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leclsrc · 2 years

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see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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skele-ghost · 1 year

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Fuck in the Graveyard (not really)

Summary: (Graves/Reader) You’ve been taking illegal suppressants for wayyy too long, and when you miss a dose, it all comes crashing down.

Content Warning: A/B/O Omegaverse dynamics, reader is afab, female pronouns?, substance abuse, technically is a fuck or die situation, p in v, knotting, brief fingering

Graves is kinda sweet in this one. I’ve never posted my stuff anywhere before and this is the first fic I’ve written in second person. Let me know what y’all think. I do not take requests.

(*˘︶˘*).｡.:*♡

The thing about taking illegal suppressants is that you have to time them perfectly. You’d better have your cycle down to a science, and you’d better take them three days before your heat, during, and three days after—and don’t you dare take them any more than 24 hours apart.

That’s how you wound up completely fucked: you took one dose two hours too late, and now the suppressants were completely ineffective. Was it really your fault? No, you’d been in the middle of a firefight, for fucks sake! But by some sick case of luck and science that made next to no sense, your heat started to build.

You hid being an Omega as much as you could. It wasn’t exactly a secret—it was there in your file for anyone to see. But so long as your heats were taken care of and you weren’t sending every Alpha within a mile radius into a rut, the military was happy.

And you were happy to let them believe that you were taking the regular course of suppressants that they prescribed you, and not the dangerous, high-dose, illegal ones that you preferred. They made your scent next to undetectable and made sure you could actually think straight when you were suppressing your heat, unlike the regular ones.

You were a specialist, an asset of high importance, and you’d be damned if you’d let your own biology stand in the way of that.

That’s why you liked the Shadows. Graves sent you a job offer after working with you on a mission gone sour in Urzikstan. He admired the way you kept your head cool when the world was falling apart around you. Even when you disclosed your designation, he shrugged it off.

“As long as you can keep your head cool like you did out there, we won’t have any problems,” he’d said.

And you’d kept your promise for nearly two years, now. But that was a long time to go without a heat, and a long time to be surrounded by the heady scent of Alpha unclaimed.

You were ashamed of the way you had to take off earlier. Once everyone was back from the mission, in one piece, settled in, you bolted, feeling the heat and sweat cling to you like a second skin.

It was sheer resolve that allowed you to keep the scent patches on for so long, little bandages clamped over your glands with a strong deodorizer, not letting anything out. You nearly passed out from the intense pain of prying them off your neck and wrists, the scent glands over-sensitive to even a breeze.

You blink away the tears quickly; you have to stay focused. You’ll drive to the safe house and crash there, get something planned. You knew the consequences of completely suppressing your heat for so long with such toxic drugs. Now you had to live with the consequences.

The little white farmhouse is remote, nestled deep in an old growth wood. It was beautiful, living up to the pictures you’d seen when Graves had shown it to you as a precaution. It had been in his family for generations before he fixed it up and decided to turn it into a safe house.

You pant as you put the car in park, staring at the building for a moment, your thoughts jumbled and disconjointed. As much as you want to melt into the seat, you have to get inside. A cold shower—that’s what you promise yourself, meek little motivation.

It manages to pull you out of the truck, onto shaky legs that want to collapse underneath you, but you push on.

They key is behind a brick on the foundation beneath the porch. It takes you a moment to remember which one—Graves had only shown you once.

Since you are the only unclaimed omega in the Shadows, he told you where the house was and how to access it. Just in case you had, in his words, “omega-related problems.” It isn’t too far from base. You’d have to figure out some way to show your eternal gratitude for the man…if you ever saw him again.

You retrieve the key and turn to make your way up the stairs, and that’s when things go sideways. You trip on the last step, crashing onto the porch with a force that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

The key falling out of your hand is the last coherent thought that you have before the pain takes over. Your sensitive skin and muscles cry out and it feels like hitting a sore bruise, everywhere.

You whimper, tears rolling down your cheeks as you stare up at the watery image of the porch’s ceiling. There’s a wasp’s nest, gross, but it’s November. They’re either sleeping or dead from the cold.

And thank god it’s cold, because at least your skin doesn’t feel like it’s completely on fire.

You know this is bad. You’ve deteriorated too quickly, the heat sneaking up and hitting you like a blitz attack from the dark.

As much as you hate to admit it, heats are necessary. It gets rid of built-up chemicals in the brain, provides a release to make new ones. Not quite like sleep was necessary, but in a similar fashion.

You’re worried that this one might kill you. You’re worried that if this one isn’t quelled and satisfied, you might end up brain-dead or in an eternal coma like the people in those stories your middle school health class scared you with.

But in the face of death? All that you wish is that you could apologize for the inconvenience. What kind of paperwork would Graves have to fill out for your corpse? Would he get in trouble for not monitoring you, for not knowing about your use of the illegal suppressants?

You slip into unconsciousness, the word ‘sorry’ on the tip of your tongue.

A whimper is all you manage as you stir awake, the first thing you notice being the thick, heavy, intoxicating scent of an Alpha, and one you know.

Graves smells like bonfires and bourbon, or maybe it’s whiskey? You make a breathy moan at the smell, brows furrowing as you feel yourself being carried.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says, his voice making a nice rumble trail down your spine.

He’s holding you bridal style and then holds you close to him as he sits down, tucking your head into his neck so that you can scent him.

It cools the flames slightly, letting your mind clear itself of the fog as you finally stir, opening your eyes.

“Com-mander?” You ask, voice not much louder than a whisper.

He pulls you back, glancing down at you, his blue eyes filled with concern. “(Y/N), what’s going on? You don’t smell right, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Suppressants…not working,” you grit out, whimpering as an uncomfortable cramp begins in your gut.

“The ones you’ve been taking? Why, what’s wrong with them?” He lays you down on the bed he’d been sitting on and you whine at the loss of contact, squinting your eyes shut at the cramping.

You can hear him search through your bag, the one that had been digging painfully into your back a few minutes ago, and you hear the rattle of a pill bottle.

“Oh, (Y/N), you didn’t…” he says, and you can only imagine what his expression is as he looks at the bottle. It’s pretty damning—the prescription bottle with someone else’s name blacked out on it, half empty, label reading exactly what’s inside.

Graves returns to your side, his cool hand on your cheek turning you to look up at him. He looks…betrayed? Crestfallen? Worried, above all else, as he holds the bottle up with one hand.

“(Y/N), tell me you didn’t take these—tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” he demands, the command in his tone making a gush of slick escape you, adding to your already soaked panties.

“M’ sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring up along your waterline.

“Shit, (Y/N),” he growls, tossing the pills onto the bed, running his hands through his hair. “What do I do? You need to go to a hospital, is that it?”

You shake your head, “no, they can’t do anything. And I’d get arrested—ah!” You cry out, curling inwards as a sharp, painful cramp rolls through. Slick gushes out of you again, your organs overproducing as if they need to make up for all the missed heats. After a few agonizing moments it calms down and leaves you gasping, tears rolling down your cheeks.

You know what your options are, you know how fucked up this is, and you know that Graves is probably going to fire you after this—but you also know that you’re not ready for the final alternative.

“Please, it hurts!” You beg, pleading up at the sight of your commander above you, “please, Alpha.”

He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, pursing his lips in that way you’ve always found so hot, “are you sure? You’re not thinking clearly, (Y/N).”

You nod frantically, grabbing his arm and scenting his wrist, keening at the smell, “please, please, Graves.”

His restraint snaps and he climbs ontop of you, pinning your wrists to the bed and placing his mouth on yours. You moan into it, trying to lift you hips up to get some kind of friction to no avail.

He pulls away and you tilt you head aside to give him better access to your neck as he scents you, breathing in deeply and growling. You cry out as he runs his tongue and teeth along the glands.

“I never got a good smell of you, (Y/N), you always wear those damn patches and I always want to rip them off,” he nibbles along your jaw, your whines and whimpers filling the small bedroom.

“Alpha, please,” you beg, desperate, clenching around nothing when you want to be clenching around him. “Inside, please put it inside.”

“I know, baby,” he says, pecking your lips again before he pulls back, hands gliding along your sides as he pulls your shirt off. “You’re burning up.”

Tears prick in the corners of your eyes and you squirm, whining and babbling as he pulls your bra off, too. The cooler air feels nice on your sweat-sheen skin, and you buck your hips as Graves gets off of you, hooking his fingers to pull your pants and panties down in one fell swoop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses, then groans at the sight of your slick, how it clings to your parties in wet strings before he pulls them away.

Your boots are still on and he didn’t get your pants all the way off, but maybe seeing how soaked you are makes Graves hasty.

The most pornographic moan escapes you as he sinks two fingers in your hole, your sweet little cunt sucking them in and clenching down.

“Fuck, good Omega,” Graves groans, slipping in a third finger that has you moaning even louder.

Every spot he hits is the right one, every move pure ecstasy. Your voice is a broken babble of pleads and curses and moans, begging for your commander to fuck you, to take you, to make you his.

You almost sob when he retracts his fingers, not even caring to wipe them as he rolls you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips and pulling them up into the air, right against his own.

Feeling his erection against your ass, you turn downright frantic, “please please please, please fuck me, Alpha, please I need your knot so bad!”

He hisses as you rub against him and he begins unbuckling his belt, which only spurs you on more. He manages to still your hips and get his pants down, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick.

You keen embarrassingly loud as he enters you, slowly letting every inch of himself be swallowed up by your greedy cunt.

When he bottoms out, pressing against your cervix, it’s like a switch flips. You cum, whining as your legs shake, as Graves gasps behind you.

“Goddamn, baby,” he drawls, squeezing into the meat of your hips. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

Your brain is too melted with lust to be able to form any coherent sentence. When he pulls out and slowly thrusts back into you, testing the waters, you all but go limp, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you moan.

“Goooood girl,” he praises, speeding up his thrusts and finding a steady rhythm, your skin slapping together. “So slick and tight for me, omega, good god—“

All you can do is moan and take it. There’s no more painful cramping, and though your skin is still hot it’s not as bad. Your body is getting exactly what it needs: a good, hard fucking by a big, strong Alpha.

“(Y/N),” Graves moans, his voice sounding so sweet to your ears, “so good, baby. Better than I ever imagined.”

You keen at that, at your alpha wanting you—well, he isn’t yours, is he? It makes your heart sting slightly but that’s quickly forgotten with a slap to your ass, sending shockwaves of excitement through you.

You can feel yourself getting tighter, getting ready to be thrown over the edge again, and you can feel Graves speed up his thrusts, his knot slowly beginning to swell inside you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, “gonna give you my knot, gonna fill you up good—“

His thrusts get even harder, even rougher, and you cry out, feeling yourself come tumbling violently over the edge as his knot catches on you, cumming in waves like the sea crashes onto shore.

Graves stills inside you, making good on his promise, shooting ropes and ropes of hot seed. You can feel his swollen knot inside you, just past your entrance, making your pussy full in the most delicious way. You hear him catch his breath before he carefully rolls you both over onto your sides, laying down with you on the bed.

You hum happily as he wraps his arms around you, placing a chaste kiss on your shoulder as both of your ragged breathing calms.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” he says, his voice husky in a way that makes you wish you were his.

“Yeah,” you manage to reply, running your hands along the arms that hold you.

“I don’t want you taking those damn pills ever again,” he growls, making you shiver. “Understand?”

You open your eyes and turn to look at him, confused at the soft expression on his face. It’s almost…vulnerable? Wasn’t he going to fire you?

“Commander?”

“This isn’t up for debate,” he says. Behind his blue eyes is a fire you know well, akin to the one that dances in his eyes on the battlefield. “I’ll drug test you if I have to, but I’m not going to lose you to some stupid suppressants.”

You blink. “You’re not going to fire me?”

“What? No,” he says like you’re crazy for thinking so. “But if you want to stay, darlin,’ we’re going to need to set some ground rules.”

“Okay,” you agree, relieved. You didn’t want to lose your job, it’s a good gig. The employee benefits are killer…and you’d miss your commander.

“It’s simple, (Y/N), no more illegal suppressants, and you come to me for your heats,” that bastard smirk of his returns and you giggle.

“Are you propositioning me, Commander?”

“Hell, yes I am,” he says proudly, reaching up to caress your cheek. “Probably should’ve done it sooner.”

You lean in and kiss him, enjoying how it sweetens his scent. Your heart flutters in place, content, elated; you had only ever dreamed of this. You finally have him.

“Oh, and no more scent patches. You smell too damn good to be covered up.”

You roll your eyes at him, still grinning. “You sure about that? I don’t think you’ll like every other alpha sniffing after me.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll keep you safe,” he says confidently, placing a lingering kiss to your cheek. His eyes hint at something darker, “besides… they’ll catch on.”

#phillip graves #Phillip graves/reader #Graves/Reader #graves x reader #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod x y/n #shadow company #have I ever told y’all how much I hate the name phillip #honestly it’s a turn off ngl #but graves is cute even if he is a war criminal <3 #cod omegaverse #a/b/o #omega reader #alpha!graves

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laylaplease · 10 months

Text

Warnings — Dead dove - do not eat, psychologist!Anakin x reader, manipulation, coercion, captivity, blindfolding, tying up, drugging, loss of consciousness, both Anakin and reader are mentally ill, scissor play, undressing, dub-con, implied murder, hinted homicide, hinted torture, stalker behavior, implied APD, implied suicide, Stockholm syndrome? Generally a messed-up piece of work.

Word count — 3k

Notes — A small project for my friend. Not something I'd normally write, but I took it as a challenge. Not exactly smut, but it's hinted & characters make out. Make sure to read the warning list and be mindful. Wrote it in a different point of view to make it as gender neutral as possible. NOT PROOFREAD.

After seven visits and a night of consideration, I've come to the conclusion that Doctor Skywalker wasn't the correct mental health specialist for me. And it wasn't because he was bad at his job, no, quite the opposite. Anakin Skywalker was an attractive male in his forties. He never shared details about his personal life, and despite that, he managed to create an impression of a person I've known for months, if not years, of my life.

Anakin scared me. Not intentionally, of course. It was what he's supposed to do — pick up the details of me, the patterns of my brain, my movements, and my involuntary fidgeting. He was a modern mind reader, and I couldn't help but wonder if he's aware of every thought I've had when he sat in front of me, with his legs crossed, glasses hanging on the very tip of his nose, a linen button-up with the last button left free. Could he hear what my inner voice was saying during those stolen stares? The gentle tapping of a fountain pen on his notebook told me he could.

He wasn't the only one digging for specifics, though. His purposeful, secretive behavior made me want to figure him out. As if he were my medical project and not the other way around. I knew that it wasn’t ethical; part of his job was to keep the outside world, including his own, off his patients' brains to avoid influencing them. But I needed to know more. Anakin Skywalker was my psychologist, and I was utterly and entirely obsessed with him. Maybe that's exactly why I should stay in therapy. For one reason or another.

It was Tuesday morning, and I woke up especially early for my supposedly last appointment. I wanted to take a longer way to his office and connect all the pieces of private information my ill brain gathered and processed about Anakin. There were plenty of assumptions, facts I couldn’t know for sure, and guesses about his life that were possibly altered by whatever’s been lurking in my brain. However, I loved the image. In my head, Anakin was divorced. The absence of an expensive stone on his ring finger forced me to come to that conclusion. A glimpse of his phone wallpaper portraying two toddlers told me he was a father of two — a boy and a girl with the same gentle but intense stare he wore. The bundle of keys on his office desk told me the kind of car he drove, how many locks his house had, a keychain of his assumed favorite hockey team hinted at what he enjoys doing in his free time. Oh, and he was a smoker, that’s for sure. You could never miss the smell. No matter how many mints he swallowed before my visits or the scent of soap he used to wash his smoke-stained fingers, the cigarette trace was always obvious. But I didn’t mind it, not one bit. His natural smell mixing with the dirt of an addiction on someone who’s supposed to be an example of a perfect intellectual man was like knowing his dirty secret — it was arousing.

I came fifteen minutes early. My doctor worked on the third floor of a five-story commercial building; it was an environment I deemed to be perfectly suitable for a man such as Anakin. Modern architecture surrounded by enough green to not appear like a dystopian haven. And it was an excellent choice for a psychologist office, initially. Personally, however, I thought it was too perfect. Everything surrounding Anakin was a bit too perfect, from the way he carried himself to the choice of his work spot — it always rubbed it in for me that there are people doing okay, people who aren’t chained with the issues of their own heads, uncaged, people who can enjoy that perfect organic modernist dream.

I was going to spend the punctual sixteen minutes outside on a bench before stepping inside and greeting the doctor with a new wave of depression to discolor some of his lively world; after all, that’s what he’s signed up for. I sat down comfortably, not too far from the main entrance, admiring the surrounding park while judging parents chattering around while their strollers were left unattended near the children’s playground. It was enjoyable to see and possibly figure out the mindset of all the strangers and passersby. I felt like my own kind of psychologist, but I never had any intentions to help the people I marked as dysfunctional in one way or another. I lacked some empathy, yes, but that only made my life easier; I wasn’t as attached to problems that weren’t my own, and I could analyze people without their lives influencing mine. My doctor’s fairytale was unfortunately disturbed by the raspy voice greeting me.

“Good morning. You’re early.” Anakin greeted me with a welcoming yet slightly surprised tone. “I’m glad.”

The coffee in his hand told me otherwise; I could only assume though, but he probably expected to spend a good ten minutes alone in his office, enjoying the morning with a hot latte and with no bothering from his patients before his workday even started.

“Good morning.” I nod too nonchalantly for my own liking. It was obvious I was forcing the tone, and if someone is to pick on such a small detail — it’s him.

“Let’s go; I don’t mind starting early.” He smiles, and I can once again can tell what a liar he is.

I follow him inside a white-lit lobby area, where he’s greeted by a few people he’s familiar with. He walks with masculine confidence, and I find myself feeling so disgustingly small beside him, small and insignificant. I wonder if he’s ever aware of the effect his demeanor has on people. It pisses me off and excites me further. It’s a case of mental masochism, and I’m a pathetic victim.

After a few second elevator ride, spiced with his initiated small talk, we enter the office. He offers to make me a cup of tea, giving me a choice of peppermint and lavender. I was about to decline when I reminded myself that it was my last time here and that I had never drunk lavender tea before. So I agree, encouraging him to be generous with sugar.

“Can I assume you being oddly early to come means an improvement in your mood?” He asks as he brews my beverage. It’s almost as if he’s not even working yet, not taking notes and analyzing me, but I know it’s just a facade to make me feel more comfortable.

“Perhaps. More so that I don’t think I’ll be visiting anymore.” I confess and go along with his play.

“Can I ask why?” His broad back turns from me, and I’m greeted with his handsome face. There was no hint of confusion or surprise; you would think he'd expected me to say that.

I shrug my shoulders, following his hands as he stirs my tea and pushes a delicate porcelain cup forward. His voice is nice, but I would much rather stare at him than watch his miserable attempts to help me.

“I don’t think therapy is necessary. Not anymore, at least.” I take a sip of a hot lavender drink, my hands taking the cup involuntary to avoid speaking further. The brim touches my lips, and I hiss in pain from the burning liquid. I swear he chuckles at me.

“I would like to continue seeing you.” He crosses his legs and leans back in his chair. The gaze he’s fixed on me, mixed with the weird silence after he stops asking questions, is making my insides squirm with anxiety. It’s never like that around him.

“You see, y/n, you are an interesting case…” Anakin pushes his glasses up with his index finger, rocking his chair slightly. “You’re an obsessive stalker.” He blurts out as a wide grin spreads across his face. “And I dislike misbehaving patients.” His face is becoming more blurry as we speak, and I feel myself sinking into the velvet cushion of an armchair.

Fucking lavender tea...

I couldn’t tell if I was out for days or mere minutes, but I’m pretty sure if the familiar smell of cigarettes hadn't reached my nostrils, I’d still be asleep. I opened my eyes only to be met with a dark cloth concealing my sight. I know I’m still in Anakin’s office because the sensation under my restrained wrists is of the same velvet chair. I remained still, in hopes of figuring out what’s going on. Only one thing was clear: I shouldn’t have came today yet alone drank tea. That's a gut feeling for you. The blindfold is weak around my eyes, and I guess it’s less for hiding the view and more for intimidating me. Good job, doctor.

“Oh?” Anakin gasps mockingly. “You’re up early, little bird.” He’s standing behind me; one of his hands snakes up my neck, fingers twisting into my hair. “Good.” He tightens the cloth around my eyes.

“There’s something about you. You’re as annoying as you’re pretty, and I can’t decide if I want to keep you as my little pet or get rid of you and mask it as the tragedy of a weak-minded person.”

I can sense him walk away and then make his way back into his chair in front of me. I sat up straight, settling my head towards him to show how little his words were frightening me. My mind’s been playing games on me since I can remember myself, and a mere human couldn’t scare me with ropes and threats when my own head was a prison of torture most of my life.

“I urge you to make that decision now before your next patient finds us in this roleplay of yours.” I tug the restraints on my hands.

Anakin laughs; I can hear him light a cigarette.

“Yeah?” He pauses, probably taking a puff. “You’re stupid. You don’t think you should be scared?”

I know I should be; in fact, I am not mentally ill enough to be oblivious to how messed up my situation actually is. But I’m not scared, and that scares me way more than being held hostage by my own psychologist.

“So what then, doc? Don’t keep me waiting.”

I can feel Anakin rise from his seat and slowly make his way to stand in front of me. I can’t see him, but as he towers over me, I lift my head up. There is that sense of feeling small again. Maybe it’s less about his confidence and more about how twisted his mind is to lure in people like that.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed? You… Digging through me, trying to figure me out... Watching me. You’re sick.” He grabs my chin. ”You’re sick, and it pisses me off.”

“So you decided to tie me up?”

He sighs, and I’m pretty sure he’s fed up with my poor sense of judgment.

“No, I decided to tear up your dignity piece by piece to show you who’s the real maniac between the two of us.” He yanks the blindfold off my face, and I can’t help but wonder if the initial purpose of it was to do just that. It's as if he’s planned every single second of our sick encounter.

His piercing deep blue eyes star into mine intensely, filled with overwhelming emotions of visible hatred and lust, and I am no longer sure if I want to scream into his face or bite his lips off in an intense session of kissing. I want to make him bleed through both pain and pleasure. Can he tell what I think this time too, or is he sane enough to be unaware of the disturbing thoughts spiraling in my scrambled brain?

“Don’t look at me like that.” He says it with a disgusted tone.

“Do you not enjoy my stare, doctor?"

I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know why my tongue moved in such a seductive manner when I spoke to him. Maybe it was the fruit of his manipulation, making me feel safe, making me trust him, and then turning me into a mindless vessel that craves his approval. Or maybe my problems dive deeper into my body, and it’s just who I am. Maybe sickness excites me.

Whatever the reasoning, it seemed to amuse him. Though I still couldn’t read if his amusement was based on hatred for that twisted attraction he obviously felt towards me, part of me wished it was later.

“You’re a masochist.”

“And you’re a sadist.”

Anakin raises his eyebrow. “So you agree?”

We were both right, but I wasn’t just going to sign up for him hurting me. Or at least not this easily. As I wonder how this is going to go, he leaves the room.

I like to think he’s keeping me because he finds me desirable. It doesn’t exactly make the whole captive situation better, but hell, it’s satisfying when you’re entertaining enough for a man such as Anakin to consider not murdering you instantly. For other eyes, it would make his image less perfect, but to me, he’s becoming better by a second.

Anakin comes back with a pair of metal scissors in his hand. He towers over me again, this time raising my chin with a cold blade.

“You’re not letting go of that stare, are you, darlin’?” He bites his lip, looking down at me.

The stinging blade traces down my neck, sliding over my right collarbone. The thicker skin he reaches, the more pressure he’s applying, yet he's not breaking the flesh, only leaving a red, tingling line. It drags over my clothed shoulder and down the sleeve of my shirt. He does it slowly, not breaking eye contact, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. I question if I am as special as I thought I was.

“You have no idea what I am going to do to you.” He leans down to whisper as he hooks the cutting edge under the cuff and cuts into it.

A cold sensation sends shivers up my arm when he lets the two blades rip through the material all the way up to the neckline, leaving my left limb completely free of clothing. The dust particles tickle my nose, causing a sharp inhale, which he mistakes for fear.

“Scared?”

Not a chance. It’s better than just undressing me; it gives a sense of foreplay, whether before sex or murder. He repeats the same process on my other sleeve.

“You like playing with your food?”

Anakin grins widely. I think he’s liking me more and more. "Oh, how I’ll enjoy devouring you, my sweet dessert."

He drops down to his knees, placing his hands on my thighs to keep them apart and give him more access to be closer to me. He cuts into the hemline of my shirt and rips it across the middle, parting it and exposing even more of me for his eyes to eat. He doesn’t stop there and digs the point of the scissors into my chin, causing a painful sting. I look into his eyes, clouded with darkness, biting my teeth together to avoid hissing from the ache.

“Mouth.” He says that, and my lips part involuntary, as if he had control of my own body.

He slides the scissors fully into me, leaving only the rings hanging out.

“Bite.”

I clench my teeth against the metal to prevent myself from choking. Anakin looks at me proudly, as if saying how good I am for listening to his orders. He grabs the waistband of my pants and commands again.

“Hips.”

I lift myself up, and before I know it, I’m almost entirely naked, tied to a chair, with scissors digging into the back of my throat. And I don’t think ever in my life I’ve been this turned on by a mere thought of being hurt.

He stands up, grabbing the tool out of my mouth and yanking it out without any consideration. With trembling hands, he starts cutting the ropes off my wrists.

“I’m about to die from the feelings you make me feel.” He groans.

Once my hands are free, I clash into him like an animal freed from a cage who’s been deprived of meat. His lips lash onto mine, and his arms grab my thighs and lift me up against him. He’s kissing me, and my body’s burning with sickness and desire. Anakin carries me to his desk, sweeping all the papers and stationary on the ground with a loud, crashing sound, breaking whatever’s fragile and unlucky enough to interfere with our twisted fantasy.

Anakin’s teeth graze the skin on my neck as he throws me to lay on the wooden tabletop. He digs his teeth into my flesh, making me gasp. He’s marking my body with deep red bruises, and I wonder if it’s to hurt me, taste me, or make me see the sars. I’m pretty sure all three things are happening at the same time, though.

He pulls away for a second just to force his tongue into my mouth. And I kiss him. I crave him. I want to make him feel weak for not killing me; I want to make him feel vulnerable for giving into his desires, but the only one who’s feeling small is me. Just like every other time. I keep kissing him, tasting his spit in my mouth as it smears over my chin from how hungrily he’s working. And he keeps devouring me. He keeps devouring me, and I can’t force myself to stop him.

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nspired1fanfiction · 5 months

Text

Commission for Ichor & Pomegranate

Art by MadBedlam , Fanfic Art

Chapter 3:

"Fortunately, with Marcia's case still being an active investigation, we've been able to keep the church closed. Only the forensic investigator has been in and out of the building since the initial crews came in." He answered as he handed her the crime scene investigation kit. "If we find the pinecone, I'll let you bag it. I want you to make your assessments like you have been."

"Yes, sir," Jill murmured while she studied the contents of the kit before closing it back up.

The double doors to the church were locked and she watched Wesker pull out a set of keys from his pocket before he paused and glanced down at her.

"Did you bring your tension wrenches?" he asked with another cock of his head.

With her mouth dropping open slightly, "Sir, that's a crime." When his eyebrows went up, she quirked her lips, patted a pouch on her belt, and continued, "Of course I did. May I?"

"You may not, Valentine," his tone was colored with amusement when he put the key in the door and pushed it open. "I just wanted to be certain that my little B&E Specialist was adequately prepared."

She smiled at his back from his usage of her previous taunt back in the car and followed him through the threshold.

The tall chandelier hung a good ten feet from the vaulted ceiling and was bright enough to light the rich textures of the following room.

"Beautiful," Jill breathed into the muted atmosphere of the Nave.

Her captain shifted beside her, but he made no comment on the scenery and was instead looking toward a taped off area to the right.

She followed behind him again as he led her down the row of dark walnut pews. Their steps were muffled on the royal red runner carpet. The surrounding floor was made of tile; the polished surface reflected the many angles of the church as they moved.

"The nave, the main room in churches, were always my favorite," she spoke aloud while she followed. "The design was adapted by the early Christian builders from the Roman hall of justice, the basilica. The nave of the early Christian basilica is generally lighted by a row of windows near the ceiling, the clerestory." She pointed even though he wasn't looking back at her.

"You seem to have a continuous religious theme about you. A passion you follow through on Sundays perhaps?" her captain responded after a moment.

They both came to a stop where the crime scene tape marked the beginning of the tracking site.

"No." she winced when her response came out somewhat harshly. "Frankly, I find the levels of fanaticism... worrying; the spoken word of gospel calls for a lot of unnecessary violence. I've seen groups of people cling to some atrocious things in the name of God. Whether I believe or not is my secret, but I do not attend church."

"Yet, you find yourself clinging to the written word of a polytheistic religion." He lifted the tape and motioned for her to step through.

"And what of you, captain? Do you prefer the stories of the gods, one god, or none at all?" She held the tape for him while he stepped through next.

"I believe in knowing them all."

Jill tilted her head up at him and was somewhat pleased for a little more detail, even if it was rather vague.

"For what purpose?" she asked curiously.

"Stories have always been man's easiest weapon." He removed his glasses and set them carefully into his breast pouch on his vest before jutting his chin toward the stained-glass window on their right. "That was the original purpose for windows like these. To teach the gospel to those who couldn't read. What better power than to teach belief, Valentine?"

Grabbing the CSI kit from his hand, Jill pondered the thought while she cracked open the box and handed him gloves before she carefully donned her own.

The silence rang out and Jill wasn't sure he expected an answer from her. He turned from her then and began to move to where they had noted the pinecone in the picture that hung over to their right.

Stooping low, she watched his tall form lower to a crouch as he glanced beneath the pew in the front portion of the corner space.

"You'll need to grab it from your side; it's still here. Are you capable of bagging this on your own?"

Jill glanced over to see him holding out the tweezers to her. Once more, she met his challenging stare before her gloved fingers wrapped around the tweezers and pulled the instrument from him.

"I haven't let you down yet," she murmured and turned for the task.

"Indeed," he said quietly, now behind her when she carefully knelt on her side of the pew and gazed under the wood.

#resident evil #jill valentine #albert wesker #fanfiction #weskertine #greek mythology #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #resident evil 1 #pre resident evil 1 #Madbedlam art

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petcr3 · 1 year

Text

something to rely on | chapter one

series masterlist (coming soon!)

summary: despite being separated, bob floyd is there to support his wife and their son after she sustains some injuries in a car accident.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: separation/divorce, reader is frequently referred to by she/her pronouns, is called bob's wife/ex-wife, mrs. floyd, etc. bob and reader have a son, but i have tried to be as inclusive as possible with regards to appearance and the type of family! (meaning, if i've done my job correctly, charlie can have been adopted, not necessarily carried by the reader, etc.) non-graphic reference to a car accident, non-graphic description of injuries. chapter one is set entirely in a hospital. readers parents are present in the story, still married, and have a good relationship with reader because this is fantasy lol

a/n: lads, it's here. some of you have been hearing me blather about this story for fucking ages and chapter one is finally done. i'm proud of it, i think, but if nothing else i simply cannot keep sitting on it, so here it is! very excited for this story's future <3 i hope you love charlie as much as i do lol

It’s a rare occasion that one hears Bob Floyd before seeing him, but you suppose your getting into a car accident is a special enough occasion.

Things feel hazy–– with two broken wrists and a broken leg, you’ve been given quite the painkiller. You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake, exactly, but it can’t have been very long. There’s a digital clock on a small table next to your hospital bed, but your neck is too sore to turn far enough over to see it. A thick wooden door is shut against the buzz of the floor outside: the ringing of phones, the click of computer keys, and the clatter of patients being wheeled to and from scans and tests and specialists.

Even amidst all that, the sound of Bob’s words cuts through. He’s raising his voice, you realize. That’s not like him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse says on the other side of the door, “but outside of visiting hours I can only admit family, and––”

“I am family,” he says, impatient.

“I understand that, but when a patient is separated––”

“Separated,” Bob interrupts, “not divorced. That is my wife and the mother of my child, so will you please let me see her?” It sounds much more like a demand than a question. The nurse sighs, clearly frustrated.

“Let me go speak to her.” She steps out from behind the counter and cuts Bob a severe look. “If she is awake, I’ll let her know you’re here. But given that rest is one of the most crucial things for her right now, I will not be waking her up. You can wait.”

“Thank you,” comes his clipped reply. The nurse approaches your room, only a few steps away from the front desk–– Bob would have just gone straight in, had he known— and when the door creaks open, he can be seen standing over her shoulder–– a respectful distance behind, at least.

“Ma’am, there’s someone here to see you,” she says. You can tell it’s taking everything Bob has not to run to you, but he’s smart enough to know that showing this nurse any more disrespect isn’t wise. “He says he’s your husband,” she continues, “but if you don’t want to see him, I can tell him to leave.”

“No, that’s okay,” you say, “he can come in.” She turns around only to discover Bob right behind her. He squeezes quickly past, murmuring a hurried thank you before practically flying to your bedside. All his frustration quickly dissipates as he leans over you, a deep furrow in his brow. Over his shoulder, you see the nurse shake her head, exasperated, and leave, shutting the door behind her.

“Hey honey,” Bob says, hand lifting to brush across your cheek, as if it’s two years ago and nothing has changed. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m okay, Bobby,” you reply, tired. You surprise yourself, though, using his old nickname like that. Since you two broke up, you’ve only ever called him Bob. “Someone lost control of their car in the rain, apparently. You owe that nurse an apology.”

“And I’ll give her one later. First I need to know that you’re okay.”

“I just said that I’m okay,” you laugh softly. “Bob, I’m fine.” Reluctantly, he nods, leaning back to grab at a chair. He won’t even stand all the way up, refuses to take his eyes off you lest you run off somewhere else to nearly get yourself killed.

“How’s Charlie; is he with your parents?” You nod, heart clenching at the thought of your son, how distressed he must be right now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice getting a little watery. “Yeah, I got to talk to him a little while ago. He wants to come visit after my surgery tomorrow.” Bob’s brow furrows.

“Surgery?”

“Just my left wrist. The right one and the leg only need braces, but,” you sigh, “yeah, the left one took the door pretty hard, so.” He nods.

“How about your head? All okay up there, no bleeding?”

“I have a concussion, but that’s all. They know what they’re doing here, Bob. Don’t worry. I’m gonna be just fine.” He studies you for a moment, then sighs, nodding his head again. “Not so fun being on the other side of it, huh?” you say without thinking. It isn’t meant to be cutting, but blue eyes snap up to your face, a faint expression of shock on Bob’s features.

Still, you have a hard time feeling too guilty. How many times have the roles been reversed? How many times have you held your baby boy to your chest murmuring reassurances that you can’t promise are true? How many times has Bob been gone, unable to tell you he was okay or even alive? Or looked up at you under the harsh white light of a hospital room on base and told you there was nothing to worry about when you both knew that there was?

Bob schools his expression into something a little softer and gives a curt nod. You can’t decide if that was over the line. But that had always been the problem, hadn’t it?

Neither of you had known how easy it would be to push each other over their limits. You’d thought love and a thick skin would be enough to survive the looming fear of losing your husband. Bob had thought it would be easier to outrun the guilt he always felt leaving you behind, the way it weighed on his chest like an anvil. Eventually, your wounds were rubbed raw and his ribs began to crack beneath the pressure.

The times when he was home were supposed to be precious, but they had become tense, uncomfortable. It wasn’t good for either of you, and it certainly wasn’t good for three-year-old Charlie. Splitting up had been the best choice, even though it pained you both to admit it.

Bob had been adamant about a separation rather than a divorce. Ex-spouses of the military were still entitled to some benefits, but for Charlie’s sake and yours he wanted to remain legally married. You’d both agreed that if you met other people and got serious enough, a divorce would be back on the table. It hadn’t been the easiest decision, but now, laying in a hospital bed, you can’t help but feel grateful. And how many people can say their ex husband came rushing to their side in an emergency?

Regret is already creeping up across your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, reaching to touch the back of his hand. Your fingers brush awkwardly against his skin where they protrude from your brace, but you can see the gesture means something to him–– his eyes shine a little sadly when he looks at you. He gives a faint shake of his head.

“S’okay. Me too.”

Despite your best efforts to persuade him otherwise, Bob stays the night in your room, sleeping with his legs slung across a second chair the nurses had been kind enough to provide for him. (He’d apologized to the nurse he spoke to when he arrived, and she’d taken it rather graciously, all things considered. In her place, you’re pretty sure you would have had him thrown out.) You fall asleep fairly easily, exhaustion having taken its toll, but you wake up in the wee hours needing the bathroom. You press the call button, hoping it won’t wake your sleeping companion, but Bob rouses when Jermaine, one of the nurses, comes in. The whole bathroom song and dance is a process you certainly don’t enjoy, but you’ve gotten used to it over the past several hours.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” Jermaine quips, walking to your bedside.

“I keep guzzling water when he’s not looking,” you say, nodding towards a still groggy Bob. Jermaine only laughs and pulls back the covers.

“All right, ready?”

“Yep.” You grimace as he braces his hands beneath your armpits to help lift you up enough to get into your wheelchair. You sigh as Jermaine rolls you to the bathroom and braces an arm around your waist to help you onto the toilet. The door stands open, but you’re too drained to care–– besides, this isn’t anyone’s first rodeo.

You don’t see the way Bob’s eyes widen with worry. How he watches each maneuver carefully, filing it away in the back of his mind. The decision had been made before he walked through the door, really, but seeing you struggle only cements it. He doesn’t say anything as Jermaine helps you back to bed–– only a quiet thank you as the nurse leaves the room. He can talk to you about his plan tomorrow.

A low murmur of voices filters into your consciousness as you wake that morning, your eyes flickering open to see Bob standing with Dr. Alvarado, who will be performing your surgery. She notices you shifting in your bed and comes to your side, Bob following suit on the opposite, returning to his seat.

“Good morning, Mrs. Floyd,” she says warmly, “how are we feeling?” Your mouth is dry and you swallow thickly before responding.

“I’ve been better,” you rasp, wincing at the scrape of your voice. Bob is holding out a cup of water before you even have a moment to think, and you start to reach for it before faltering. In the fog of waking up, you’d almost forgotten.

“I’ve got it,” he says quietly, bringing it to your lips. You drink, far too worn out to protest.

“Your procedure is scheduled for 12:30 this afternoon. It’s about 8:15 right now. That’ll give you some time to rest before pre-op. I’ve also been told you have a special visitor, if you feel up for it.” Your heart lifts, and you can’t help but look expectantly up at Bob.

“Charlie?”

The hopeful lilt of your voice splinters something in his heart. He smiles, tight-lipped but genuine all the same, and nods.

“Uh-huh. I know you said the plan was post surgery, but your mom called saying they were up and ready to go. I figured you’d want to see him.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice high and thin, “yeah I’d like that.” Dr. Alvarado smiles.

“I’ll let them know. They’re all very anxious to see you.” You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. Ordinarily, you try not to let Charlie see you crying. With the separation, you’ve been doing everything you can to be his rock. You remember how scary it was when you were a child to see your parents upset, or worse, hurt. But today, you don’t know if you’ll quite be able to manage it. Gracelessly, you swipe at the tears on your cheeks, but before long, Bob is at the ready again, tissue box extended toward you. You nod your thanks and clasp one in between your fingers. Blotting is much easier.

You’ve just about gotten it together when the door opens again.

“Mommy?” Charlie calls, and you hate how you can hear the frightened tremble of his voice. He makes it a few steps over the door jamb when he sees Bob.

“Daddy!” For a heartbreaking moment, wide eyes dart between the both of you, unsure of where to run.

“Go say hi to Daddy, sweetheart,” you say, heart swelling to see the reunion. Charlie beams and runs directly into Bob’s arms.

“Hey, big man!” he says, scooping Charlie off the ground in a strong embrace. “I missed you so much, little bear.” He presses a big kiss to your son’s cheek and is rewarded with a delighted giggle that has you crying again. Hurriedly, you dab at your eyes once more.

Your parents enter the room behind Charlie, your mother’s smile wavering and your dad’s brow furrowed. The braces make hugs awkward, but your parents’ presence is an enormous comfort.

“Charlie’s been very brave,” your father informs you. “And we’re all very glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” you say wetly, wishing you could hold their hands. “I love you guys.”

You cast a glance over to your left, where Bob and Charlie are engaged in conversation, faces close together and voices hushed. Watching Bob parent has always made your heart ache, even now when things have fallen apart. He was meant to be a father, plain and simple. People who don’t know him might expect a Navy man to be gruff, tough on a child, especially a son. But Bob is all gentleness when it comes to your Charlie. He is patient and invested and even though you two aren’t together, it’s difficult to imagine parenting Charlie with anyone else.

You tear your gaze away to talk with your parents, explaining what happened and asking about how Charlie has been coping over the course of the last few hours.

A few feet away, Bob has his son cradled close in his arms.

“I was really scared,” Charlie confides in him, “but I gotta be brave for Momma.” Bob’s heart breaks just a little, and he smooths a hand over Charlie’s hair. Perhaps this instinct to protect is just built into the little boy– knowing you and Bob, that’s a distinct possibility. But Bob can’t help but worry it’s a result of the split.

“You don’t have to be brave for Momma, honey,” he says softly. “That’s our job. Parents get to be strong for their kids, not the other way around. It’s okay to be scared when someone is hurt. And it’s also okay to express that. Especially with me and Mommy. And being strong doesn’t mean you can’t feel your feelings. In fact, being able to feel your feelings is a part of what makes a person strong, because some feelings are really hard.” Charlie listens to his father with rapt attention–– he always has. “But it’s important not to ignore them. Does that make sense?” He nods sagely when Bob is done talking.

Bob can’t help but smile, heart swelling with affection. It’s moments like these when he thinks he could leave it all if it meant getting to spend every second of every day with his baby boy.

“Should we go say hi?” he asks, bouncing Charlie gently against his hip. Charlie nods, his gaze flickering over to you.

Though you’re talking with your parents, you can’t take your eyes off of your son. Call it selfish, but ever since you’d been able to think straight you’ve wanted nothing more than to see him. You’re reaching out for him the second Bob starts towards you, but he gives you a look.

“With your leg?” he asks quietly, even though Charlie is right there in his arms.

“I still got one good one,” you quip,” and I think a hug is gonna help me get better much quicker. Besides, all my problems are below the knee— I’ll be fine.”

Bob has always had trouble saying no to you.

“Be gentle, okay bud?” Charlie nods.

Carefully, he sets Charlie down in your lap, positioning him mostly on your uninjured right leg.

“Hi baby,” you beam, the pain you’re in practically forgotten. “I’m so happy to see you!” Charlie snuggles immediately into your chest, eyes impossibly big when they look up at you. Tucking him under your arm is awkward, but you do it anyway.

“Hi Mommy,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid talking too loudly will hurt you.

“Hi,” you say again, matching his hushed voice, smile wider than it’s been for the duration of your stay. Bob stands slightly off to the side, feeling a little bit like an intruder. Still, he can’t help but watch the way your eyes sparkle when you look at your son. He’s never seen anything like it.

A gentle hand on his shoulder catches his attention, and he turns to see your mother, her expression warm. He counts himself incredibly lucky that your parents don’t hate him. Sometimes he hates himself for what happened, and yet they still treat him like one of their own. The three of them exchange hushed greetings, each thanking one another for taking care of the two of you.

Over in your hospital bed, you’re playing with the ends of Charlie’s hair. He’s been telling you about everything that happened between yesterday afternoon and now, cheerily informing you of how much he cried and how he got to choose what he and your parents had for dinner last night. You drink in every detail with enthusiasm, grateful as ever for his enormous heart and his resilience.

“I was really scared,” he says softly after a moment. You nod.

“I bet. I was scared too.”

“Daddy says it’s okay to be scared.”

“Daddy’s right, baby. It’s more than okay to be scared. It’s important— it’s how our brains keep us safe.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. You know how I’m scared of snakes?” Charlie nods. “Well, not every single snake is dangerous, right? But there are some that are. And because my brain remembers that some snakes are dangerous, I get a little scared when I see them. That fear is my brain telling me to be careful and stay safe.”

“So I was scared because it’d be dangerous if you got hurt?”

“Kind of! It can also be scary to not know what’s happening, right? Because if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s hard to get ready to deal with it. And it can be scary to know that something sad might happen, because it’s hard to feel sad.”

“I don’t like feeling sad,” Charlie says, nodding his understanding.

“Me neither, baby bear. But today I’m not even sad, because you’re here.” Your son’s cheeks turn pink and he hides your face in his chest. Heart swelling with fondness, you cross your arms over his back in an awkward embrace and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Is it okay if I’m a little sad?” he asks, voice muffled by your hospital gown.

“Of course it is, sweetheart. You gotta feel your feelings. And feelings don’t last forever; they change all the time, right?”

“Right.”

Out of sight, Bob swipes a few tears from his eyes. He’s always proud of Charlie, but he’s proud of you, too–– with three limbs freshly out of working order, you would be well within your rights to be out of sorts, but there you sit, still parenting admirably. Beautifully, even. Your father squeezes Bob’s shoulder and he looks up, almost a little startled. Your father smiles and the two men exchange a nod.

Your mother steps over to your bed and pets a hand over Charlie’s hair.

“I think me and Grandpa are gonna go home for a little while, honey,” she says to him before looking at you and resting a hand on your shoulder. “Someone gave us a good scare yesterday and I don’t think either of us slept very well. We’re both a little worn out.” Suddenly, she seems to catch herself. “Unless you want us to stick around and––”

You shake your head and reach out an appreciative hand to cover hers.

“Go get some rest, Ma.” She nods.

“We will. But we’ll be back when you come out of surgery. Bobby told us he’d keep us updated.” Too tired to even think that far ahead, you nod.

“Thanks for looking after Charlie,” you say, tangling your fingertips with hers.

“Well, that’s my pleasure,” she says, pressing a loud kiss to her grandson’s cheek. “And we can figure out next steps, we’ll find someone—“

“Mom,” you say softly, “let's just— can we take things one step at a time for now?” She nods–– the anxiety of it all reads clear on your face.

“You know, you’re right. Let’s get you through surgery first.” You nod, grateful. “We’ll see you soon, then.” Your mother smiles and turns to get her bag. Charlie giggles as his grandfather comes over to playfully jostle his shoulders.

“Be good for your mom and dad, okay kiddo?” Charlie nods eagerly.

“That’s my guy,” your dad says fondly, giving your son a hug before turning his attention to you. “You give ‘em hell in there.”

“What,” you laugh, “in surgery? Dad, it’s just my wrist; I’m gonna be fine.” He shrugs.

“Can’t hurt though, right?” he says lightly, but you can see a glimmer of anxiety in his eyes. He leans down to kiss your cheek and you return the gesture.

“Right,” you affirm, softening. “I love you, Dad. I’m gonna be okay.” Your dad gives a final nod and links arms with your mother as they leave the room.

It’s so easy to forget that to him— to both your parents— you are still a child. Charlie is still so young, it feels impossible that he’ll ever be as old as you are now. Of course, you still marvel at the fact that he’s as big as he is; that he can walk and talk and do math equations and paint pictures. But it’s easier to manage how much he’s grown because you can still bundle him up in your arms and count on one hand how many birthdays he’s had. Maybe if you were having less of an emotional day, you’d be able to imagine what it’ll be like when he’s grown up, but you can feel tears welling up in your eyes again so you push the thought out of your mind.

“Mommy?” Charlie asks, bringing your attention back into the present.

“Mm?”

“Did Grandpa use a bad word because he’s very stressed?” Laughter sputters out of you before you can help it, and Bob raises an amused eyebrow.

“Yeah, baby,” you say, “I don’t think he was thinking very hard about which words he was choosing. He just meant that he wants my surgery to go well, that’s all.”

“It’s like telling someone to give it their all,” Bob explains, coming to sit down at your bedside again.

“It’s what Daddy does when he’s on a deployment,” you offer, curling your arm into something akin to a flexed muscle, “he gives ‘em heck.”

“And that’s what Momma’s body is gonna do when she’s in surgery. It’s gonna do everything it needs to do to keep her safe while she’s asleep.” Charlie looks between you two, worry creeping back into his features at the mention of the surgery.

“Hey,” you murmur, “I’m going to be okay, Charlie-bear. I promise. Sometimes things can go wrong during a surgery, but the likelihood of anything bad happening is very, very low.” Charlie nods, wide-eyed. “So there isn’t anything to worry about sweetheart. But it’s still okay to be scared, right?”

“Right,” comes his hushed reply. Your heart aches not to be able to soothe his anxiety, but you know there’s no sense in trying to talk him out of it–– especially in the wake of what you’ve been trying to teach him. Still, it seems to you that the rules shouldn’t apply to Charlie, with his delicate soul and enormous heart.

Bob lays a comforting hand on your son’s back and his little form immediately relaxes into the touch. The three of you sit in comfortable silence for a little while, but soon the door creaks open and Jermaine enters with a wheelchair.

“Is this Charlie?” he asks brightly.

“It is!” you chirp. The boy in question looks up shyly. “Charlie, this is my friend Jermaine. He’s been helping me since I got to the hospital.”

“Your mom is a tough lady,” Jermaine says warmly, squatting to be closer to Charlie’s eye level. “I promise we’re gonna take very good care of her.” Charlie nods.

“Pinkie promise?” he asks, heartbreakingly earnest. Jermaine smiles.

“You got yourself a deal.” He locks his pinkie with Charlie’s and stands up. “I’ve gotta take Mom for a couple of tests before her procedure, and then we’re gonna take her off to surgery. But you’ll get to see her in a few hours when she wakes up, okay champ?” Charlie holds on to you a little tighter and peers up at his dad, who nods encouragingly.

“Okay.”

“Mom is very lucky to have people that care about her so much,” Jermaine says. “You should be proud.” A little divot of determination forms between Charlie’s brows and he nods. Bob starts to stand and Charlie clambers around to give you one last hug.

“I love you Mommy,” he says. You squeeze him as tightly as you can and press a big kiss to his cheek.

“I love you too, baby bear. I’m gonna see you so soon, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, a heartbreaking waver in his voice. You give him another kiss before Bob scoops him up again, and before you know it, Jermaine is wheeling you off into the hospital halls.

Back in your room, Bob has Charlie wrapped up in a tight embrace.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby bear,” he coos, “everything’s gonna be okay.”

#something to rely on #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fic #top gun fanfiction #top gun reader insert #bob floyd reader insert #bob floyd x you #quinn writes #petcr3 writes #my writing #bruh im sweating #lewis pullman x reader #robert floyd x reader #ok fuck it we ball

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iceprincessviviane · 1 year

Text

Chapter 4 - It's a cleaning day.

Heritage series.

Pairing: Poly!BTS (Demons) x Female!Shy!Skinny!Chosen!Reader

Type: dark romance, horror au, soulmate au, poly relationship, slowburn, yandere.

Warnings: Horror themes, some religion themes (mostly demonic), gore, blood, manipulation, witchcraft, magic themes, death (side characters), mentionings of forced marriage, mentioning about past, loss, yandere, obsessive, possessive, swearing, low self-esteem,dealing with grief, sugestive content and silly jokes created by me. (If there is more to add let me know.)

Previous chapter. Next chapter.

Summary: such a big mansion needs cleaning and this is the time, Y/N will take that challenge. Also having a company during that seems like nice idea.

Author's note: That chapter can be little boring, but I love diving into details in such stories 😌 English isn't my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes.

MINORS DNI

Next day started slowly, Y/N woke up around 9 a.m with cat still resting near her legs unbothered and curled. She carefuly got up, trying not waking it up and went straight into bathroom to take a shower. Today'll be a day when she is going to take care of mansion. The supplies were filled and she had a car on herself, so nothing was staying in a way. When she went out wearing nothing but sweatshirt, pants and lavender scent, cat lifted it's head then stretched gracefully. They both reached big kitchen when he got a bowl filled with fish and another one with water and Y/N made herself fruit salad. She also checked the list, today was a clearing day, mostly vaccuming and removing dust from the shelves in her room, than clean the bathroom. Cat jumped at her lap and demanded headscratched, which she gladly provided after ending the eating.

"I'm going to call you Ash." Y/N decided and animal just tilted it's head to right. "Your fur remind me of it's color."

The pet's head tilted a little to right, like he was thinking about that, but then nuzzled head into her hand. She smiled and got that as acceptance. After the breakfast cat was allowed outside, when Y/N took vaccum, some rubbers and broom upstairs to her room. The cleaning went smoothly, the most took main area of the masterbedroom, along with it's shelves. The bathroom was suprisingly clean, so she headed to the next room. Till the noon the cleaning lasted, she was suspecting that anyway the unused rooms will again gather dust, but at least any stains or another dirty things'll be gone. Probably the specialist from goverment is used to work with little dust. The biggest challenge will be the main room in 0 level and library. Y/N made herself a break and prepare lunch for herself and Ash, but despite opening doors, the cat was missing. She was slighty worried, something could happen to him or he just left. The cats have their own paths.

Lunch wasn't big but it was a chance for her to take a breath before cleaning the last room on this side. It was a first one - office, with a lot of shelves, that big and old desk with drawers. Y/N tried to clean it carefuly and it came out that some of the drawers are closed and around were no keys. Maybe they were in the ring given by the mayor? It was to check later. Actually she could work here to prevent dust coming here again. The desk was spacious, her laptop and work things would fit perfectly. The clearing ended in late afternoon with also vacuuming big hall on the parter and then Y/N ate a dinner, for supper left once again snadwiches.

When she wanted to go nap a little, the entry phone has ringed. There was also camera to check who's outside and maybe don't bother to go whole way to the gate. To her surprise, outside were two men, one holding something looking like cooking sheet and another one currently looking at camera. She pressed button to talk, said quickly 'coming' then changed shirt to clean one and got outside.

Through gate metal rods Y/N could see them more clearly two visitors, closer one had to her surprise thin, but long coat followed by jeans and lether shoes. His skin was very pale and dark grey, longer hair almost reaching the shoulders. Taller than her and bigger, was holding serious expression. The cookies guardian had brown lether jacket and also jeans but looked more sports, had black raven hair, but cut short in modern style. He was thinnier and looked more deftly. On his was has huge smile and simple glasses. Indeed in his hands were cooking sheet. Y/N came closer with unsure steps and hesitant smile.

"Good morning!" Second one said with happy tone, causing his company to focus on a gate.

"Hi, what's the matter?" She asked in polite voice and open the gate door.

"We've heard that you are new here, so my boyfriend conviced me to come here and say hi, also hand over some of our cookies." The first said in calm and slow tone.

"That's true, actually everyone is saying that I'm new here." Y/N admitted shyly.

"Yea, the words are spreading fast, we just wanted to be nice."

"I'm Hoseak and that grumpy cat over here is Yoongi."

"Thank you, I'm Y/N L/N." They've exchanged the handshake.

"How's everything? It had to be a big change." Yoongi asked looking at the mansion.

"It was a surprise, but I'm trying to catch up with everything here, it's so new and actually quite interesting."

"We are renting cozy cabinet in the woods so it's different." Hoseok admitted and smiled. "Here there are homemade cookies, I hope you'll like them." He said and showed chococlate sweets.

"Oh thank you, but I'm afraid it's too much."

On the sheet were at least twenty. Simple with pieces of chocolate. He handed them over to her and smile has never left his face.

"If you are going to need something we can help. Living alone in such mansion as a woman can be overwhelming. Also it's age doesn't help." Yoongi offered generously.

"Once again thank you, but I'm doing fine for now. Also another residents offered me help, it's so nice. I'm not alone, I just found a stray cat and things are going all right I guess." Y/N smiled nervously.

Couple exchanged soft looks and Yoongi nodded. They seem so different, she could never guess that they were together. They were like sun and moon. The thought strike her a little, she looked at necklace, which was always with her. Men's gaze followed but she failed to notice.

"It's good to have even animal company." Yoongi said and his lips twitched.

"Oh yes, actually your hair's color remind me of Ash fur."

"Oh don't even say thay, Hobi is calling me a cat just enough times." He rolled his eyes and his boyfriend giggled softly.

"It's because you're cat darling. You like to sleep whole day, eat and when eveything is quiet. You also don't really like water."

Y/N smiled at their little bittering. It was so wholesome and calming. "Are you here on holidays?"

"Yes kind of. I'm professional dancer and Yoongi is a music producer." Hoseok explained happily.

"I think, I can imagine how you both met for the first time." She giggled softly.

"Yea, we met at work. Anyway, we just wanted to say hi and see, if you need something. We are going to go. Also be careful, becauae the weather is going to be moody this week."

"Thanks, I hope we can meet maybe in town if you want." She summed up.

They bid their goodbyes and Yoongi left his number in any case. It was so surprising and she was truly touched by all those good people living here and wanting to help her. Usually in those small towns new persons are treating with distance, but she didn't have any of it during talking with mayor or even Namjoon. That was a huge relief actually. Y/N went inside the mansion and left open kitched doors, hanging on chain, if Ash would like to come back. Now when the mansion was slight cleanier, she wanted to look at books, which should be catalogued and maybe try to open the cellars. She went upstairs to also check her laptop and wi-fi tomorrow she wanted to start a work. Her phone ringed with "mayor" name caller, she picked it up immediately.

"Good evening miss L/N. Sorry to interrupt that late."

"Good evening sir. It's okay I wasn't doing anything important."

"I got to know, that government found a specialist, but unfortunately he's abroad. He'll probably be able to show up in the next week if not later." Mayor said with slighty sad tone.

"I'm glad that we are moving with a case. If we cannot speed that it's fine." She said with small smile.

"I will keep you informed miss. Have a good night."

"Goodnight sir."

Her words were a truth, it's good if everything is moving forward even with small steps. After checking the internet connection and setting up her files and noted she went to eat something. Y/N spotted Ash sitting in main hall. Pet just cleaned itself and jumped off the sofa, to greet her. She petted cat's head softly, then going to kitchen. He followed her, but didn't seem hungry, only sipped some water. In that forested area cat could hunt something. She ate the sandwiches then closed all the doors and checked them along with windows. Y/N had Yoongi'a words in mind about the moody weather. After that she headed upstairs to get ready to sleep, cat followed her graciously. The warm shower was all she needed after whole day of cleaning. When she stepped out of the bathroom, Ash was already on the bed stretching. It's when loud bang came to their ears, cat almost jumped at the spot, when Y/N frowned and looked at the closed doors. She put on bathrobe, too a flashlight and phone into a pocket. It needed to be checked. Woman took a deep breath and stepped out of her room turning on light, which also switched up down below. It was the dim one, she didn't want to turn on proper ones. The mansion was drowning in silence, the noise earlier was loke something metal falling on the floor. Ash once again followed her with silent steps and looking down below. Y/N slowly went down by the stairs looking around but everything seemed normal. She wasn't going to yell 'is someone there?' like in those cheap horrors, it was sure that all doors and windows were closed. She was only in kitchen before so they went there. Behind the shadows were shifting and dancing, but one cat's gaze was enough to calm them. In the kitchen was clear what happend. Some bowls fell off from the cabinet without doors and it caused the whole noise. Y/N frowned she didn't even touched those during making supper. She sighed and put them on their place.

"The false alarm." She smiled to Ash and went back with him to her room.

The lonely lamp inside was left turned on in any case. Cat curled around her feet once again after staring intensly into dark places in the room. The night was calm and silent.

Taglist:

@lalavione1309 @hadesnewpersephone @00ihatesnaku @bangtan1325

#bts x reader #bts soulmate au #poly bts #supernatural #mystery #dark romance #yandere bts x reader #yandere bts #yandere x you #horror #demons #bts jin #bts namjoon #bts yoongi #bts hoseok #bts jimin #bts ff #bts taehyung #bts jungkook

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strawberriemarswrites · 9 months

Text

CHAPTER TWO

Chapter Summary: You go out for drinks with your coworkers, with an ulterior motive to see your neighbor at the same time. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Mature (18+ for the story, SFW chapter) TW: Creepy bar patron, attempted drugging, Barto committing a little violence in your name Ao3 Link: Chapter Two (4,566 words)

Two weeks passed without incident. In fact, your perfume even turned back up. It wasn’t where you normally kept it in the bathroom, but sitting on top of your dresser right in plain sight. Go figure. Bartolomeo hadn’t said anything about any suspicious activity around, either, so maybe you were just being a little extra spacey. After all, you were more accustomed to having a roommate or your parents around to help fill in the gaps, so maybe you just needed to be a bit more mindful while you adjusted to living alone.

(Nevermind that you had looked atop the dresser for that perfume, and it wasn’t there before.)

In that span of two weeks you were able to convince some of your coworkers to try a different bar. More specifically, The Sound Barrier, where Bartolomeo worked. Robin was intrigued by the prospect of somewhere new, and agreed. A fellow archives technician, Nami, also agreed, stating she was eager to con some free drinks out of a different sort of crowd than the usual haunts. You were unsuccessful in convincing Vivi, one of the conservators, but she talked another conservator, Drake, into going. Rebecca, an archives specialist, also declined, apologetic as she already had plans to see her aunt.

Of the usual pay-day drinks crew, three out of five (including yourself) wasn't bad, and the addition of Drake meant there would be an extra bit of robust support, given the unfamiliar territory. Plus, Bartolomeo would be there working, so you'd have more than enough people looking out for you that night.

Still, you couldn’t shake the ominous feeling looming over your head. With both you and Bartolomeo out, that left your apartment unprotected from another break-in, a thought that chilled you down to the bone. You considered asking the neighbors that lived below you if they could keep an eye out, but you weren’t entirely trusting that they wouldn’t already be occupied with their usual bickering. And given you were pretty sure the neighbor below Bartolomeo was a near-sighted old woman, that took her out from the running as well. You could ask the landlord, but he should have already been on the lookout for suspicious activity, so he wasn’t likely to have your best interest at heart, either.

You had to rely on blind luck that your apartment would be safe.

You shook your head, trying not to dwell on the thought for too long. It was supposed to be a fun night, you couldn’t let some hypothetical creep ruin it. With one more look in the mirror, you headed for the door, scooping up your purse on the way and double-checking for your wallet, phone, and keys. Just as you were triple-checking the door was locked, your phone pinged — Robin was outside with Drake and Nami already in the car. You cast one final look at your door, the ominous chill threatening to creep back up your spine, before you shoved the feeling back down and hustled to the elevator.

Everything would be fine. Damn it all, you had to believe that if you wanted to have any fun tonight.

The car that waited outside wasn’t Robin’s, but instead an unfamiliar silver SUV. The backseat window rolled down to reveal her sitting behind the driver, whose silhouette you eventually recognized to be Drake as you approached. Robin smiled and opened the door for you, ushering you in.

“Told you so,” Nami said from the front seat, grinning at Drake smugly.

“I’ll be damned,” he said as you buckled in. “I thought Nami was messing with me when she said you lived here. Didn’t expect it to be —”

“On the shitty side of town?” you interjected.

Drake nodded, pulling away from the curb.

“What’s the name of this place again?” Nami asked.

“The Sound Barrier,” you answered, fidgeting in your seat. “Thanks for taking me up on this one, by the way. I thought maybe we should try something new.”

Robin smiled knowingly. “You’re sure it doesn’t have anything to do with this mysterious neighbor of yours?”

“Uh... well,” you hesitated, scratching the back of your neck. “Maybe a little.”

“He better not say anything if he catches me getting free drinks from one of his regulars,” Nami said, pulling up the map on her phone.

“If he doesn’t, I will.” Drake said.

“What are you, a cop?”

You giggled despite yourself, feeling a little more relaxed. You didn’t know Drake particularly well, so it was a relief to know he was on the sterner side. Even with that reassurance, you must have still looked a bit uneasy, given that Robin leaned a bit closer to you and asked, “Everything all right?”

Her observation skills were both appreciated and unnerving at times, with very little getting past her. She seemed content enough to make it known she was aware something was up, but you didn’t want to worry anyone else with the break-ins, especially with the current lull in occurrences. However, you knew Robin would be suspicious all night if you didn’t say something.

You smiled, trying not to let the twist in your stomach show. “I’ll be fine. Just nervous — I’ve never seen Bartolomeo outside of the apartment building.”

She tilted her head. “You think he might be different in public?”

“It’s more... He’s never seen me outside the apartment, either. So it feels like this is a chance to know more about each other in a different way than we could from just the brief meetings.”

She laughed, putting a hand up in front of her mouth, though her smile was still clearly visible behind it. “Like seeing something in its natural habitat.”

You laughed, too, adding, “I guess I’m also hoping that I’ll live up to whatever expectations he might have in his head.”

“I think you will,” she said, dropping her hand to reveal her still smiling. “If it helps ease your nerves any, it’s likely he could be thinking the same thing of you.”

That did reassure you some, the tension in your shoulders dissipating. You nodded, and switched subjects, chatting with Robin and Nami, with the occasional input from Drake. The worries you’d had in your mind drifted far behind you as you finally felt like you’d be able to enjoy the night ahead.

Act like you always do, Bartolomeo told himself over and over again. Just gotta act natural.

“You gonna wipe down the same spot all night?” a voice called to him over the live band and bar chatter. He looked up to see his coworker and best friend, Gambia, leaning against the register and giving him a gap-toothed grin.

Bartolomeo rolled his eyes and pushed off the bar counter, draping the sanitation rag over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t have to if you did your job right.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Gambia said, pushing off from the register. “Definitely doesn’t have anything to do with that girl you keep talkin’ about, right?”

The lights were dim enough in the bar that Bartolomeo didn’t have to worry about his ears turning pink. “It might. Not like it’s any of your business.”

“It is if it’s bothering you. She break your heart or somethin’?”

“No!” he snapped a little too quickly, then reeled it back in. “She’s coming by tonight. I don’t wanna make a bad impression.”

Gambia snorted, “You? Bein’ worried about what someone thinks? Doesn’t sound like the Barto I know.”

Bartolomeo folded his arms and leaned against the back bar, averting his eyes. “Just what this one thinks.”

“All right, fair enough,” Gambia said and put his hands up defensively. “Just wish you’d said somethin’ sooner — maybe Gramma would’ve let us get out the good stuff.”

Bartolomeo cast a sideways glance to his friend and smirked. “Don’t go tellin’ everyone about it, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, you know me. Don’t let it distract you from doin’ what we’re paid to do.” Gambia nodded toward the door. “Speakin’ of which...”

Bartolomeo turned, feeling his heart skip. There you were, sticking out like a sore thumb in a place like this. You were joined by a dark-haired woman and a redhead, who were both equally gorgeous. Beautiful, even. Any other day he’d gladly let either one step on him. But you were perfect, and the only one he had eyes for. He then noticed that bringing up the rear of your group was a tall man with narrow glasses and a scar on his chin, and Bartolomeo felt something in the back of his mind begin to panic. What the hell was wrong with him? Was it that you hadn’t mentioned one of the drinking friends was a guy? It wasn’t like you couldn’t have guy friends, that’d be ridiculous. You were a grown adult, you could have whatever friends you wanted.

Still, he couldn’t shake the sudden flare up of jealousy that swelled in his chest. He refocused his attention to you. You were conversing with the dark-haired woman, who was slowly surveying the area. Her eyes found Bartolomeo, and an odd, almost shrewd smile graced her features before she leaned a bit closer to you, and immediately you whipped your head toward the bar with a wide grin. You waved as your group ushered you along toward a curved booth, and he waved back, unable to keep from mirroring the grin on your face.

“So that’s him, huh?” Nami said to you as Robin and Drake sat down. “You weren’t kidding when you said he’s kind of scary-looking.”

“I thought he’d be scarier,” Robin giggled. “He looks more like a big cat to me. Or a rooster.”

“More like an Oni,” Drake commented, adjusting his glasses. “Vivi and I finished work with a set of masks a few months ago. He reminds me of one of them.”

You turned pink, fidgeting. “He’s not so bad when you know him.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Nami said with a smirk. “And that judgment will be based on whether or not we get the first round free.”

While your group was settling in and figuring out drink orders, Bartolomeo was resisting the urge to jump over the counter to greet you. Any hope he had of appearing casual amidst his internal struggle was crushed when Gambia nudged him.

“That her?” he asked, as if he couldn’t already tell, a shit-eating grin on his face.

The limited lighting did nothing for the bright red that crept up Bartolomeo’s neck. “The one on the left, yeah.”

“Aw, she’s real cute,” Gambia said and nudged him again. “And you still haven’t asked her out yet?”

Bartolomeo turned even more red.

The blonde sucked his teeth, “Oooh, better do it quick. She looks the type to get snatched out from under ya.”

That statement made Bartolomeo’s stomach churn. He knew Gambia was just talking shit, but something deep inside him fumed at the thought of you with anyone else. He shook his head, pushing down the dark voice in the back of his mind once more. It’d be fine. Sooner or later, either he’d ask you out or you’d beat him to the punch — just not yet. It didn’t feel right yet.

You rushed over ahead of Nami, weaving between other patrons with laser-like focus as you found your way to an empty barstool and hopped up. As Bartolomeo side-stepped to stand opposite you, you grinned and stuck out your tongue. “Told you I’d get them here.”

He grinned back, making your heart skip a beat. “About friggin’ time. I was wondering when they’d give in.”

“You make it sound like I forced them,” you said, putting a hand over your chest in mock-offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m naturally persuasive.”

His grin turned lopsided. “So you’re telling me you didn’t bat those big pretty eyes and beg them to come?”

Your heart skipped another beat. He thinks my eyes are pretty?

Nami approached then, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as she leaned over you with a cheeky grin on her face. “Are you all done catching up? I’m dying for a screwdriver already.”

Bartolomeo’s gaze drifted to the redhead behind you, and you tried not to read too much into it, fully aware that Nami caught the eyes of everyone. Still, you couldn’t stop your chest from tightening. With a sheepish smile, you gestured to her and said, “Nami, Bartolomeo. Do not let her convince you to forget the tab.”

“Oh, you killjoy,” she whined, pouting. “Between you and Drake, how am I supposed to have any fun?”

“I can start you off with that screwdriver,” Bartolomeo said with a smirk, putting both hands on the bar and leaning forward, his arms holding him up like an A-Frame. “Anything else I can get for you pretty ladies?”

Again, your chest tightened. Right, he worked at a bar, it only made sense that he’d probably be turning up the charm as part of his job. His “pretty eyes” comment earlier probably didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things.

Then his gaze met yours, and everything fell away. The dim lighting cast dark shadows over his features that made him look all the more intimidating, his amber eyes practically glowing. Between the broad shoulders, the eyes, and his fangs, for a moment you thought he might lunge forward and bite you, sinking sharp teeth into soft flesh with intent to consume you whole.

And then you thought about how maybe you wouldn't mind that.

It occurred to you that Nami had ordered the other two drinks, and Bartolomeo was waiting on yours. Snapping back into reality, you stuttered, “Whatever hard cider you have on tap.”

He smiled, further evoking the image of a hungry predator, and nodded. “You got it.”

Damn his smile. You probably should not have found that as hot as you did.

As the night progressed, you did your best to balance your attention between your coworkers and Bartolomeo. You felt a touch guilty that the scales weighed so heavily in the latter’s favor, as you really did enjoy chatting away with Robin and Nami as well as learning more about the normally reserved Drake. But you couldn’t help yourself from looking over at the bar to try and catch Bartolomeo’s eye, blushing every time he smiled at you. Eventually, Nami decided it was time to start charming some of the other patrons for free drinks, disappearing into a crowd gathered around the small stage at the back of the establishment.

“You think she’s going for the band?” you asked Robin, catching brief glimpses of red hair weaving and bobbing effortlessly amongst the horde of metal heads and punks.

“That’s likely her end goal,” Robin said, sipping at her Manhattan. “She’s probably scoping them out first.”

“And she does this every night you go out?” Drake asked.

You shook your head. “Not every time. Just when she knows she can get away with it.” Hopefully Bartolomeo doesn’t notice. On reflex, you found yourself once again looking over at the bar, smiling at him. This time he was busy with another customer, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched into a wider smile when his eyes flicked over to yours.

“You can go sit at the bar if you really want to.”

Robin’s voice made you start, and you fidgeted with the napkin under your drink. “But — I’m out with you guys, not him. I don’t want to be rude...”

“You’re not being rude,” she said, nudging you lightly. “You wanted to see him tonight, you can go see him. I’m sure Drake and I can manage.”

Drake nodded. “Just don’t let him give you any trouble. We’re right here if he does.”

Your heart fluttered and you stood up, thanking them both and making your way back to the bar.

Bartolomeo nearly tripped on his way to your seat, shooting a glare at Gambia when he noticed and laughed. If you noticed, too, you didn’t show it, giving him that goddamn gorgeous smile of yours that made his heart race. After ordering another hard cider, he leaned atop the counter, his forearms supporting his weight as he bent at the waist. “So uh, you havin’ fun?”

Smooth. Real smooth.

You nodded as you took a drink, pointing to the band. “Nami’s out there doing her thing. Drake — the guy over there —” you gestured over your shoulder “— he’s never come out with us before. Robin got him talking about reptiles though and they didn’t stop for like twenty minutes.” You propped your chin up in your hands. “So I’m over here to bug you while they talk about fossils. I’m all yours.”

It took a not-inconsiderable amount of effort not to blurt out do you really mean that? However there was no hiding the waver in his voice when he said, “You can come bug me anytime, sweetheart. Dunno that I’ll have anything as interestin’ to talk about, though.”

Shit. Did he just call you “sweetheart” out loud? It just popped out, he couldn’t stop it. But he then saw your cheeks turn a very pretty shade of pink, and he latched onto the nickname, immediately forgetting his panic over using it. He wanted to see that blush more.

You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, switching to resting your cheek in one palm. “Honestly, even if I don’t understand at all what someone’s talking about, just listening to them gush about what they love is fun. Anything can be interesting if it’s talked about with a lot of passion like that.”

Bartolomeo grinned. “So, you’re telling me, if I talked your ear off about baseball, you’d just let me do it? No filter?”

“Pretty much,” you giggled, tracing a finger around the rim of your glass. “I’m surprised baseball’s your topic of choice though. You don’t strike me as the sporty type.” You paused, then giggled again. “Pun not intended.”

“Nah, not particularly. It’s just the first thing that came to mind,” he laughed, standing upright and reaching to his back pocket for his wallet. “I do have this really cool card though that someone left behind one night a few years back. Autographed and everything.”

He showed you the card, depicting a green-haired batter holding three bats — one in each hand, and one between his teeth. You had to admit, it looked cool as hell. “What if someone comes back looking for it?”

“Screw them, finders keepers. And like I said, it’s been a few years. I doubt they’ll come back for it at this point.”

You stifled a snort and took another drink. “So if not sports, what is something you’re really passionate about?”

As he was about to answer, his attention was drawn to the front door, a pair of customers coming in and taking seats at the opposite end of the bar. “Just a sec, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.”

He couldn’t resist dropping the nickname again. The flush in your cheeks was worth it.

Drake kept an eye on you from the booth, still chatting with Robin about this and that. Vivi had convinced him to go on this outing in her stead with the premise of giving him an opportunity to know his coworkers better, but he knew part of it was a concern for the venue. He’d been to plenty of bars in his life, including a fair share of metal and punk ones, and they’d all been about the same as far as rowdiness. Though, in his experience, the grittier places tended to have the better behaved clientele oddly enough, so while he felt Vivi’s concern was a bit misplaced, he didn’t want to offend her, knowing she cared a lot about the safety of her friends.

Admittedly, he’d been a little shocked to find that this neighbor of yours that Nami and Robin had been gossiping about was so rough-looking, considering in comparison you were on the smaller and softer side. But Drake was never one to judge anyone for their tastes, even if he subconsciously found himself a bit more wary than usual. No doubt the girls would both be reporting to Vivi that the rumors of Bartolomeo’s intimidating visage were true, and if they didn’t he certainly would.

It was at that moment, however, when you were left alone, that someone on the other end of the bar sidled up to the empty barstool on your right, a beer glass in hand. Greasy black hair, a thin, wiry mustache that made him look like a catfish, wearing a fedora and cheap dress pants. Drake caught the action in his periphery, watching carefully as the man tried to push for your attention. It was eventually given, and based on the way you cringed away from him, it was definitely not a comfortable exchange.

“Robin,” Drake said, his voice low as he nodded toward your seat. “We need to help her.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed, and with a sigh she stood. “How underhanded. He came up to her while Rooster was distracted.” She gave Drake an almost mischievous smile, putting a finger up to her lips. “I need to run to the ladies room anyway. I’ll go get her so we don’t cause a scene.”

He nodded, trying not to stare at the sway of Robin’s hips as she gracefully moved to the bar to collect you. You looked beyond relieved for the excuse to get away, throwing a quick wave over to Bartolomeo (who was still somewhat occupied with the new customers) as you slid off your barstool, the creep left alone to stew.

And then Drake’s stomach dropped, his nerves on high alert. You left your drink unattended.

Something that Bartolomeo didn’t miss, either. He was watching from his peripherals as well, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end when the creep had approached and started to harass you. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to pay attention to the drink orders while keeping an eye on the unsavory intruder. He had relaxed slightly when the dark haired woman came to collect you and you both went off to the restrooms, only to be put on edge again when he saw an all-too-familiar movement.

Something was slipped into your drink.

Oh. Hell no. Bartolomeo finished writing down the new drink orders and moved to the tap, giving the unaware sleazebag a death stare that would have made the grim reaper look away. Thankfully, he was distracted by another patron, and his seat was on the way to the tap.

Drake saw the slip as well, and stood to confront the miscreant. He only made it about two steps however, before he saw Bartolomeo pass, and slyly swap the glasses.

The two men made eye contact, with the sharp-toothed bartender giving Drake a knowing smirk before moving on.

The creep was none the wiser, turning back to “his” drink and taking a long pull.

As you returned to the bar with Robin, you stared at your glass, and your stomach churned. With a curled lip, you pushed it away, looking at Robin over your shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Robin leaned over the counter and flagged down the other bartender. “Can we get the tab?”

After the bar had closed, a very, very inebriated man in a fedora and cheap dress pants was stumbling down the back alley. “Stupid stuck-up bitch and her stupid stuck-up friend,” he slurred, one of the few coherent things he had managed to say all night. “Stupid fuckin’. Bartenders and their. Fuckin’ rules.”

He tripped over his own feet and landed on the concrete with a pained shout, nearly biting his tongue. He just wanted to have fun tonight. He hadn’t had fun in a long time. He couldn’t even get a prostitute these days. Probably because all the ones in town knew him by name and knew he always stiffed them on the payment.

With a groan he rolled onto his back, trying to blink away the spots in his eyes. Why were the buildings all warped? Why did he feel like he was going to vomit up his whole stomach? What the hell was that shape looming over him with orange eyes?

“Man,” the shape above him said in a gravelly voice that sounded both too close and a thousand miles away, “you look fuckin’ pathetic.”

The creep writhed on the ground, further proving Bartolomeo’s point, and slurred back, “Nnno, yer prophetic...”

Bartolomeo cocked his head, sneering. All he could think of was how this pig, this scum of the earth, was allowed to keep living for so long. How many other bars had he hit up trying to pull what he nearly did to you? What would have happened if you’d encountered him elsewhere? Your friends looked out for you, sure, but what if you’d been alone?

Bartolomeo would have swapped the drinks even if it hadn’t had been you that was targeted. No one tries to drug someone in his bar and gets away with it. What he couldn’t do was convince himself that if it happened to anyone else, he’d be going as far as he currently was to make sure it never happened again. The creep tried to sit up, and Bartolomeo put one foot on his chest, tilting his head the other way. After another beat he lifted his foot, then slammed it down on one hand with a sickening crack.

This guy picked the wrong place, and he really picked the wrong time.

The creep let out an agonized yell, eyes wide and suddenly alert as he scrabbled at Bartolomeo’s boot. Bartolomeo crouched down, putting more weight on his foot and brandishing a switchblade, pointing it right between the man’s eyes.

“Now that I got your attention,” he drawled, “I’ll speak nice and slow for ya, so maybe it’ll stick in that roofied brain of yours.” He lazily held the blade between his thumb and middle finger, swaying it back and forth. “I ever catch you around here again, you’re gonna lose this hand.”

He put pressure on it for emphasis, drawing forth another pained yell amidst a symphony of crunching bones.

“I ever hear about you trying to dope up anyone else, I’ll take the other one.”

The creep was practically foaming at the mouth, unable to form coherent words between the blinding pain and the drugs in his system. Bartolomeo let the knife slide down, the tip landing right on the bridge of the man’s nose and making him go stock-still.

“If you ever. Ever. Mess with that girl again? With what’s mine?” He bared his fangs in a snarl, “The only drinks you’ll ever get are gonna be through an IV. Get me?”

The man nodded, whimpering feebly.

“Perfect. But, just to make sure you don’t forget...”

Bartolomeo lifted his foot, then slammed the switchblade into the man’s palm. The scream that echoed in the alley made it all the more worth it. He yanked the knife out and wiped the blood off on the man’s shirt before standing, casually nudging him to the side with his boots as he began the walk home. He found himself humming a random tune along the way, satisfaction welling in his chest.

After all, he promised to take care of anyone who dared to mess with you.

#bartolomeo #bartolomeo one piece #bartolomeo the cannibal #bartolomeo x you #one piece x reader #reader insert #yandere!bartolomeo #yandere #i'll fucking digest you one kiss at a time #ifdyokaat #this was a fun one to write #fun fact: i picked drake as a coworker because i realized most of the ones i had in mind were ladies #let me know what you think o3o we don't see him nearly enough until we get to wano so i wanna know if i did him justice #another slightly less fun fact but i think it's funny (and no one on Ao3 has caught it yet):#the creepy patron is vander decken lmao

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emetoandotherthings · 1 year

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The Teachers' Curse

A/N: Honestly this is the first thing I've written in so so so long.. I don't really even know where it came from but 🤷‍♀️ Also apologies cause there's a lot of build up, but suck it if you don't like it. Just cause they're so wonderful I'm dedicating this to @lickstynine and @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak

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The teachers’ curse. That’s what they’d all joked about in uni. The last week of term and the first week of the holidays – rule them out because with everything that needed done, you’d be exhausted and every bug, virus and eager bacteria comes after you. Jude had laughed about it with all the rest, until his probationary year began.

After 8 weeks, October had brought a tired, run down feeling; December heralded a cold – but then, who didn’t get a cold in December? Jude was beginning to think that it was a whole load of rubbish, until he had to content with a 13 week term, coinciding with a pedagogical enquiry and a final profile to prove that he was actually good enough to be a teacher.

With only 7 school days to go until the Easter holidays, Jude woke up with conjunctivitis – all scratchy and inflamed. He’d ended up with drops that Eden almost had to pin him down to put in, and forced to wear his glasses for the entire week.

With 5 days left, a throbbing incessant pain in his ear had made itself known as his class worked with the percussion music specialist. The rest of the day, he’d felt like someone was trying to sharpen a pencil inside his ear canal. By 3pm, the glands in his neck had blown up and swallowing was a challenge. Eden had dragged him to the emergency out of hours doctor and the result was a 3 day course of antibiotics. Jude tried to laugh it off as just one of those things, but secretly he wondered whether it was the teacher’s curse creeping up on him. At least he’d be finished the antibiotics by Friday and would be able to have a drink in the evening when the holidays arrived.

The thrumming had faded to a stop over the next few days, along with the sandpaper scratch in his throat and the only thing that lingered was a tiredness that made it almost impossible to drag himself out of bed on Friday morning.

“Last day!” Eden’s voice was far too cheery for so early in the morning.

“Thank the Lord…” Jude sighed, rubbing both hands over his face as he placed both feet firmly on the carpet. Eden was packing books the size of paving slabs into his backpack.

“I’m in lab today,” he explained, as Jude dragged a shirt over his shoulders. “I’ll try to be back for you getting home – first evening of the holidays!”

“I am very much looking forward to being back in bed…” It was just 6 hours – then he’d be done, he’d have some downtime. It’s not that he didn’t love teaching – he did! He loved the kids, hearing their stories, seeing their learning click into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle… but anyone who claimed working with children was easy definitely hadn’t spent time with 30 at once.

Last days were a grand waste of time. For start, nearly one quarter of his class were absent; the rest were as mad as a box of frogs – unable to settle to anything for longer than five minutes. Jude was only glad that it stayed dry so the afternoon was filled with spare part outdoor learning; an activity which required supervision, but not a great deal of teaching or attention. He was only too pleased when the bell to end the day rang, and he could wave goodbye to his learned for the next two weeks. Jude had sat at his desk for nearly 10 whole minutes just willing himself to move before he geared himself up to go home.

He was determined to only make one trip from his car to the flat, so he clambered up the stairs with three bags trying to pull his arms from his sockets. He was struggling to get the keys from his pocket when the front door swung open from the inside.

“Jude!” Eden looked scandalised at the number of bags his boyfriend was carrying; he swooped forwards and grabbed some of them.

“Eden…” He hadn’t expected him to be home. “I thought you’d still be in labs.”

“It’s your first evening of the holidays!” Eden strained under the weight of the tote bags. “I wanted to spend some time with you.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be that great company,” Jude answered, dumping the last of his bags into their hallway.

“Oh shush,” Eden said, disappearing into their kitchen. “I was more thinking…” His voice continued from the kitchen and he re-appeared at the doorframe, two beers clutched in his hand. “A drink, a takeaway and some Netflix… No lesson plans, no profile – just relaxing.” Eden was holding out the bottle of beer, a quarter of lime squeezed into its neck.

“Sometimes you’re the most beautiful thing on the planet,” Jude couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face, accepting the beer bottle.

“Only sometimes?” Eden’s eyebrows disappeared up under his fringe.

“Always,” Jude sighed. “Sorry…” Eden grabbed Jude’s free hand and dragged him into the living room; he’d brought several blankets and pillows into the room. “Oh, Eden…”

“I thought we could make a bit of a nest,” Eden suggested, “food, drinks, not having to move…”

“What did I do to deserve you?” Jude mused as Eden pulled him to the sofa, noticing that Eden’s cheeks had flushed pink. “Thank you.”

Jude had barely drunk half of his beer before he dozed off, his head lolling backwards against the sofa and the beer bottle tipping forward precariously. Eden gently extricated it from Jude’s hands and let him sleep – he needed it.

Jude’s head was heavy as he woke up, he felt sluggish and groggy; he opened his eyes and stretched. Eden was curled next to him, a book in his lap.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his hands across his face. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About an hour and a half,” he put his book on the arm of the sofa and stretched his arm around Jude’s shoulder. Jude loved how well he fit into the crook of Eden’s shoulder. “I ordered food, it’ll be here soon.”

“You’re an angel,” Jude said; he was so tired he didn’t feel like eating, but he would – if only to make Eden happy. He grabbed his beer from the table and took a swig, it didn’t taste as good lukewarm, but that was his fault for falling asleep.

“Food’s here,” Eden announced, his phone buzzing to let him know the delivery driver was at the door. “Do you want another beer?”

“Why not?” Jude shrugged, he felt bad – Eden was doing so much for him, yet he couldn’t help but feel the only thing he wanted to do was crawl into bed. He tried to waken himself up a bit, sitting up straighter and stretching his arms above his head.

“Here you go,” Eden reappeared, carrying some pizza boxes and more beers. He set down one of the boxes in Jude’s lap before settling beside him.

“Aaw, you even got pineapple on mine!” Jude smiled as he opened the lid of his box.

“I thought I could allow for your transgression just this once,” Eden opened his own pizza. “I’m starving, I don’t know what it is about labs that always makes me so hungry.” He pulled a slice of his pizza up and devoured it hungrily. “Oh, and I’ve got cookie dough for afters.”

“You’re amazing,” Jude grinned, though even the muscles of his cheeks felt tired.

“Come on,” Eden nodded towards Jude’s pizza. “Tuck in.”

Jude managed three quarters of his pizza before he felt the strain of his waistband against his stomach. He wanted more, it tasted so good and he felt more awake than he had since he got home. He swigged more of his beer as he rested the pizza box on the table and leaned back into the pillows and blankets surrounding it.

“Man, I’ve got a food baby,” he rubbed his hand over his stomach.

“Me too,” Eden replied. He’d finished all of his own pizza and had curled his arm around Jude’s shoulder again.

“Shut up!” Jude joked, scanning up and down Eden’s slim frame. “I don’t know where you put it!”

“I dunno,” Eden shrugged, “perks of having a fast metabolism.”

“If only!”

“You’re perfect just as you are,” Eden said; and then they were kissing. It was warm and soft, and Jude loved the way they fit together, as though they’d been made that way. When they split, Jude stayed closed to Eden, he felt like home. “Right,” Eden spoke after a while, “let’s put something on to watch, you choose.” He handed across the remote.

“Anything?” Jude asked.

“Anything you want,” Eden smiled.

Jude’s eyes were drooping, even though he was the one who’d chosen the drama they were both watching. He’d finished off his beer but now his mouth was feeling oddly dry; his waistband was still digging into his stomach and that discomfort was beginning to radiate deeper than his skin. He could get up and change, but that felt like too much of an effort.

Yet as the time ticked by, and the first episode turned into the second, Jude’s attention was even less on the tv and much more on how the discomfort from his waistband had turned into a weird bubbly ache in the pit of his belly. It felt rather like the time he’d gone sailing and despite the calm water his insides had been sloshing around with every moment. A cold, goosebump sensation kept cropping up on his exposed arms. He tried to shuffle himself on the sofa, wanting to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling, but the movement only served to make him feel worse. He slid the empty beer bottle in between the arm of the sofa and cushion and rested his now free hand onto his belly. It felt soft underneath his hand, but he could still feel the bugle of his full stomach. He took a few deep breaths and tried to surreptitiously move the waistband of his trousers, hoping that would give him some relief.

It didn’t. In fact, it got worse. From the slightly sloshy, swishy feeling, it progressed into a more churning sensation – like his stomach had been set to spin cycle. He slowly tried to massage his fingers into his flesh, but the ache gurgled and deepened. Jude thought he’d done a good job of hiding it, until Eden raised his eyebrows and fixed him with a strange look.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his hand straying towards the remote.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jude lied, but with one look he could tell Eden knew he was lying. “I dunno, I guess, I feel a bit… queasy.” Almost as soon as he said it, his stomach burbled under his hand. “I’m probably just tired.” He wanted to pass it off as nothing, but the discomfort was growing with every passing second. Eden grabbed the remote and paused the tv, he sat up straighter and seemed to survey Jude. Then he stretched out his hand and pressed it against Jude’s forehead.

“You don’t feel warm,” he said quietly, frowning slightly. “Hang on…” Eden hoisted himself from the sofa and padded across to the main light; Jude blinked as the light turned on. “You’re a bit pale,” he commented, “maybe we should have an early night?”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Jude asked quickly. “It’s just, you’ve gone to such an effort…”

“Jude, if bed is where you need to be, then I’m happy to be there with you,” Eden answered, sounding so genuine that Jude could have cried. “And we can have cookie dough for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he said, sighing.

“Come on then,” Eden crossed to the tv and switched it off, before turning off the lamps one by one. Jude shuffled forwards to the edge of the sofa, but as he moved a rush of heat swept across his body and his stomach twisted in such an uncomfortable manner that he froze where he was perched. He took deep steadying breaths, not liking the sudden shift. “Jude?”

“H-ulp!” The hiccup burst from his lips before he could stop it, and he couldn’t stop the groan that followed or the way his hand had gone to his stomach.

“Jude?” There was a sense of urgency in Eden’s voice now; he’d crossed the room in a few strides and was kneeling to the side of him, his hand resting on Jude’s knee. “Jude?”

“Oh god…” Jude groaned. “I don’t feel well Ede…”

“What’s wrong? Tell me,” Eden’s voice was a comfort, but the spin cycle in his belly seemed to have reached terminal velocity.

“My – my stomach,” Jude muttered, trying hard not to open his mouth too wide.

“D’you feel sick?” Eden asked. “Shall I get a bucket?” Jude squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.

“Mmmn, no,” Jude shook his head slightly. “Jus’ give me a minute, I’ll be fine.” But nothing felt further from the truth, the sweeps of cold and hot alternating with rapidity.

“Are you sure?” Eden didn’t sound sure at all, but he squeezed Jude’s knee gently. Jude didn’t reply, he was far too busy willing his stomach to stop clenching in such a disconcerting way. He didn’t know how long he’d spent just trying to breathe, until he felt hot liquid creeping up the back of his throat – and at that point, he felt the inevitability of it.

“’m gonna throw up,” he managed to force the words out.

“Right, I’m getting a bucket,” Eden said firmly.

“No – no,” Jude reached his hand and grabbed Eden’s to stop him moving. “Help me – to the toilet…”

“Jude, it’d be easier…” Eden refuted, but Jude was already pushing himself up, his free hand cradling his belly. “Okay,” Eden grabbed Jude’s arm to support him, as his legs had the same quality as a newly born foal.

“Oh god,” Jude slurred, the movement had made everything ten times worse. His stomach contracted and he felt the rush of liquid barrelling up his throat. He slapped his hand to his mouth, hoping to prevent what he knew was coming. “Hmmmllk!” The heave was so strong that Jude lurched forwards.

“Jude!” Eden’s tone was anxious as he began to pull Jude more forcefully. Jude’s head was swimming, all he could focus on was keeping the contents of his stomach down.

“Hmmrrk!” The next heave was stronger, and Jude felt liquid hit the back of his teeth, his cheeks puffing out dramatically. He fought to swallow, they were nearly at the bathroom – he had to make it. Jude felt his chest tighten and his stomach squeezing more powerfully, he tried to force his feet to move faster but his legs had lost the ability to be useful in movement.

“H’kkrrrk!” Jude had no power over his own body anymore, it was doing what it needed to do. His legs had crumbled under the weight, Eden’s hand had released as he fell and he scrambled forwards, but not quickly enough.

“H’kkkkrrrgggllll’uuuuurrrrggglll!” A spray of warm, bitter liquid burst from Jude’s lips, coating the toilet seat and splashing onto the floor. He had to ignore it, pulling himself closer to the toilet bowl, disregarding that he was kneeling in his own vomit. He’d barely had a second, hardly enough time to draw breath, before his stomach contracted again. “B’hhhrrkk-luuurrrk!” It came with such force that the puke hit the back of the toilet seat and sent splashes back into Jude’s face.

“Oh Jude,” Eden’s voice came back into focus, Jude hadn’t realised that all he had heard previous was the rebellion of his own body.

“Urgh,” Jude groaned, learning forwards to his hands pressed on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. He could still feel his stomach contracting, gearing up for the next assault. “S-sorry…” He choked, his voice thin.

“Jude, don’t be silly,” Eden brushed Jude’s hair away from his eyes, then placed his hand in between Jude’s shoulder blades. This simple action seemed to signal the start of the next round.

“Hrrrr’uuuullllkrrrrggggll!” A wave of thick, bitter liquid forced up his throat and flowed forcefully into the toilet bowl. He could taste the hops of the beer and the tang of the pineapple, and this made him retch harder.

“Oh Jude,” Eden rubbed Jude’s back firmly, feeling the muscles tense under his touch. “You should have said you were feeling this bad.”

“Wasn’t-“ Jude choked, spitting in order to try and rid his mouth of the taste. “Hit me all at – hrrk – once!”

“Here,” Eden retrieved a cloth and ran it under the tap, before kneeling down next to Jude and wiping gently at his face. It was something so simple, but it nearly brought tears to Jude’s eyes. “It’s okay,” Eden’s words were soothing, “it’ll be alright…”

“Feel – hrrk – awful…” Jude spit the saliva pooling in his mouth out, but that gave way to another heave that brought up a further wave of sick.

“You’ll feel better when it’s out,” Eden reassured him, rubbing his back again.

“Urrghh…” Jude groaned, his knees were beginning to protest being pressed against the cold tile floor; he tried to re-adjust himself, kneeling back and straightening up. His body didn’t like this, sending more sick charging up his throat and splashing into the water of the toilet bowl. “Pineapple doesn’t – hllk – taste as good on its way up…”

“Glad to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour,” Eden quipped dryly.

“Not the only thing I’ve lost,” he muttered. He was hoping this was a lull; his stomach wasn’t straining and contracting now, all he could feel was a slow churn in his gut.

“You feeling better?” Eden knelt down beside him, brushing a hair away from his face. “You’re not as ghostly pale anymore.”

“Think – for a bit…” Jude answered, he put his hand gently to his stomach – it didn’t feel quite as tender as before. “Not sure I’m completely – finished…” The last word hung slowly in the air.

“But just now?” Eden asked and Jude gave a tiny nod. “Right, for now, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”

“But –“ Jude started, but Eden cut him off.

“I’ll get a bucket, put it next to the bed,” Eden’s words were so self-assured that Jude had to listen to him. “We’ll get you in something comfy and tucked up so you can rest.”

“Okay,” Jude agreed, there was no point in arguing with a determined Eden.

“For some reason, I don’t think we’ll be having cookie dough for breakfast,” Eden chuckled.

The mention of food made Jude heave dryly again; he gulped down some air and shook his head: “No, I think not…”

#my writing #emeto tw #emeto #fics #ocs #Eden #Jude #puking #illness #sickfic #sickness #vomiting #puke #fiction #cw puke #queasy #emeto fiction #emetophilia #original character fiction

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