WELCOME TO PARIS! — vivian hugo
SYNOPSIS: A one week trip to Paris, five stops and one goal in mind. Get the most show stopping photos ever. However, your plans instantly crumble when you’re unknowingly made the target of a certain trio's antics— or in which Hugo, Loki and Charles decide to photobomb you in all your photos.
CONTENT: 1.9k words, vivian hugo x fem!reader, mild swearing, hugo is already into reader, crackfic, not proofread.
AUTHORS NOTE: happy hundredth post!!! hugo will be having the honor of being the character for it lol. this entire fic is an attempt at humor, i'm not shakespeare tho so do not expect any peak literature, just cliterature. made and served from the heart. ♡
FIRST STOP: THE EIFFEL TOWER
The goal was to end up with an iconic nighttime picture of yourself in front of the Eiffel tower— and that’s what you received…sort of.
You’re standing in the middle of the frame looking mesmerizing, your hair is perfect, outfit fashionable and makeup on point. On paper it would’ve been the ideal picture, if only it weren’t for the random dude in the background staring straight into the camera lens.
With the blankest stare mind you.
You squint at the picture, judging and breaking down his entire being.
His hair is of a maroon colour with black in the back and he’s tall, ridiculously tall and huge (and hot), but what pisses you off the most— besides the two guys next to him, throwing up stupid signs is the fact that he’s wearing flip flops!
His toes…are ruining the entire shot.
You strain your jaw, gripping your phone with such strength you wouldn't be surprised if it cracked.
The Louvre, apparently a former royal palace turned museum, was your second destination.
You chuckle to yourself. This is the perfect place for some memorable shots, especially for a few that’ll go up on your ig and definitely make you look cultured.
Determined, you approach a painting. It’s pretty, but not that interesting. Still, you continue standing there, appreciating and analyzing it (you’re not getting the vision) when suddenly, a guy with short black hair in a buzzcut walks up to you. He looks oddly familiar, you note.
“Tourist?” He asks, in a thick french accent.
Oh he’s definitely a local.
You nod your head. “Yeah.” When suddenly, a thought pops up in your head, this is the perfect chance to ask him to snap some pictures for you—well it would’ve been if he hadn’t opened his mouth.
“So what do you think of this portrait?” His eyes are locked on the painting, finger to his chin as if he were thinking deeply about the painter's intention. You force yourself to suppress a groan.
A few grueling minutes later of you having to humor him, patiently listening to him blabber on about the direction of the brush strokes and the biblical symbolism of the painting you interrupt him. “Could I trouble you to take some pictures for me with the painting?”
Hope that was polite enough.
A mysterious grin spreads across his face. “Okay.” He thumbs up.
You furrow a brow at his excitement towards taking a picture but shrug it off.
When you're done, the man disappears as quickly as he appeared, leaving you only the pictures he took of you to remember him by. However, you blink. Two guys, one looking into the camera with the most lifeless eyes ever while the other is making an ugly face stood behind you in the photos.
They’re the ones from yesterday’s photos. Except this time— one is missing.
That being that one local you just spoke too.
You click your tongue, rolling your eyes completely pissed at the situation.
What the fuck is going on?!
The opulent palace Versailles, famous for its luxurious architecture and history, was your third destination, and it seems like it was the same for many others.
You look around as your tour guides blabber about the french revolution and its history. “Ludwig the 16th…blah blah… Marie Antoniette…yada dada..” Your gaze lands on a strange looking boy in the crowd of tourists.
He’s obviously wearing a wig, and a fake mustache. His clothes are also way too big for him.
The strangest thing of all though, is that he doesn’t stop glancing at you and every time your eyes meet he starts giggling— quietly— to himself.
The tour guide finally finishes his speech about the palace and the crowd disperses, studying the lavish place themselves with the tour guide occasionally chiding in with a small comment here and there.
Deciding to look around yourself as well as you walk around the room. You notice that the boy is following you, still giggling to himself.
“Excuse me.” You turn. It’s clear that he wasn’t expecting you to talk to him, evident with the way his eyes widened but you pride yourself on being unpredictable. “Is something the matter? You keep on laughing to yourself so I thought you had something you wanted to say.”
You watch as the boy (who’s obviously a teenager by the way) fumble with his words. “Oh no– I was just– I didn’t mean to–”
“Mean to what?” You interrupt.
The boy, whose wig is hanging on by a thread, opens his mouth only to close it again.
“C’mon, spit it out. I don’t have all day on me.”
“I just thought you looked really pretty…” He mumbles, his eyes darting around the room.
That sentence alone lifts your spirits up so high someone might’ve thought you ascended to the heavens. “Really?!” Your eyes sparkle.
The boy seems to catch onto this. “Y-yeah.” He begins. “You need to take some pictures of yourself, y’know? To save the memory or whatever they say.”
Blinded by his flattery, you give in. “You’re so right, could you take them for me?” Your confidence is through the roof by now.
“Of course.” And with that, the boy snaps a bunch of photos of you. Posing in all sorts of weird and funny ways, with all sorts of angles. You bet that 10 minutes passed when he handed you back your phone.
“Bathroom break!” He shouts before running off.
Ignoring him, you scroll through the pictures.
In the background of every single one there are two dudes, mockingly copying your poses and worse of all is that they’re going all the way with it, sticking out their hips, pouting their lips— making fun of you basically. One of them has a buzzcut and the other burgundy hair (and a dead stare).
That’s the guy from yesterday!?
You slump down to the floor.
FOURTH STOP: THE PARIS CATACOMBS
Either you were on something or onto something when you wrote the paris catacombs down on your itinerary.
This place has to be haunted. There are literally skulls and bones decorating the walls.
You’re not even sure if the fact that you’re exploring the underground maze alone is a good thing or a bad thing.
“I swear if I die down here I’m going to curse those guys who’re always photobombing me.”
A low and deep voice whispering in your ear “Curse…” You slowly turn around, heartbeat thumping against your chest. “Curse those guys…” You make eye-contact with it.
A piercing shrill escapes you and you bolt straight towards the exit, screaming simultaneously when something large slithers up your arm.
“Let go of me!” You shout, pushing the hand off you and speeding up. Nevertheless, despite your efforts, you’re still caught in the strong embrace of the ghost…?
Your thrashing is useless, a pitiful attempt at fleeing his hold on you. A warm breath pricks your ear. “Relax,” The same voice from earlier speaks, now sounding oddly human. “Prank, it was just a prank we do for tourists.
“Oh.” You stop in his arms, feet dangling above the ground. “Oh.”
He gently sets you down and you realize that he was just wearing a fake skull. “And now, time for the commemorative photo every visitor gets.” He reaches out his hand, probably wanting your phone.
You shudder at the thought of taking a photo. “Sorry, I have trauma when it comes to cameras and stuff…”
He swipes your phone out of your back pocket. “No you don’t.”
You perk an eyebrow at that. Who is he deciding that for you?
“Now pose.” He instructs before pressing the camera button on your phone. You listen and pose, albeit hesitantly. The slow pace he takes photos irks you for some reason though. The guy presses the camera button, waits five seconds and then asks “done?” Before taking the next.
After a few photos and him accidentally closing your phone, making you have to press in your password over and over again he hands you back your phone.
You look at photos, praying that nothing's wrong with them when–
“They’re perfect!” You exclaim in joy. There are no weirdos in the background ruining it and you look creepy good. You look up at the scare actor, thanking him for the photos (they’re all blurry and unfocused but at least not photobombed).
However, he’s nowhere to be seen… Just like that local, and the teenage boy. Wasn’t there a third guy with them? You decide to take a closer look.
You zoom in and two faces, familiar faces by the way, come into view. This time, they’re lighting up their faces with a flashlight in an eerie manner, creepily smiling.
You groan. “Photobombed again…”
FINAL STOP: STADE DE FRANCE (NATIONAL STADIUM)
A friendly game between France’s national teams versus The Netherlands’ national team during your one week trip?
Of course you had to buy yourself a ticket to the game.
You weave through the electric crowd of fans. Both sides waving banners, shouting chants and wearing clothes with their countries colors on them. You chuckle at the enthusiasm. and take a seat, sipping away at your drink.
It’s cool, perfect for this heat you note.
The cheering turns into deafening roars, and that’s when you know that the players have entered the pitch. You strain your eyes, trying to catch a look at the players but your seat from all the way at the back makes it hard and you soon give up.
The pre-match formalities go on, they enter the pitch, line up, sing their national anthem and then toss a coin with the team captains from both sides walking up to the referee. Even from your shitty seat, the second you see France’s captain it’s unmistakable, it’s him. The local.
Your eyes quickly flicker across the field, in search of the other two guys. If he’s here, then the other two must also be here. His black eyes are already on you before you even find him, they were already on you before you even realized Loki was the team captain, before you even took your seat or your sip. Even from all the way on the pitch he could see you. Clear as day, sipping your drink after not having been able to see anything from your trashy seat.
He could’ve gotten you a VIP lounge if you just asked him yesterday, in the catacombs that is. Not that you would’ve known who he was to even ask that though.
Hugo observes the way your eyes grow in size when you recognize him and Charles. The latter jumping up and down waving at you, which has the crowd naturally thinking it’s for them. “No, not you guys!” Charles whines, “her!”
Your finger flies up, an accusatory point towards Hugo. “You!”
That’s him! The slow bastard you met in the catacombs yesterday, the one who held you real tight, whispered in your ear and took photos of you under the pretense of being a little gift for tourists.
Hugo smirks and turns around, getting into position. When the whistle blows he makes a mental note to score one or two goals in your name. As a sorry if you will.
“It’s only right I apologize for ruining your photos, right?”
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