was just some insignificant bounty hunter from some insignificant little planet looking for a quick and easy score. Oh was he mistaken…

Maul seethed at that thought, a newfound, burning rage beginning to build up in his core, ready to burst at any moment. ‘What a pathetic waste of time,’ he thought to himself.

The attacker went rigid. His eyes widened in a fearful stupor as he made contact with Maul’s piercing golden gaze. The sweat at his temple began to pool and drip down his now furrowed brow bone and Maul could see his hands and the pinprick tips of his blue lekku start to tremble.

Maul snarled in response, not feeling the slightest bit of empathy. As far as he was concerned, no one messed with his belongings and no one wastes his time.

Without hesitation, he leaped forward, eyes fixated on the young twi’lek who had unknowingly just sealed his fate.

The man jumped back in response, but it was too late. Lightsaber drawn, Maul slashed right at the center of his torso, effectively severing his cobalt body in half.

Maul’s senses were immediately filled with the smell of burning flesh, followed by a loud shriek and the sound of the assailant’s body plummeting against the floor. His breathing hitched in response, eyes trained on the man’s chest, making sure there was no longer breath in his body.

When he was certain he let out a scoff, quickly sheathing his lightsaber and turning around on the heel of his foot.

‘Where is it?!’ Maul internally cried. He began searching the area, desperate to find what had fallen. But the muck-stained floors of the alley were making it difficult to search. He became more desperate, removing his gloves and falling to his hands and knees to dig through the thick grime. He only found relief when he felt his fingers lightly brush against a small, cold object.

Quickly looping his finger around the base he pulled it out, taking care to brush off the dirt that it had picked up before resting the object in the palm of his hand.

There it was… His prize.

Maul smiled warmly down at the object as it gleamed against the dimmed light. His twin hearts rested, and he felt calm once more. For this trinket sitting in his hand wasn’t just any old thing. No… It was much more than that. It was a ring. But not just any ring. In fact, it didn't even belong to him. Its true owner, although indeed rare, was someone whom Maul had held and still holds in the highest regard…

For it belonged to you… His beloved… His whole world… His starlight…

Maul’s grip tightened as he held the gleaming ring in his hand, memories flooded his mind, a bittersweet reminder of his love for you who had been so cruelly taken from him. The ring symbolized your bond, a promise you had made to each other in happier times. It was a token of your unwavering devotion, an unbreakable vow etched into its delicate design.

Crafted from a metal found only in the deepest crevices of his homeworld, the ring radiated an otherworldly brilliance. Its intricate carvings depicted your intertwined destinies, your love story eternally etched into the precious metal.

To Maul, the ring represented hope in the darkest of times, a tangible connection to the one person who had breathed life into his scarred soul. Whenever he felt lost, his fingers would trace the contours of the ring, seeking solace in its presence. It was a symbol of his unwavering determination to find you and reunite with the one who had captured his hearts.

As he clenched the ring tightly, Maul's resolve solidified. Your trail… His beloved’s trail would not go cold. He would stop at nothing, traverse galaxies, and face any adversary to reclaim what had been stolen from him. With the ring as his guiding light, Maul embarked on a relentless quest, a love-driven odyssey to rescue you and restore your shattered bond.

For you, he would do anything. And that was what he was going to do.

Notes:

Thank you so much for the read! I know it was short but it means so much to me! Let me know if I should continue it and if you have any pointers for where it should go if I do! Thank you again! Chow!

-Waffles XOXO

[bonefall]

re: the last Warriors Bites, is there any advantage to cooking meat? /gen

ik for humans we can’t process a lot of raw meat w/o infections, but cats are pure carnivores

Several!

Human evolutionary history is actually fascinating in that we HAVE to eat cooked meat, it marked a moment in our evolutionary history where our brains were able to get bigger because we needed less space on the skull for a massive chewing muscle

So for a Warrior Cat, which is clearly a species capable of advanced social dynamics, it could be likely that something is biologically going on in that skull of theirs for which cooking is an advantage.

But even for a normal cat living out in the woods? There's still benefits.

Preservation

Drying food can store it for weeks or months. In the books we've seen prey going bad after only a day; there's definitely a lot of food waste that can be avoided if the excess prey is cooked and stored by the assigned "kitchen patrol" after dinner.

(On that note; @hey-its-quill requested an entry on "Who cooks and prepares food?" so this question, including what a 'kitchen patrol' is, is on the official Warrior Bites to-do list.)

Nutrition

Some forms of cooking would cause nutrition loss, but it's easily countered by collecting the juices and serving them as a gravy. For the most part, cooking is just an easy way to break down connective tissue, which would actually make it easier to digest.

ESPECIALLY for kits and elders, who aren't able to chew their food very well.

One thing I will be mentioning when I get to a bird entry, though, is that large birds are rarely roasted. This is because cats eat bones as part of their diet, but when bird bones are cooked, they can splinter and cause internal damage.

(Which is why you should never let your cat eat cooked chicken bones. Raw are fine though.)

Sanitization

And this is the primary reason. Avoiding food poisoning and infection is more important than you think; being an obligate carnivore does not make all food safe.

(CW: Past here, I talk about foodbourne illness, parasites, and animal death. If these topics upset you, I've summed up everything already!)

It's actually a misconception that cats can't get salmonella, e. coli, or listeria poisoning. They're just better at not getting it because food spends less time digesting in their shorter, carnivorous intestines. A lot of people actually switch to a raw food pet diet thinking it's healthier (and in some ways it is, afaik) but then improperly handle the pet food for this reason. Always freeze raw pet food and wash your hands please.

Salmonella poisoning in cats is sometimes called "Songbird Fever" because a house cat gets it by killing and eating a native songbird. In fact I'm going to use my little soapbox for a moment to please ask, if you don't keep your cat inside (which is the only way to completely prevent the death of songbirds), please, at the very least, only let them outside with a birds-be-safe collar cover.

(Salmonella poisoning is also why I've decided that ShadowClan would logically be the Clan that cooks the most. As Marsh and Pine hunters, well over 75% of their diet is birds and reptiles, which naturally contain salmonella)

So that's JUST farm animals and wild birds. Hantavirus, leptospirosis, toxoplasmosis, even the goddamn bubonic plague can be caught from wild rodents.

That's not even to mention tapeworms, roundworm, and other digestive parasites specifically evolved to live in an animal's stomach!

I remember someone made a joke about how these wild cats are eating random mice and walking away fine while their housecat throws up from getting the wrong brand of cat food. And... well... truth is, the wild cats are not fine. They're getting sick constantly.

Warrior Cats is just, ultimately, a young adult fantasy series about romance and political drama that chooses not to accurately portray feral cats dying horribly of preventable foodbourne illness.

SO TL;DR COOKING WILL HELP A LOT.

[mayajadewrites]

Levi Ackerman x Reader: Moth to a Flame

CHAPTER TWO

chapter synopsis: You're put in a training group for the day, is it to show your skills or so Levi can watch you?

ao3

C H A P T E R T W O – B U T T O N

"Oi." Levi spoke, his arms across his chest. "Listen, you're going to be put into training groups of 4. You're going to spar each other and test your ODM gear skills."

The group nods in unison. "Yes, sir."

"The groups are as follows." Levi lists off names while you anxiously waiting for him to utter your name.

"Lastly, Kirstein, Ackerman, Yaeger, and..." Levi said your surname, almost in a softer tone than the others.

You and Mikasa are arguably the strongest in the regiment, after Captain Levi of course. You're both super fast and work well together when it comes to fighting titans.

Jean and Eren, well they need some help.

"I think he made this group on purpose." Mikasa whispered in your ear. You freeze for a moment. Did she know about you and Levi?

"Why do you think that?"

"We're obviously the strongest and most skilled. Eren and Jean are almost there, but not on our level. So we can show them how its done."

One thing about Mikasa is that she always has her eye on the goal. In the scout regiment, it's to save humanity.

You strap on the ODM gear, tightening the straps around your thighs.

"I wish I could live in between these thighs." Levi kissed the inside of your thigh, trailing his mouth to the fabric of your panties.

Shaking the thought out of your head, you look for your group. Eren and Jean were arguing (per usual) while Mikasa rolled her eyes behind them.

Captain Levi was observing next to Commander Hange. She was always so enthusiastic about watching us train, especially when she just finished an experiment with titans.

"Hey," Jean said your name, waving you to go over to him. "Wanna spar?"

"Sure." You smile, making sure your ODM gear is in tact. While you and Jean maneuver around each other, you feel a pair of eyes on you.

Jean trips over a rock on the ground, pushing his body against yours to the ground.

"You would trip over a tiny ass rock." You laugh as Jean is still on top of you, a chuckle leaving his mouth.

"I fight fucking titans, but a ROCK is what fumbles me."

"What's going on over here?" Levi's voice boomed. You heard his footsteps near your feet. "Kirstein. On your feet."

"Sorry Captain, I tripped. I didn't see that rock." Jean pointed to the rock, brushing his shirt off before helping you up. You take his hand, a bit tighter than normal. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really." You nod, looking down at your body. The button to your shirt popped open at your chest, revealing your clavicle.

"You need to see a nurse." Levi analyzed your body.

"I don't even think I have a scratch, Captain. Really it's fine."

"That wasn't a question." Levi turned around before you could speak. No part of your body hurt, and it's not like Jean did it intentionally.

You turn to head to the main building with the nurses office, rolling your eyes because this is certainly a waste of time.

As you reach the office, you hear familiar footsteps.

"Captain, don't waste your time on this." You look at Levi. "I'm really fine. It's not like Jean did it on purpose, and I barely fell."

"You could have internal injuries. Maybe a concussion."

"You're being ridiculous." You almost lose your composure as you walk into the nurses office. "I'm fine."

"Well I need to make sure that's true."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"You look good, cadet." The nurse, Rachel, patted your knee. "You have a little bruise on your chest, but it's nothing to worry about."

"See?" You look at Levi. "Can I go back to training now?"

"No." Levi turned on his heels, exiting the office.

You were stunned. Confirmation from the nurse that you're okay means nothing?

You follow Levi out the door, trying to catch up to him. "Captain, a word please."

Levi turns around, his steel eyes fixed on yours.

"Why can't I go back to training? We have a mission at the end of the week that Commander Erwin has developed a whole plan for. You need me to fight."

"You need to rest today, I can't have you at anything less than your best. Especially because of the mission." Levi took a step toward you. "That's an order."

Your eyes wander around Levi's face, his undercut fresh, his eyes that beautiful shade of stone that you love.

Loved.

You take another step towards Levi, hoping he would move away from you so you can forget these feelings once again.

But he doesn't. He just looks at you, your body, almost fixating on your chest. Your button was still popped, some sweat dripping down your breasts from the end of summer/autumn air.

Levi's tongue grazed his bottom lip. "Button your shirt. Before you get dress-coded."

With that, Levi is gone.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

During dinner, Jean kept stealing glances of you. When he fell on you, there was some sort of spark. You've never looked at Jean in that way, but now it's more of a possibility.

Especially since you're no longer sleeping with Levi.

"How are you feeling?" Jean asked you, sliding his leg close to yours. He was sitting next to you, Connie and Sasha were next to him, and Eren, Mikasa, and Armin were on the other side of the table.

"I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me." You take a sip of your water.

"Nice one, Jean. You could've been in deep shit if you actually hurt her." Eren rolled his eyes.

"You're acting like I did that on purpose!"

"Maybe you did." Eren smirked. "Not to hurt her, though."

"Shut up Eren." Jean's eyes were wide. Jean is no good at hiding what he's feeling – you can tell all over his face. It's obvious Jean has a tiny crush on you, you've just never given him that time of day.

"Jean, do you wanna go for a walk?" You suggest, standing up from the table. Jean nodded and followed you out, Eren making kissing noises from the table.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"Are you sure I didn't hurt you?" Jean questioned.

"Please stop asking. If I was hurt you would know." You look up at the night sky, watching the moon. "You know, when I was younger I always thought the moon was following me."

"Me too." Jean laughed. "I would always close my eyes for a minute, hoping the moon would be hiding."

Jean told you about his childhood, about his family and what he likes to do for fun. Well, liked. Before the scouts.

He's very easy to talk to, unlike some people.

"What do you two think you're doing?"

[what-a-weird-rose]

SunSeeker: The Things I Want (Keep Them in the Dark)

Pairing: Regulus Black / James Potter

Rating: E

Prompt: Showers

Word Count: 3.1k

James can feel the sweat slide down his skin as he trudges back to the showers. He loves Quidditch, his life’s blood in a sense, but the feeling of heavy sweat clinging onto him as he travels from the pitch to the lockers is something he doesn’t think he will ever get used to. 

Quidditch practice was good, though, despite his internal complaining. The new seeker was finally figuring out her style; Marlene and Sirius had spent only half of practice mucking around. Despite this, though, he finds himself on edge- Gryffindor has a game in two days, his first game as Captain, and he can’t help how his nerves grate down on him.

As he walks, he listens as the Hufflepuff team starts their practice. He supposes he’s lucky not to have to lead the charge against them as a new Captain with two new players. Hufflepuff has given the Gryffindor trouble since James first joined the team, always having a solid rotation of players who could fit into any position needed. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so annoying.

He sighs, finally reaching the showers.

The Gryffindor showers’ door has golden lions prowling along a scarlet backdrop, which Remus says is an ‘unappreciated waste, where it is,’ and James can’t help agreeing. He slips in quietly, although he already knows the rest of the team is long gone. In his third year, James had picked up the habit of staying as late as he could on the pitch, lazily flying around until he was told to move his ass.

He slips his shoes off first, then his robes -which his mum got over the summer upon learning he made Captain- until he is left in his boxers, leaving his glasses in their case in his locker. And he decides to carry his towel and such into the shower stalls.

The water is hot when he steps in, not quite scalding, though close. He can feel his skin prickle as he adjusts to the hot spray of water that dowses him thoroughly. He starts with his hair, running shampoo through thick, black curls that never seem to take a break, lathering quickly with practiced hands. He lets the potion-infused conditioner sit while he runs a soapy cloth down the plains of his body. James considers for a moment how lucky he is for most of the things in his life, but particularly the satisfaction he has with his own body. He recalls the night in the third year, after Remus’ first significant growth spurt, he lay next to his friend as Remus cried about the dysphoria he felt- lanky and lean and scarred and broken. However, James didn’t quite understand that last one until much later. He had provided comfort to the best of his abilities. Still, there was something akin to guilt after trying to understand something so deeply personal, having never experienced it himself.

James shuffles and shakes his head; he’ll talk to Moony about it later. For now, he remains in the safe vulnerability of the showers, running a sky-blue cloth over the sides of his torso and the soft bumps of his chest. He wouldn’t say he has an exceptionally high sex drive, not more than the average seventeen-year-old boy. Still, something about the day seemed to make him more hot and bothered than usual. Perhaps there was something in the air, the way his broom felt between his legs, or he felt like he was being watched all through practice. Either way, he reasoned, he would need some release, preferably sooner rather than later.

With such a decision came the inevitable awkward shuffling of washing conditioner out of his hair and precariously hanging his washcloth on the rack closest to him.

Then, with the patience of a man having spent years of his life locked away, James grabs his cock in his left hand and begins pumping, setting a moderate pace, ‘business casual’ as Peter had once disgustingly referred to it. He wanks without much thought, having no fantasy or person to imagine alongside the activity. Once, a few years back, he may have thought of Lily, but no longer, he was a man of his word- and he had given his word to stop pursuing her once she had explained, in no uncertain terms, that she was very much a lesbian. He chuckles at himself, even now thinking about the confusion that must have overtaken his face, forcing Lily to explain lesbianism to him.

As he pumps, slowly gaining pace as his cock hardens, he rests his forehead on the cool subway tile that lines the stalls, resigning himself to the pleasure raging over his body.

Then, he hears someone clear their throat.

He stops suddenly, standing completely still with his back to whoever it is. Then, he goes through a list of worst-to-best candidates who stand behind him. He starts strong with McGonagall, then Dumbledore, then Filch and all the other members of staff, then Lily, with Marlene and Mary close behind, ending with Remus, Peter, and Sirius, in that order. James turns around slowly, squinting slightly.

He reckons it’s Sirius, and he lets out a sigh of relief, running his right hand through his wet hair.

“You think you could quit fondling your cock, Potter?” He was wrong; James was so very, very wrong and very, very screwed.

He didn’t know the voice well, even as it had changed and evolved through the years; he had so little interaction with its owner -especially recently- that he couldn’t have known it by heart. But he did; he knew that slight lilt that the end of sentences, the drawl of old money, and the innate smugness that Slytherins had when they caught you in an incriminating situation. And Merlin was his situation incriminating.

“Regulus?” He asks, pleading that he’s got it wrong and Sirius is messing with him.

“You sound scared, Potter.”

“You shouldn’t be in here; these are the Gryffindor showers.”

Regulus doesn’t answer for a long minute, and James wishes so desperately that he could see what Regulus is doing.

“Someone thought it would be hilarious to screw with the showerheads in the Slytherin lockers- you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?” Despite the blurriness, James can see Regulus slowly stripping: “So now we’ve been forced to divide up until after McGonagall can reverse whatever’s been done to them.” James starts when the shower three stalls over begins spraying. Regulus wastes no time slipping in; he says nothing about James watching him.

“You’ve finished practice?”

“Hardly,” Regulus replies, and James can perfectly pinpoint the moment soap hits their skin as Regulus sighs quietly, “I shower before and after practice, the other don’t get it, but I don’t need them too.”

James feels his cock jump as his hand brushes against it; he’s still hard- no, harder than before.

“Meadowes is fine with that?” James asks, in some perverted attempt to keep the conversation going, even as he struggles with the hardness of his cock.

Regulus snorts slightly, and James looks up to see -he thinks- as Regulus looks at him, “I’m the best seeker Slytherin’s had in two hundred years- I get a lot of free passes with what I want to do.”

And James can’t help as he cock bobs with the implication. He hears it in Regulus’ voice, the way he becomes almost breathy, and James wonders if Regulus feels the thick tension the same way he does.

Suddenly, and James is uncertain about how real all this is afterward, Regulus shuts off the water in his stall, slips out, and walks naked as the day he was born -although James is unsure if Blacks emerge into the world wearing Victorian-typically fashion- and slides into James’ stall as if there is nothing strange about the whole thing.

“What?” James asks quietly, bracing his hands on the walls beside him, waiting for Regulus to smack, hex, or scream. Instead, Regulus chuckles slightly, turns around so the crack of his ass fits James’ cock, and shimmies them so Regulus is under the spray of warm water. “Why?” James can hear his voice crack.

“You were taking up all the warm water,” Regulus says simply as if this is a common occurrence, “I wanted some for myself, you see.” And James is convinced that Regulus pushes his ass further onto James’ cock.

James sucks in a deep breath, mainly of Regulus, as he internally debates what to do next. If he runs, he’ll be positioned as a coward- also, he may not have time between Regulus laughing at him and his running to get dried and dressed. If he stays, there are two possible outcomes; one, James bares through Regulus’ teasing and ass wiggling and general being naked, and two, James pushes Regulus against the wall of the shower stall and fucks him until he begs for James to stop.

Fuck.

Just as James considers sending a patronus to Sirius for immediate assistance and backup, he feels Regulus stretch and lean toward the wall. And James just about loses his mind then and there. If he looks down at just the right angle, James can see Regulus’ hole as it flutters and puckers; he can see the tip of his cock leak pre-cum, less than three centimeters separated from one another.

He stares for a long time; James stares as Regulus’ hole kisses out as if trying to entice him in with its fluttering. James watches as Regulus raises his arms so he can rest his head on them atop the flat top of the half-wall. He watches, perhaps too intensely, as Regulus shifts from side to side, left to right, eight times, slowly moving his leg further and further apart.

It is at the moment that Regulus pushes back onto James’ cock once again that James actually loses his mind.

He darts his hand out to grasp Regulus’ skull’s base, drawing out a startled sound; he then wraps his left arm around Regulus’ waist, pulling his lower half flush against James’. James grasps the hair at the base of Regulus’ skull. He pulls him far enough from the wall until James can move his hand to wrap around Regulus’ throat. Then, with all the self-control he can muster, James pulls Regulus close enough so he can whisper in the boy’s ear.

“You tell me to stop, I end this now; you tell me to go, I go until I’m done.”

And Regulus moans. Whore-like, Regulus moans and pleads and tries over and over to press his fluttering hole against James’ too-hard cock, babbling deals and pleases and praise.

James drops the arm that holds Regulus’ waist for a moment, opting to grab one of the clean, dry cloths that sits an arm’s-length away. He takes the cloth, folds it in half, fourths, then eighths; he shoves it into Regulus’ mouth with the whispered command, “if you drop it, I’ll make you pick it back up with your mouth.”

After Regulus’ pleas are silenced, leaving his moans and groans as background noise mixed with the shower spray, James wraps his arm back around Regulus’ middle. He lines his fingers up with Regulus’ pleading hole.

Regulus pulls the cloth from his mouth, and James considers spanking him, “I’m stretched already,” he says quickly, using a hand to pull one of his asscheeks as if to testify to his claim, “do whatever you want with me.” He concludes by staring into James’ eyes as he places the cloth back into his mouth as if he were born to have it there, and, maybe he was, James wasn’t one to question the universe.

James stands still for a moment, considering all his options- Regulus is stretched, or, at least, Regulus says he’s stretched; if he wanted to, James could go straight into pounding him from behind, damning whether or not Regulus was lying. But, he reasons, it’s always good to make sure, and it can’t hurt.

So, James begins by running his index finger up and down Regulus’ puckering, pink hole, ignoring staggered moans and attempts to fuck himself Regulus tries. He pulls his finger up and down three times before allowing the pool of saliva in his mouth to fall from his lips right into the crevice of Regulus’ perfectly shaped ass. It slides from the meeting point of his back and ass down to where James’ finger waits just under the hole that has taken to fluttering vigorously.

James uses his spit as second-rate lube, plugging his middle finger into Regulus’ hole.

Regulus had definitely lied about being stretched.

James can feel it in how Regulus’ walls clamp down on his finger, virgin-tight, encasing him in warm heat unlike anything. He thrusts his finger once or twice before plunging up to his knuckle, unwrapping his arm from Regulus’ waist, and landing a flat hand smack onto Regulus’ round, tight ass. He can hear, feel, and taste Regulus moan. It comes from high in his throat, animalistic in every sense; James considers smacking him again just to see what would happen.

“I don’t like being lied to, Reggie.” James says shortly, uninviting to added conversation. He follows his statement by adding his index finger into Regulus’ hole.

Regulus groans, something fierce, deeper than James thought possible for him.

James works his finger in and out of Regulus’ ass until he feels comfortable enough to separate his two fingers in a scissoring motion. Over and over and over, until there is the least resistance, James reckons he’ll get out of Regulus’ body. Then, he adds his ring finger, repeating the process until Regulus is on the verge of screaming with frustration.

“Liars don’t get opinions.” James supplies, pulling his fingers from Regulus’ asshole. He knows now that Regulus’ hole is prepped. Still, he feels deeply unsatisfying about letting Regulus get what he wants so soon.

Instead, James pulls Regulus flush against his body, running his hands up and down his sides. Regulus’ head lolls back, resting on James’ shoulder as James gently massages soft, pale skin up and down. Despite his poor vision, James can see how Regulus’ dick shudders and leaks and begs for attention- James ignores it in favor of far more exciting play-things.

Regulus’ nipples are more perky than James has admittedly ever seen on anyone. He doesn’t think it bad, not by any means; instead, he finds himself drawn to them, twisting and tugging and playing with them as Regulus shakily humps the air.

James continues to ignore Regulus’ pleas to fuck him. He decides to focus more thoroughly on Regulus’ pretty, pink nipples.

Turning them, James backs Regulus against the tiled full wall that the shower is mounted to; he then begins sucking, kissing, and nipping at Regulus’ nipples, finding great joy in how Regulus throws his head back.

In tandem with his mouth, James’ hands wander downward to locate Regulus’ throbbing cock, which sends a shiver through Regulus upon being touched. James wraps a hand around Regulus’ dick as Regulus moves quickly to reposition the cloth in his mouth.

James has never been the best at handjobs, blowjobs are good, but handjobs are something he never quite learned to master; despite this, Regulus seemed to quite enjoy James’ twisting and pulling of both his dick and nipples.

Not long after James began his attack on Regulus’ front, the boy before he began to tighten- from his arms, legs, and feet, he seemed almost to curl in on himself right before he came. Squirting hot cum onto his and James’ stomachs.

James chuckled as Regulus seemed to go boneless- this wouldn’t do, not by a long shot.

Placing a hand on Regulus’ cheek, James turned them once more to the position they had begun with. However, this time, James had a hand solidly under Regulus’ thigh, lifting his leg up.

James considers for a second, briefly thinking as he watched cooling water fall onto Regulus’ splayed and spent back. Then, James thrusts his cock in, all the way, all at once.

Then, three things happen: Regulus screams, throwing his hands out to grab the wall in front of him for balance; the cloth drops from Regulus’ mouth onto the wet tiles below -James chooses to ignore it- and, finally, James gives up all semblance of control he once had.

He begins by viciously slamming his cock into Regulus, aiming each time for his prostate -finding it each time, too. Then, as if being pounded violently from behind wasn’t enough, James reached up to grasp Regulus’ hair from the back, pulling his head to meet James’.

“Is this what you wanted, love?” James asked, licking the shell of Regulus’ ear as Regulus groaned, “you wanted to be fucked like a street whore? Wanted me to fuck you dumb?”

Regulus babbles something in reply, and for a second, James wonders if he’s gone too far, that is, before Regulus begins to please, please, please, please spiel again.

“You’re so fucking easy, Reggie, you just need some cock in you and suddenly you become putty. Is this how I should keep you all the time, riding me day in and day out?” Regulus mutters something that seems to be an affirmative.

James shifts out, “how flexible are you, baby?” and James is equally impressed and turned on as Regulus manages to lift his leg about two-thirds up the half-wall, balancing it there with the power of spite. James manages to mumble a “good boy” before having all autonomy revoked in favor of slamming back into Regulus with both hands-free.

Once he returns to pulling Regulus’ head back, he can continue licking at his ear and jaw. The other he considers moving to Regulus’ nipples or cock, but instead decides to stuff into Regulus’ mouth.

James fucks him like that until Regulus cums again from the overstimulation, then a bit more until the coil in his gut becomes so tight, he fears it might snap.

He cums fast and hard, shooting hot cum into Regulus as they both pant and recover.

James takes it upon himself to spray them off, mainly because Regulus seems so thoroughly out of it he may not be aware the shower is still on. Then, once he has rinsed their chests and stomachs of cum, James reaches around to start Regulus’ ass. It’s then that Regulus starts, slapping James’ hand away, slipping out of the stall, and stating clearly, “I want your cum in my ass while I fly.”

James just about has a heart attack as Regulus skips away to the locker room, hopefully, to dress. 

[felagund-the-valiant]

Procrastination Troubles - Galdor x f!reader

It’s not like Galdor and you were meaning to hide your relationship from your brother – there just never seemed to be a right time to tell him.

Words: 1.1k

Tags: fluff, unintentional secret dating, sibling’s best friend trope

A/N: i will forever have brainrot over that one egalmoth kinktober fic by @doodle-pops. Anywayyy, it was also my introduction to the sibling’s best friend trope and this is my fluffy take on it with Galdor and Glorfindel because they’re besties in my hcs! (Tarnin Austa is the very same festival the Gondolindrim were celebrating the day Gondolin was attacked, in case you want to sprinkle in some potential upcoming angst for yourself.)

“Glorfindel?” You called out and knocked on the door of your brother’s study. He beckoned you inside and you spotted him behind his desk, scribbling away at some letters. “What can I do for you?” He asked as you walked up to his desk. “There’s something Galdor and I want to talk to you about, if you have the time.” You said while unconsciously fidgeting with the necklace around your neck. A shiny emerald dangling from a delicate golden necklace – a courtship gift from Galdor that you cherished deeply. “I’m sorry, (Y/N), I’m afraid I have my hands full – there are still many preparations to be made for Tarnin Austa. Is it urgent? Can it maybe wait a few days?” You sighed internally. The two of you had had this very conversation many times already and there always seemed to be new issues demanding his attention. Part of you was tempted to scold him and remind him that he wouldn’t be drowning in so much work now had he simply began preparations earlier, but you knew it would be a wasted effort. Instead, you opted to force a patient smile, mutter a resigned Yes, of course and departed from his office to seek out your beloved.

You found Galdor in his private garden, kneeling on the ground and tending to a small group of budding flowers with utmost care. His gentle nature was reflected even in the way he cared for his plants, and it was an oddly heartwarming sight. When he spotted you, he rose to his feet and discarded his gardening gloves and apron with a bright smile before drawing you in for a tight hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and then your lips. His kisses were as delicate as the wings of the butterflies drawn to the many scented flowers around you (and those that seemed to be swirling around in your stomach) and you wished he would never stop. “It’s lovely to see you, meleth. What brings you here?” “I spoke to my brother.” You said and a hopeful glint appeared in Galdor’s eyes. “And? What did he say?” You shook your head and the hope turned into disappointment. “No good. Still feeling the consequences of his usual procrastination.” You replied with a roll of your eyes. Galdor huffed but still put on an optimistic face for your sake. “I’m sure we’ll get to tell him soon enough. And I can’t wait.” He gently caressed your cheek. “I can’t wait to stroll through the streets with you on my arm, dance with you at festivals. Show everyone how happy you make me – and hopefully how happy I make you.”

It wasn’t like you were forced into secrecy, you knew your courtship wouldn’t be seen as scandalous with Galdor being a well-respected lord and you being a lady of an equally esteemed house. Rather you had forced yourselves into secrecy, even if it was hard at times. You wanted your brother to be the first person to know but his procrastination made it more than difficult. So, for now, you opted to keep your courtship private. You smiled and covered the hand on your cheek with your own and leaned into the touch. “You make me more than happy, meleth. I love you, from the bottom of my heart.” Galdor leaned down and nuzzled your nose with his. “I love you, too.” He whispered before bestowing another kiss on you.

A few days later, you found yourself in Galdor’s garden again, this time kneeling on the ground beside him. You weren’t exactly skilled when it came to treating plants, but you were determined to get the hang of it for Galdor’s sake since you knew how import it was to him. He’d chosen a simple task for today – helping him with moving some plants from their current pots to bigger ones. You were a little terrified of pulling too tightly and damaging their stems, but the afternoon passed without any plants being hurt in the process, much to your relief. “You did well, (YN).” Galdor praised as you were putting away your tools. “See, I told you it’s not that difficult. You’ve already improved a lot.” “What do I get for being such an excellent gardening assistant?” You asked with a playful grin. “What would you like?” You hummed pensively and pretended to think for a moment even though you already knew your answer. “I suppose a kiss would be adequate compensation.” “A kiss you shall have.” Galdor said with an equally playful grin and met your lips with his, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer to him. You sighed into the kiss and tangled your fingers in his emerald shirt.

“Galdor, Galdor. Your own best friend’s little sister, huh?” A voice suddenly came from behind the two of you, making you part abruptly. You turned around startled to find your brother leaning against a marble column with an amused grin on his face. “Glorfindel!” You and Galdor exclaimed at the same time and exchanged nervous glances. “How long have you been standing there?” You asked. “A while.” He answered with a smirk. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I came here to hopefully find out from Galdor what the two of you want to talk to me about so desperately, but it seems like I already have my answer.” Galdor swallowed and tightened his grip on you a little. “Yes, indeed. (Y/N) and I started courting a while ago and we wanted to tell you properly, but you were always busy.” “We didn’t just want to spring it on you in passing.” You chimed in and Galdor nodded in agreement.

Glorfindel shook his head and walked up to the two of you with pursed lips. He stood before you and Galdor with a seemingly stern expression before breaking into joyful laughter. “Well, that is great news and now I wish I had taken some time earlier. I know ultimately you don’t need my blessing. I can’t tell my sister who she can and can’t court, but I want the two of you to know that I couldn’t be happier with her choice, and you have my full support. But know this”, He held up a hand before grabbing Galdor’s shoulder tightly, “best friend or not, if you break her heart, you will face my wrath.” Galdor nodded with a serious expression on his face. “I would expect nothing less.” Glorfindel smiled contently in return. “Good. Now that that is settled, what say the two of you we meet for dinner this evening to celebrate this joyous occasion?” “Are you sure you don’t have more work to do?” You probed him and he made a dismissive hand gesture. “It’s all right, I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” He said, making Galdor and you let out a quiet synchronised groan.