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dmc-tings · 3 years

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The Lord's with an S/O (who just found out about their powers)

Alcina Dimitrescu

Noice 👌🏾

But what did you do for this woman to spare you?

She's like... the biggest man hater anywhere

So... if your a guy, you are lucky boi (or if you identify as a guy)

Or perhaps your a lucky lady?

I feel like she won't discriminate if she feels like your important to her

But for whatever reason she CHOSE YOU

So take that as a win

Sure, she's a vampire and has to eat people

Which was something you didn't know

But she doesn't eat in front of you

Even lying to the point of telling you she's drinking wine

You get curious, of course

So when she leaves to "take care of business", you look onto her glass or cup

You see red

"Ok... but it dont smell like wine..."

You take a sip, only to spit it out right away

Retching with disgust, you tasted blood

Your not an idiot, at least not fully anyways

Alcina rushed back, hearing you gag, thinking one of her daughters were bothering you

Only to see the sight in front of her

You looked at her in fear

Which hurt the tall woman's non beating (?) heart

You backed into a corner, thinking the worst

Looking for a makeshift weapon, you grabbed a spoon

To which made the Lady shake her head

"Love, you know I wouldn't-"

"Your a damned liar!!" You barked weakly, "W-what the fuck are you!?"

She sat calmly in the chair in front of you, gesturing for you to take a seat as well

You hesitated, but did comply, not letting go of your weapon (the spoon)

She huffed sadly, normally this behavior would have sent her into a rageful fit

But this is YOU we're talking about

Her little muse, the only mortal that makes her truly happy

"My Love, please calm down."

When you showed no sign of relaxing, Alcina took her glass in her hand, swirling the blood

Then takes a small sip, and lighting a cigarette

She offers you one

You cringe, and with that she pulls back again

After taking a puff, she begins to explain

Mother Miranda, the other Lord's, the creation of her daughter's, the Village, and everything else, prior to your showing up

After she finishes, you lower your loyal spoon

Drinking in all of the information

You looked up at her

"So that's why your so keen in keeping the girls away from me..."

The large woman nodded, looking at you

You bit your lip, but let go of your spoon, placing it back into the table

Alcina looked at you, watching you relax

You nodded a calm understanding

"Well seeing as I know what's going on now... is Mother Miranda going to-"

The Lady Dimitrescu, shook her head

"She has allowed for me to keep you. As long as you only stay in the castle... seeing as that the village is too dangerous. And I don't want you mixed up with the rif-raf."

You smiled and sat in her lap, (cause you can do that) and planted a kiss on her cold cheek

She let out a pleased humm, and returned the kiss

"Just... next time, if you choose a weapon, Love, make sure it has a SHARP end."

Salvatore Moreau

You had known Moreau since before Mother Miranda made an impact on his life

You saw less and less of your significant other

He would disappear and cut your alone time short, whenever the woman called

You were saddened when he finally told you that you couldn't see him anymore

But that's didn't stop him from speaking to you through whatever door, that separated you both

He didn't keep you locked up, but he would lock whatever door was between you

So you couldn't see the monstrous transformation, causing him pain

All you knew is that his voice was becoming more and more disgruntled

As said, you knew Salvatore before this

He was a handsome and intelligent man (despite what's written in Miranda's notes)

And to hear your man become... so in thralled by this other woman, made you suspicious

One day, you both were speaking, with a door between you, as usual

Unbeknownst to Salvatore, you were picking the lock

Eagar to see him

He never noticed the change in your tone, when you got it unlocked, nor the click of the lock

Shoving the door open, and pushing Salvatore back

The male let out a yelp, trying to rush in to the nearby darkness

You stepped through the threshold, eyes blazing and searching

You scanned the room and finally landed on a heap of a shivering... beast?

"Moreau? Is... is that you?" You crept closer, and gently put a hand on his back

"D-dont look at m-me...." he shivered, trying to hide himself

Horrified, you took his face on your hands

"I-is this... the work o-of-"

He cut you off, "Do-dont. Mother loves me... she does... I know she does..."

You felt tears pour down your face

You couldn't bring yourself to speak

That vile woman, had destroyed your dear Moreau

The man you knew and loved was beaten and broken into this sobing heap before you

He looked at you, and reached up to wipe your tears

"Oh... please don't cry... thi-this is her will..."

You shook your head, "what kind of will is this, Salvatore? To turn you-"

He pulled away from you, snarling, "I KNEW YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND!!! Mother loves me, and i-"

You slapped him, your tears stopping, "What kind of man have you become?!"

Disgusted, not with his appearance, but his sniveling attitude

You left

But... not unaffected by what happened to the man you cared about

You left... everything behind, the Village, your family...

Salvatore Moreau never left your thoughts and you never left his

It was a bittersweet life, but you were glad to leave what was happening behind

Angie and Donna Beneviento

These two kept you in their estate

Though Donna hid Angie from you, worried that you wouldn't understand the need for her doll

She also kept the pollen from her plants away from you

You were the first person Donna could talk to, without her illness bothering her

No need for Angie!? And this person don't care!?

Fucking Jackpot!!!

Though Angie does get a bit upset that she don't get to see you

That's about to change

You and Donna where sitting in the backroom, overlooking the waterfall

Enjoying an afternoon tea

"Dear? How are you feeling today?"

Donna looked at you, taking your hand in her's giving you a smile

"I am well." She reassured you, giving your hand a squeeze

Then you sneezed, surprised cause your allergies hadn't started up, due to the lack of pollen

And the abundance of snow and cold

Donna gasped, looking over her shoulder

"Angie, n-"

Angie revealed herself, giggling and plopping herself in your lap

You froze, "A-a doll? Donna... is this a gift?"

You never really liked or disliked dolls

Angie gave another giggle, "No, stupid! I'm Angie. Donna's most favorite doll. And a friend."

Your eyes widened at the living doll, "Uh... im-"

"I know who you are!!" She floated infront of you now

"And we like you!"

Donna was quiet, not surprisingly, but you reached out for her

She gently took your hand in her's

"Donna. Tell me whats going on. Please."

Donna nodded, quietly starting to explain.

The gifts from Mother Miranda, the plants, the pollen and finally Angie

You looked at the floating doll, who was nodding her head along, with Donna's words

Then finally, you pulled Donna closer to your side

"You don't ever have to hide things from me. I never had a problem with the other ways that you cope, Donna."

Your encouraging words sent the woman into tears of joy

She buried her face in your chest

You smiled at Angie, who patted you on the forehead

Karl Heisenberg

You sat in the smaller, (safer) part of his factory

It was a part he had built to keep you safe

From what?

You had asked Karl several times, on different occasions, what was he building

"Its none of your concern." He waved a hand dismissively, "Whats for dinner?"

You always had huffed out whatever meal you made for the pair of you

Karl was always one of three places: meeting his "family", in the factory, or right next to you

The "family" was always thrown into air quotes

You knew he disliked his "family"

He announced his leaving out again, not telling you where

But leaving nonetheless, as usual you waved him off

But today was different, you WERE going to see what the hell was in that factory

Not paying attention to the warnings he gave you, you made your way down

Once at an elevator, you pressed the button

It came up and you were met with a large, large portly man

"Why if it isn't Heisenberg's little kitten."

Shocked you jumped back a bit, but then inched your way inside

"Its alright. I mean you no harm. Come, come."

You stood next to him, "Uh... who are you?"

"You may call me The Duke." He hummed, "But what are you doing here? Don't you know it's dangerous to play here?"

You lifted your chin, "I can handle myself. Thank you."

The Duke gave a small laugh, as you pulled the switch, but didn't speak again

Hitting the bottom floor, you disembarked, waving goodbye

You noticed a door and pushed through

Only to be met with a metal drill nearly splitting your face in two

With a strangled yelp, you lept backwards

"HOLY SHIT!!! WHAT THE HELL-"

"Who's in my damned- KITTEN!?"

You heard Heisenberg's voice above you and looked around frantic

"Karl! What-"

You didn't get to finish, the same monster came at you again

Dodging to the side, only barely missing getting drilled

Running in to the labyrinth, you were soon cornered

You shook with fear, hearing more monsters come after you

Closing your eyes, waiting for the blows to take you to the Great beyond

Your waiting was cut shirt hearing a series of clang's

You moved your hands and opened your eyes

Seeing Karl, standing in front of you shoving all the monsters back...

But he wasn't touching them....

"What... how-"

"Dont just sit on your ass, get up!" He barked, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind him

Once back in the safe zone, you slapped him, breathing heavily

He took it, it was a well deserved slap

"E-explain yourself!"

He sat heavily down, telling you everything.

The reason for the factory, the monsters in it, his powers, Miranda's plan, even pouring out his emotions about it all

You finally understood and took his hands in yours, kneeling down infront of him

"You idiot. All you had to do was talk to me. Not be a "big tough guy" about it."

You kissed his rough hands

And he chuckled at you

"Always understanding. Thanks Kitten."

#lady dimitrescu #alcina x reader #lady dimitrescu x reader #Salvatore Moreau x reader #moreau #salvatore moreau #angie beneviento #angie and donna #donna beneviento #angie and donna beneviento x reader #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader

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bokettochild · 3 years

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Sisters, Scoldings and Seaside Memories

My excuse? I wanted to write the Oracles meeting the heroes and it spiraled into some Legend angst, because, well- this is me.

I do have a prompt I blame for this though, so go yell at the folks at @linkeduniverse-prompts for inspiring me with this idea.

The heroes had landed in Legend’s world again, jolted across time and space by yet another sudden switch, one that had left them more shaken and out of sorts than normal, and which, quite to everyone’s panic, had nearly made Four pass out. As was, the smithy had clutched ahold of the nearest hero at the moment, Legend, and refused to let go, resulting in his getting picked up and carried by the vet after they had figured out where they were.

The fact that they had been dumped so close to Legend’s house (they were only just a half an hour’s walk away) had unnerved the vet, and a few others, but there was no sign of monsters as far as their scouting crew could tell, even with the heavy rainfall, and if Hyrule, Wild and Twilight all agreed that the path was safe, then no one else was going to be the one to question them. After all, if you can’t trust the two best survivors and the best tracker on their team, who could they trust?

Ravio had greeted the group with open arms and cheerful welcomes, pulling the sopping smithy out of Legend’s hold and cooing when the multi-colored hero hadn’t even protested. Legend didn’t appear too very put out about it either, just shaking his head with a smile that he hid behind dripping bangs as he’d removed his shoes and barked orders at the rest of them to do the same.

While Legend stoked the fire and grabbed a blanket for Four, who Ravio was settling in his own favorite overstuffed arm-chair (if Ravio hated Legend's rocker, then Legend had already condemned that chair to the furthest corners of the dark world), the rest of the heroes stood about toweling themselves off and looking around. Ravio had reorganized again, although he’d left a few things, like the strange mask on the wall and a few other decorations, alone. It looked nice, cozier, although a bit less like a shop. When asked why, the merchant had waved off the curious looks from both the heroes and his housemate.

“I figured with all y’all visiting so much I’d probably better work out of the shed. It took a bit of tidying up- now Mr. Hero, don’t look at me like that, it was a mess! Anyways, I tidied it up, moved most of the things into the basement where you can get at them easier, Mr. Hero, and set up shop! Now y’all won’t have to worry about my things getting in the way.” Ravio smiled brightly as he finished, patting Four’s head and ignoring the smithy’s irritated look and looking pointedly at Warriors instead.

It was clear that Ravio’s adoption of Legend and Twilight’s use of the word ‘y’all’ was bothering the poor captain immensely.

The evening progressed as usual, with Ravio humming off key as he bustled about the house making ready the bedrooms for the heroes’ use. Wild, perhaps in wake of the pie incident, had finally been granted access to the kitchen, which allowed him to make dinner while the others offered Ravio their aid.

As “host” Legend had been assigned the task of sitting with Four until the smithy felt a bit better. The vet had at first protested leaving all the work to the others, but Ravio had finally persuaded him by pointing out that Mr. Smithy shouldn’t be left alone to stew too much in his thoughts, and wouldn’t Mr. Hero like to make sure the Hero of the Four Sword was quite alright in this particular Hyrule? Why that worked, or why Ravio had used that specific wording was unknown to the others, but Legend caved quickly after that, changing into a horridly oversized tunic and joining Four on the couch, the smithy leaning against him while the two talked over mundane things like metal imbalances in weapons and other such matters.

Time hadn’t been able to hide a snort of laughter as he caught wind of Four very casually explaining proper cooling methods to use on newly forged swords to a flushed veteran, and Legend had looked one instant away from snapping back about a recent mishap involving such a task, only stopped the smith’s continued softness of voice and weary eyes.

The knock on the door only sounded however, once most of the others had already bustled into the kitchen, leaving Legend and Four to eat their dinner together where the smith would be most comfortable and Legend couldn’t scold Twilight for his ‘wolfish’ manners at the dinner table.

Considering the vet had trouble keeping himself clean, Warriors had quietly commented that maybe the other boy didn’t exactly have room to be complaining about table manners.

The sound at the door was lost to those in the kitchen as they chattered and laughed, but to the two heroes in the living room it was clear as day, and startled them both so much that they both fumbled with their bowls, violet clashing with brown as sheepish smiles marred both their faces, light laughter on their lips at their shared startle.

The knock sounded again, this time urgent, repetitive and with a desperate air.

Amusement flickered to worry as Legend had risen from the couch, the line of his shoulders tight with worry as he’d reached for the sword he’d left at the door before even daring to lay his fingers on the door handle. Four’s own hand had scrabbled for his blade, but he’d remained sitting, tense and alert with his ears pricked forwards and eyes sharp against whatever might be outside.

There were a few things Legend was expecting to see when he’d opened the door; royal guards coming for the bounty that the king had still failed to lift from him, despite most all of Hyrule knowing by now of his innocence of the crimes attributed to him, or maybe it would be a villager desperately reporting a monster attack down in Kakariko, he had thought it strange they had been dumped so conveniently close to home with no danger immediately evident.

What was on the other side however was not any of the things on his mental list.

Three cloaked figures stood outside the door, two of them nearly looming over him as a pair of sharp blue eyes stared at him from beneath the shade of a hood, stern and wary, but not entirely devoid of concern. “Link! Oh, thank heavens you’re here!”

“Nayru?” The vet blinked in surprise, gaze falling first on the Oracle in front of him and then to her sisters, standing behind her and wrapped tightly against the rain. And for lack of anything better to say, or even think, he opened the door a bit wider, motioning vaguely with the sword still in his other hand. “Come in.”

Four’s eyes followed the three girls as green, red and blue had brightened the dimming room, the bright hair and clothes of the three Oracles strangely out of place in the muted tones of Legend and Ravio’s house. Legend stashed his sword back against the wall, taking the cloaks from the three ladies and hanging them on hooks with everyone else’s as Nayru turned to him with her face drawn and eyes flickering sternly.

“Link.” Nayru began, frowning down at the vet, who stared up at her with similar seriousness. “It has come to my attention that there has been a temporal and chronological anomaly that seems to have been following you, I’ve come to ask-”

“Four!” Farore’s trill broke through the tense atmosphere as the Oracle of Secrets rushed over to bundle the Hero of Four Swords into a hug. “How? Oh, my stars! It’s been so long! You look so much older!” The girl exclaimed, holding the sheepish smithy at arm's length and inspecting him. “I haven’t seen you in forever! Although, I suppose it seems like less time for you. Linky! How on earth did you rescue him?” That stopped the smithy silent, and he stared up at the greenette before him curiously as she chattered on, worry in her eyes. “Is that why he looks ill? Did you-”

“Farore.” For maybe the first time in his life, Legend actually managed a half decent growl. Sure, he still squeaked a bit, but it was low and harsh enough to nearly count.

“How-” Nayru frowned, blinking slowly at the smithy seated on the couch while Din waved to him quietly.

“Boys, is everything-” Time’s voice was cut off as the three Oracles spun to stare at him, color draining from their faces as Din buried her face in her hands, Farore tensed and Nayru stiffened, sharp blue eyes turning to Legend with a glare.

“I told you to never play with the Harp of Ages!”

“I didn’t!” Legend snapped back, glaring up at the older girl with something similar to a pout. For the other two heroes, had it not been for the painful tension of the situation, they may have smiled at how much the interaction looked like a pair of siblings arguing over a valued toy.

“Then how is he-” Nayru flung a hand out to point at Time, who stood awkwardly in the doorway. “-here?” The Oracle faltered, gaze turning back to Time in confusion before settling on Legend again. “Wait, which hero is that again?”

“Ouch.” Time deadpanned, completely on instinct.

“Hero of Time.” Legend returned with a scowl.

“Wait.” Farore stared from one hero to another in confusion. “Isn’t he dead? Linky, are you- have you been rescuing-”

“This one didn’t die.” Legend returned, looking increasingly done with the situation while Time and Four both winced.

“Split timelines, remember, Fare?” Din offered with a pained smile.

Nayru scowled, pinching the bridge of her nose as her other hand settled on her hip. “Link, I swear, the Harp of Ages isn’t even supposed to be able to cross realities! Do you know what you’ve done? Link, I know you miss her, but searching across time and space for her just doesn’t work! You’re going to-”

“I didn’t use the freaking harp!” Legend shouted, and to the surprise of both of the others, tears were gathering in his eyes. “So could you just not-” The vet’s voice broke as teary indigo glared up into startled ocean blue. “Could you just not bring that up? I know better, Nayru! Besides, which one of us is it that broke the timeline last time, huh?”

“That wasn’t me.” The blue-haired maiden sighed. “We both know I had no control over any of what happened. But your point stands, I’m- I’m sorry for accusing you.”

“Good.” Legend wrapped his arms around himself, a single tear trickling down his scowling face as Din flew over and wrapped him in a hug. “Oh, Sunshine, she didn’t mean it! We’re just worried is all, you know that, right?” The vet didn’t answer, but he did melt into the hold of the young woman as she patted his back gently.

The others chose that moment to make their respective appearances, peeking around Time to see Nayru standing awkwardly beside the embracing Oracle and Hero while Farore and Four exchanged a Look.

“Legend, who is this?” Hyrule frowned, instant regret flooding over his face as he saw Legend swipe the end of his over-long sleeve over his face with a violent sniffle and a huff, releasing Din as the red-head sighed sadly.

“The Golden Goddesses.” Time answered instead, nodding politely to the three ladies, who all offered him awkward smiles in return.

“The Oracles actually.” Nayru corrected with a strained smile. “Apologies, Forest Hero.” She inclined her head respectfully. “I meant no disrespect, it’s only that you are quite similar in appearance to another hero from this world, one that is near and dear-” The woman’s voice stuttered to a halt as she stared at the others peeking out from behind the eldest hero.

The room fell to silence for a brief moment as Nayru’s face fell, eyes widening dramatically as her shoulders slumped. “Is that- Link, how many Heroes of Courage are in your home?”

“Nine.” Legend huffed, crossing his arms and looking anywhere else but at the girl. “Counting me anyway.”

“Nine Heroes of Courage.” The Oracle repeated, dumbstruck, before rubbing her hands over her face. “That’s like half of all of Hylia’s Heroes in all! Why? Why would so many be gathered in one place? How did you even meet them?”

The vet shrugged, still not meeting the baby-blue eyes that turned his way in desperation. “A lizard. Also, portals.”

From where she was now sitting next to Four, Farore nodded. “That sounds just bizarre enough to be true.”

At Nayru’s nod of agreement, Din reached out to ruffle Legend’s pink hair. “Just like you to get pulled along in something like that, isn’t it, Link?”

The soft chuckle earned a hesitant smile from the vet as the others pushed further into the room, only to freeze again as Nayru’s startled again, staring across the room at Warriors, eyes full of horror. “Oh no. Not you!”

The captain blinked in surprise, offense taking over as he stared at the young woman. “Excuse me?”

Nayru shook her head, no long paying attention as she cupped her cheeks. “No, not the blasted Hero of Warriors! Oh, why me!”

“Okay, now that’s just offensive.” The captain huffed, crossing his arms indignantly as Legend chuckled softly.

Sharp blue eyes made the captain still again as the Oracle of Ages whimpered softly. “Of all the people in your home, Link, you had to have the one Hylian that my daughters obsess over? Why?”

All eyes turned to the vet, who now looked similarly dumbfounded and horrified, blinking slowly at nothing as one hand buried itself in his long bangs. “My niece has a crush on-” the vet viably gagged, face screwing up as he looked up to meet the confused stare of the captain, “-Oh my gross!”

“Seriously?” Warriors huffed with a glare before throwing his hands up, voice raising slightly as he spoke. “Could someone kindly explain why all of you suddenly find me disgusting?”

“Not you.” Din laughed. “My nieces just have something of an obsession with you, and Nayru’s sick of it. Add to that that-”

“Of all the people,” Legend interrupted with a horror filled mumble. “For my nieces to have a crush on, it had to be my brother? Just- oh that is just so incredibly gross!” Violet met twinkling red as the vet leaned back to stare at Din. “Why do the ladies in my family always have such weird taste in men?”

“Says the guy who had a crush on his now sister.” Farore sniggered, now fully wrapped up in the blankets with Four, despite no one having noticed either of them move. The smithy didn’t appear to mind either, his smile matching that of the Oracle of Secrets’, even if he didn’t appear to know exactly what was going on any more than the rest of them.

“It wasn’t a crush!” Legend near shrieked, stiffening as his face turned nearly as red as the long hair that shimmered in the firelight behind him. “You get asked to dance by a girl you don’t know and see how you act!”

Nayru, now somewhat recovered, grinned impishly at the blushing hero. “That’s right, besides, I’m pretty sure our little brother had a crush on a certain farm girl.”

“I didn’t like Ropely like that!” The vet huffed, brightening further. “Or Malon, if that’s what you’re implying. She’s my freaking cousin and that would just be gross.”

“Malon is your what now?” Time blinked, confused.

“I have a Malon in my time too.” Four offered, very unhelpfully, as the eldest hero looked like he was descending into mental acrobatics. “She works near castle town and even lives on a ranch. I think Malons are a constant in our worlds, just like Zeldas.”

“I don’t have a Malon...” Wind mused quietly while Time began to look increadibly distressed.

“It’s a family name.” Legend huffed, rolling his eyes as his blush began to fade. “Mine was named after our great-something-gramma. The same is probably true of Mamalon, Time. She’s probably named after an ancestor from Four’s time or something.”

“Great!” The smallest Oracle exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, can I please make you recognize that my babies are in one place for once?”

Her sisters stared at her, blinking slowly. “Um, Fare, that’s sort of why Nayru just had a freak out?” Legend snorted but his...sister? Ignored it.

“Yes but,” Farore nodded at Four, who she’d once more wrapped in her arms. “Look!”

And they did. Four was cuddled up with a resigned smile, looking positively tiny in the Oracle’s hold and, admittedly, rather cute. There was not one person in the room left unaffected, and several actually cooed when Farore hugged him tightly, burying her face in the smithy’s hair. “All of my babies, I love you all so very much!”

Warriors laughed at that, shaking his head. “What, do the Golden Goddesses have favorite heroes too? I thought that was just Hylia!”

“Unfortunately, that is the case.” Nayru shrugged. “We can’t help getting attached, just like any other Hylian.”

“Who are who’s favorites?” Wind chirped; eyes eager as he stared from one Oracle to another.

It was Din who answered, wrapping her arms around Legend’s shoulders as she stood behind him, smile warm even in the chill of the evening as she stared at the sailor hero. “Sunshine here’s mine, he’s my baby brother after all!”

“Adopted, as all of our other siblings are.” The Oracle of Ages interjected, earning her a pout from her sister and a laugh from the heroes.

“Nayru’s favorite is the Hero of Time, it’s why she calls him by a nickname, and Farore, well...” The red-head grinned to where the youngest of the three Oracles was cooing and fussing over Four. “I think you can guess.”

“Do any of you have second favorites?” Wind pressed, curiosity flickering in ocean blue and silver.

“I haven’t had enough experience with most of the other heroes to really say, although the Hero of Wild’s never fails to make me laugh when I watch him through Nayru’s mirrors.” The Saesonal Oracle laughed, making the hero in question flush lightly. “Both for his pranks and clever antics, and, of course, having a horse named after you means you simply have to adore the owner!”

“Farore has several favorites, she’s just only ever interacted with Link and Four.” Nayru chuckled. “She’s quite fond of those who had to strive for Courage though, so I suppose the Hero of Hyrule and the Hero of Winds likely tie for her second favorite.” The two boys in question grinned brightly at each other. “As for myself, I find that as the Keeper of Time, I have quite the fondness for its hero. Although, my baby brother and brother-in-law are also dear to me.” Twinkling blue settled on Sky’s flushed face as the Oracle winked. “Hylia could have chosen no one better to be her lover, and I approve the match wholeheartedly.”

Sky proceeded to flush a color o one had known existed and quickly lower himself to the floor, smiling madly and covering hisface with his hands, earning tender laughter from the blue-haired maiden as she turned her attention back towards the other heroes.

“And for some reason, I’m the only hero left unfavorited.” The captain sulked.

“If it’s any consolation.” Farore called out. “Our other baby sister thinks you’re cute! She says she’s glad you married her daughter!” The Captain Hero choked, and it was only due to Twilight thumping the others back that the poor man didn’t choke right then and there. “The same goes for the Twilight Hero, Lolia absolutely adores him!”

“How did the same goddess choose us both? We are nothing alike?”

Warriors coughed in what might have been agreement.

Farore only shrugged. “I suppose it’s the same reason she adores Ravio so much, it’s the hero who makes an impression on her world that earns her favor.”

The heroes in question took their time processing that, and in the meantime, Legend darted off toe retrieve dry things for his elder sisters, only to come back to Ravio chattering to the three, who’d now gathered on the same couch as Legend and Four had been on earlier, all answering his questions fondly and politely while Farore continued to suffocate Four with hugs. The smithy didn’t seem to mind though, resting easily, eyes glimmering reddish-brown in the fire-light as the Oracle of Secrets toyed with his ong hair.

“I brought warm clothes.” Legend called, offering the things with a brief shuffle of his feet. “They’re Fable’s, but I don’t think shell mind.”

Ravio frowned, looking up at the offered garments with furrowed brows. “Are you sure that will warm them enough, Mr. Hero? It would be horrible if your poor sisters caught cold!” Grenn flickered knowingly, and Legend huffed as he met the expectant gaze.

“Fine, I’ll brew some cider, since I expect that’s what you suggest?”

“Oh! Mr. Hero, how kind of you! I didn’t mean to ask, but since you’ve offered I’m sure your lovely sisters will love to have some!”

Din straightened in her seat, eyes sparkling brightly. “Cider? Oh, Link! I haven’t had your cider in ages! Please make some! I’d actually kill for a cup about now!”

And really, who was the veteran hero to argue with the will of the Oracle of Seasons?

“He’s made you cider before?” The Oracle of Ages frowned.

“Oh, all the time! The whole circus troupe loved it! Auntie Impa always used to beg him for the recipe, but it was that one thing she could never convince him about. It’s absolute heaven, Nay! You’re going to love it!”

The bluette huffed, crossing her arms and faking a put. “He never made me any cider.”

“Because you tried to kill me!” Legend’s voice called back from the kitchen, making the three girls startle slightly. “If you hadn’t, maybe you could have tried some along with Ralph and Raven.”

“I wasn’t- I was- Link!” Nayru spluttered as a cackle arose from the kitchen. “I was under mind control!”

“Still tried to kill me!” The vet chirped back with far too much cheer considering what he was saying. And really, none of the others could argue his point, either because they didn’t understand what was being discussed or because it was true.

Cider was passed around after a brief wait, during which the others had made idle small talk and Farore had finally agreed to release Four from her grasp. The short hero still sat at her side, trading smiles with the three Oracles as he chatted amiably with them, clearly familiar with all three and quite happy to see them again, even with the drama from before.

No one brought up what Farore had meant about ‘rescuing’ him.

When Legend finally emerged from the kitchen, Ravio’s tray stacked high with mugs of steaming cider, silence had quickly fallen save for the quiet sips and louder slurps of the three as Legend handed out the mugs, finishing with the three Oracles and promptly plopping himself down in their midst, entirely uncaring of the looks they exchanged over his head while Four shifted a bit closer to his brother.

“Link,” Nayru settled her mug in her lap and stared over at the pink-haired hero, unfortunately gaining the attention of the rest of the chain in the process. “About earlier, I really am sorry for accusing you. It was wrong of me to assume-”

“You already apologized, it’s fine.” Legend cut her off, yawning softly as he sipped his cider.

“No, it’s not. But I’d like to make it up to you.” The mug was set aside as long fingers had begun to glow with a soft blue, catching the vet’s eyes and making him stare as the Orale of Ages waved her fingers gently, a blue orb appearing in her grasp as a soft smile graced her delicate features. “Anything you’d like to see, baby brother?”

Violet eyes stared fixed on the orb, glistening slightly with wonder as the vet floundered, nearly spilling his cider only to be rescued by Four’s quick thinking as the smithy removed the mug from his grasp. “A-anything?”

“Anything.” The Oracle reaffirmed.

Legend stammered softly for a moment. “C-Could I see Raven? Where he is now?”

There was some murmuring from the others, curiosity and confusion in their tones as Nayru frowned. “Raven lived four-hundred years ago, Songbird, he’s dead now.”

“Oh- uh- I knew that.”

“I can show you what he was doing today four-hundred year ago though.” She laughed softly, spinning the orb in her hands slowly before turning it to face Legend. The veteran hero stared intently, brows furrowing slightly before his eyes widened and he was pushing back into the couch and away from the viewing orb.

“Oh yuck! Nayru! That- ew!” At the girls’ laugher he shot them all a glare. “I did not need to see a woman eating my mentor’s face!”

“That would be kissing.” Time smirked. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“That’s my ancestor though!”

“And I knew that would happen.” Nayru giggled. “That was a prank, here’s the actual thing.” A small child and a man looking suspiciously like Time appeared on the surface of the orb, both lying on the floor of what might have been a farm-house as the little one played with a few small toys, the man watching with a fond gaze as he relaxed, looking as if he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

“They look happy.” Legend hummed, gaze softening as he watched the duo a moment more before smiling up at his sister. “Thanks.”

The bluette smiled in return. “I accused yo twice though, so you may have a second. What else would you like?”

Anyone who was watching could see the conflicted emotions flying through Legend’s eyes as he stared at the now blank orb, the vet fidgeting with his rings and long sleeves as he gnawed his lower lip, torn about something that remained unknown to the others but clearly was tearing him up inside. At long last however, the vet’s voice, small and vulnerable, more so than they’d heard even when he was half asleep, spoke his request. “I’d like to see her.”

Ocean blue eyes softened as the Oracle nodded, spinning her orb slowly before handing it over to the vet as the scene of a beach crossed the surface of the ball.

A girl with curly red hair and sparkling eyes sat on the beach, voice rich and lovely as she sang ou a tune that had the vet’s eyes watering as he smiled as the vision, his brothers crowding close curiously as several of them muffled soft gasps.

“Marin?” The voice of a boy rang from the orb, gentle, uncertain and young, but resemblant of Legend’s own in an odd, gentle way.

“Link! Don’t startle me like that!” The girl laughed, shaking her head and making her curls bounce as she smiled over at a boy maybe a bit older than Wind. The lad was dark haired, but pink showed through at his roots and while he carried a sword on his back, he looked relaxed and at peace with the world around him, face gentle and unmarred by worries or fears as he walked across the sand to where the girl sat. A dopey smile and light blush touched the kid’s face as the girl, Marin, gently patted the sand at her side. “Join me, you’re done running errands for everyone now, right?”

“For today.”

“Good.” The girl reached up, tugging ‘Link’ down next to her firmly. “Lay down.”

“What?”

“Lay down.” Marin ordered. “You need a break. You’re always running everywhere and helping eveyone else, you need a bit of time to yourself.”

A smile pulled at the boy’s features. “Yes ma’am.”

The girl snorted, but patted her lap and tugged at the green tunic of the other, resulting in him at last laying on the sand, head in her lap as she smiled down at him. “You’re going to rest now, because tomorrow is a busy day for us.”

“Oh?” Already there was a dreamy quality to the boy’s voice as he relaxed into the hold of the girl, her fingers tugging gently through tangled black hair as she nodded.

“Yes. We have to sleep in until nine, and then eat a big breakfast before taking a long walk on the shore. Then, you’re going to help me conquer a huge basket lunch before you can then defeat being awake for an hour. After that, we have to chase the tide until it tires, and then dance in victory over the ground that it’s lost.” The boy laughed softly, lashes already fluttering softly across rosy cheeks as the girl continued. “Then, you and I are going to sit here and watch the sun go down, and we will sing it to sleep along with the island until the sun comes up.”

“And what then?”

“And then we do as we please!”

“We build a fire.” The boy hummed. “And I’m going to make you cider so good you’ll be ruined for any of your silly teas.”

“Hey!” The girl huffed, purposefully jostling the lad’s head as she huffed down at him. “My teas are good!”

“Not as good as my cider.” The boy replied, opening one eyes to grin up at her, a cheeky smile on his face. “Just you wait, you’ll see.”

Marin shook her head, eyes glistening gently as she ran her fingers through Link’s hair again. “I suppose I will.”

The orb shattered as it hit the floor, dissipating instantly as the heroes collectively startled.

“Legend?” Four rested a hand on the vet’s shoulder, staring in concern at the other boy, who hid behind his bangs with a faint sniffle.

“Thanks , Nayru.”

“Do you want me to fix it? I can give you another-”

“No, I know what happens.” Legend waved her off, sighing heavily and offering a teary smile. “I just wanted to see her again.”

“Well then you should have said something!” Warriors exclaimed, catching the attention of all gathered as he stared at the vet, caught between a grin and a scowl “Had I known you were Marin’s prince charming I would have said something by now! For pities sakes, the girls have been trying to hunt down her world since the war ended!”

Legend blinked.

“She’s still not home?” Wind frowned. “But, it’s been months!”

“No one knew where she belonged, she didn’t even know, said she knew nothing of Hyrule’s history, only that there was a hero.” The captain shook his head. “Hard to believe the sweet hero she described is this here ass, but who am I to judge?”

“She’s alive?” Legend stared.

“Yes,” The captain smiled slightly, gaze warming as he met the vet’s. “But between Cia, Lana and Midna, we never-”

“Midna too!” Twilight exclaimed, pushing into Warriors’ line of vision with a shocked face and watching the captain immediately fly through every shade of shock imaginable.

“Love of the goddess...” Warriors breathed. “Both of you? The two famed sweethearts of my team are the biggest asses I know? You have got to be kidding me!”

The Oracles laughed, or in Farore’s case, cackled, at the plight of the captain, and the other heroes joined in.

“Wars, I’m not even mad.” legend chuckled, shaking his head, and Twilight nodded in agreement. “But I will say this, we can’t get to your Hyrule soon enough, and when we get there, Time, know for a fact that I don’t need to wait till I’m older to understand that thing earlier.”

“Okay, that's just gross!” Wind exclaimed. “I do not want to see Legend kissing someone! That’s just- oh yuck!”

The vet threw his head back and laughed, and no one could really help but join in. Except Wind, who scrunched up his nose in disgust while Wild and Hyrule shared a confused look.

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onceuponadisembo · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/5 Fandom: 王室教師ハイネ | Oushitsu Kyoushi Haine | The Royal Tutor (Anime) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Viktor von Granzreich & Heine Wittgenstein, Viktor von Granzreich/Heine Wittgenstein Characters: Viktor von Granzreich, Heine Wittgenstein Additional Tags: Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Bad Humor, Happy Ending, Excessive Hand-Holding, anime movie canon, Staying Up Too Late, viktor just wants to spend more time teasing heine for his height, unamused heine, heine's anime past, a little bit shippy, Queerplatonic Relationships

Summary:

Viktor invites Heine to his study for wine, makes as many bad jokes as he can, and then asks to dance with him. Set after the ball that happens at the end of the anime movie.

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

I'm only up to Volume 9 of the manga right now and I don't know Heine's past, so although the manga will have some influence on some parts of the story, this fic is set in the canon of the anime, and will include references to Heine's and Viktor's past based on what was shown in the anime.

I'm also putting together a (very short, somewhat shippy) playlist for this fic so if you're into that sort of thing, here it is.

FFN link.

Read the first part under the cut

In the king's study, the bottle of Niedergranzreich white wine glittered in the lamplight.

There had been drinks at the ball. The usual wine and beer, which Heine had politely declined, but there was also something from Romano – a honeyed concoction with sharp-smelling spices and an even sharper burn as it slipped down his throat. When Viktor proposed a toast with the king of Romano, Heine had found himself with a glass in hand. He was then handed another at more than a few points in the evening – and at least one of them by Viktor himself. Heine did not quite remember how many cries of Prost! to the two kingdoms there had been, and now he sat, still in his evening suit, at his usual spot by the desk, swirling yet another glass with Viktor and feeling the wine more than usual.

It was already getting late.

He was not worried; tomorrow was his rest day. But there are no breaks for a king – although this one did not seem to notice the time at all. Heine had been surprised when Viktor invited him here tonight, thinking that perhaps the king wanted a report so soon after the princes' assignment had been completed. He had been equally surprised when he saw the bottle.

"More wine?" he chided. "Are you sure?"

Viktor was already pouring the first glass. "You can always have something else if you won't join me," he had said, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I'll send for it. Milk would be much more… age appropriate. Or what do you think?"

Heine harrumphed and took a glass.

It seemed that they were here for no reason at all. Tomorrow – or the day after – they would talk about how the princes had done, and what that could mean for the future of the Granzreich and Romano kingdoms. And although they were no longer young, nor as free with their time as they had been way back then, Heine did not mind indulging the king. Viktor may request the strangest things, but it was never without sound reason. There is always a first time for everything, though, because Heine was now starting to suspect that Viktor, too, had had more than a few at the ball.

-:-

"Eins dropped by, you know," said Viktor not long after they had clinked their glasses. "After the song."

"Oh?" said Heine, pausing as he lifted his glass. "I did not see him."

Chin in hand, Viktor hummed a sigh. "He didn't stay long. You know how children are when they grow up."

They sat in silence for a while. They had both grown up a long time ago, and far too quickly. There was still so much more to be done.

Viktor drained his glass and straightened up with a toss of his head, as if the silence were a blanket he was trying to shrug from his shoulders. "Well!" he chirped, refilling his glass. "I am glad that my sons are growing so well under your care. Shall I…?" He gestured the bottle towards Heine.

The tutor glanced into his glass. "Thank you, but I am barely halfway through."

"Take your time." Viktor settled back in his chair. "Speaking of my sons, I am already in talks with King Romano to arrange a visit to his kingdom. It is my hope that we can continue to strengthen our relationship as allies."

"And mine as well," murmured Heine. It could not be easy, as a young prince of Romano, to shoulder the high expectations of one's position while growing into one's own person. He thought of Prince Ivan, the eldest twin, who could never do enough in his father's eyes as well as his own; and of Prince Eugene, overlooked in favour of his brother and who, like his brother, expressed a disdain for "forever benchwarmer princes" at the start of their visit. The fact that the younger prince had done so even though, if all were to go according to plan, he himself would not be expected to ascend the throne, could explain why Prince Eugene had not seemed to see the point in trying for anything. The Granzreich princes could prove to be a good influence on the Romanos, if only they could spend some more time together.

A chuckle from Viktor interrupted Heine's thoughts. "What is funny?" he asked the king, his sombre musings quickly dissipating.

"I was just wondering if you also taught the princes to dance at the ball."

"Goodness, no."

"Ah. I thought so. Teaching them to sing would have been enough of a handful."

"Yes, but I cannot tell you how much I came to wish that I had blocked out a few hours, at least, to revise the basics together with them. I did not anticipate how insistent they would be." Heine took a fortifying drink from his glass. "Do you know how terrifying it is to be led around the floor by partners who do not quite know what they are doing? I was even lifted once. I was in the air."

Viktor chuckled even more. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I did love seeing all of you getting along so well."

"You were watching us?"

"I was watching you."

What a strange way of putting it. Heine was not sure he had heard Viktor correctly. Perhaps he should ask him repeat that, to check that he had not misheard him.

He sipped some more wine and held out his glass. "Could you top me up, please?"

-:-

"There's something I want to show you," said Viktor as he led Heine over to the lounge area. On the low table sat a strange shape, which Heine thought he recognised when Viktor removed the sheet that lay over it.

"My word," murmured Heine, venturing closer to inspect the instrument and the brassy sheen of its parts. "Is this… a phonograph?"

"Do you like it?" smiled Viktor, barely containing his delight. "It was a gift. Go on, give it a try."

"What does it play?"

"Wind it up and see for yourself."

Soon the hazy melody of a waltz undulated about the room and Heine watched Viktor hum along, fingers dancing in time to the music.

"What a tremendous invention," said Heine when the song neared its end. "It seems as if I were right in front of the orchestra."

"Yes, and listen to this." Viktor stopped the machine and switched out the cylinder. When it started up again, it sang out in a long, yearning trill.

Heine put down his wine. "This song!"

"Yes?" said Viktor, a twinkle in his eye.

The melody was haunting and the libretto solemn – far too serious to have been fully-appreciated the first time Heine had heard it. Perched next to Viktor, in oversized borrowed clothes, Heine had been certain they would be spotted among the crowded back seats. Once the show was over and he could finally relax, they spent the evening falling over each other as they butchered the most dramatic of the songs, missing the high notes and substituting their own lyrics.

"Why Viktor, had I not known any better, I would have thought that you had impeccable taste."

Viktor laughed – the same laugh from the alleyway behind the Wienner state opera house nearly thirty years ago.

-:-

Back at the desk, they talked of important things.

The latest in the national opera:

"No, don't tell me. I haven't seen it yet."

The moral discrepancies in classic childhood fables:

"I can't explain that to you, Viktor, I did not write it."

Whether or not it was possible to brew wine from carrots and bell peppers:

"I find it highly worrisome that a child would know so much about winemaking."

The bottle of wine slowly emptied out.

-:-

"And another thing," said Viktor who, at some point in the night, had ended up sprawled out next to Heine. They were down to the last few glasses, and Heine was propping himself up against the cushioned arm of the settee, trying hard to maintain a slight semblance of propriety.

"Why are we always drinking this?" Viktor squinted at his glass of wine, holding it up to the light. "It's the same wine every time ever since God knows when, always wine white- I mean white wine- from Niedergrr- Niederglan-zish."

Heine nearly slipped off the arm. Goodness gracious. Where was this coming from?

"But isn't it… isn't this your favourite?" he faltered, his head foggy. "You don't like it?"

Viktor made a sound that resembled both a hiccough and a splutter. Or perhaps it was a laugh. Heine could not tell at this point. "I do like it, but people get tired of favourites, Herr Professor. Even Lich… Leonhard. Would hesitate at the idea of eating sacher torte for every meal.

"I wouldn't be so sure," muttered Heine. Then, struggling with the plush upholstery, he pulled himself into a slightly less crooked sitting position. "But Viktor, you are being unfair. You were the one who brought this wine. And it was supposed to be my turn."

"Oh, don't worry about that. It's a special occasion."

"You must let me bring the next one." Heine racked his brains for all the good wines he had ever tried or heard of, but the memories seemed to have left him for the moment. "We could try… red wine?"

"Hmm?" Viktor tilted his head.

"From… Obergranzreich?"

"Interesting proposal," said Viktor, "considering their viticulture is not what it used to be."

"Hintergranzreich, then."

Viktor snorted. "You are making things up."

"And you were making a fuss over something that could have been so easily resolved," retorted Heine. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? If I had known, I would have looked around town and found something new, or checked with the chefs for recommendations – anything, if only you had asked."

Viktor leaned back to look at the tutor and smiled fondly. "That's just like you. I know I can always rely on you. You're a good friend, Heine."

Heine took a sip from his glass. "Though you tend to ask for the most reckless things," he said.

That was when Viktor asked him to dance.

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It's been almost exactly one year since I first watched The Royal Tutor, and I'm super excited to get this out. I already have the rest of this written out, but because it’s such a pain to upload fics to Tumblr, I’ll be uploading the rest of the chapters to AO3, and I’ll be putting just the link on Tumblr. I really want to make sure I check each chapter thoroughly, so I might take a few days to upload the next one. In the meantime - comments are appreciated and I'll love you forever.

#the royal tutor #oushitsu kyoushi haine #oushitsu kyoushi heine #heine wittgenstein #haine wittgenstein #viktor von granzreich #viktor von glanzreich #viktor von grannzreich #victor von glanzreich #victor von granzreich #victor von grannzreich #heine x viktor #write by me #fanfiction

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my-writings-and-musings · 3 years

Note

Could you perhaps do Rung's Cyclonus', Tailgate's and First Aid's reaction to their human S/O being trapped in the same room as Rung and Whirl while Fort Max he has his psychotic episode? And Fort Max isn't exactly gentle with them either so

Couple of broken ribs there at least

I love how you guys are so invested in this situation and all the potential prompts because it miiiiight just be from one of my favorite issues of MTMTE... Changing canon for all of these in that Rung emerges from this whole situation with his head intact.

Rung

·He's accustomed to the risks inherent to his profession, and despite his tiny size compared to his larger patients he's more than capable of handling himself in most crisis situations, you knew that the moment you heard that one of his more recent positions involved treating the Wreckers. But when Fortress Maximus burst in to his office, clearly in the fog of an agonizing psychotic episode, he felt fear like he hadn't in ages. His terror isn't for him however. You were preparing to head out so Whirl could have his appointment, your smile as casual as could be as you bid him goodbye from the doorway, when you were snatched up by the colossal Autobot forcing his way inside. Just seeing your fragile organic body in that gigantic fist... Whirl had been unable to stop him before being stabbed to the floor, and he'd been equally incapable of doing anything to save you as he was pinned to a chair with a few errant pieces of warped metal.

·With what Max endured, he knows the hulking mech is suffering from pain he hasn't even begun to acknowledge, but that doesn't make it any easier for him to stay calm and proffesional as you're held firmly in his grasp. Words can't begin to describe how badly he wants to ask for you to be released, even if only to be set down on an available surface so you can breathe, as his sharp audials can pick up every tiny gasp from your struggling body. Yet he doesn't dare to risk upsetting the mech and potentially spurring him to squeeze. His always in control temper is almost able to break loose as Whirl antagonizes Max with you in such a vulnerable position, but he settles for broadcasting audio from his thumb's recorder to the camera he spots on the ceiling. All he can do is hope the bots watching are planning a rescue in short order...

·Things go south quickly when Maximus realizes his demands aren't being heeded, and of all those in the room it's you that pays the highest price. His thumb being torn off hardly compares to his agony watching you be held aloft as a warning and squeezed, your hoarse cry of agony wheezing out into a whisper as your bones audibly crack. Max actually seems horrified for a moment, particularly as you cough up crimson, but he doesn't end the ordeal. Clearly guilty but not deterred, he only lays your tiny body on a nearby surface as he returns to his demands. Nothing had ever hurt more than the agonized little coughs you emitted as you lay so perilously still... It had been enough to compel him to try the worst thing one can do in a hostage situation, ask something of the captor, even if it's little more than weak pleading for only your release.

·He has no way to describe how badly he wishes he could tear himself from his bonds, but when the footage of Overlord is projected on the wall and Maximus collapses under the weight of his trauma, he still finds the softness in his spark to lean forth and comfort the weeping giant with an embrace. While he'd hear later there were plans for taking a shot through one of the many windows, the presence of your tiny body had made it impossible, and thus he had the freedom to end the situation on peaceful terms. Fort Max had been gently led to a guarded room for solitary confinement, Whirl had been proffesionally extracted from his impalement, and you had been rushed to the medical bay while he was still being unstuck from the chair... He hadn't even cared about his missing digit when he'd been told you were being taken to a private room for emergency treatment, from which the medics had refused him entry due to the intensity of your injuries.

·When he'd finally seen you afterwards it had almost broken his spark. You had looked so unlike yourself; frail, lifeless, and connected to a number of life saving machines that beeped and hummed to keep you stable. It didn't matter that you'd be fine, the suffering you had endured already and would face while recovering was enough to overwhelm him with guilt, as he blames himself for the whole ordeal. He hadn't seen the potential for Maximus to suffer a break, and hadn't even been able to talk him down, resulting in suffering for you and so many others. Though he's encouraged and comforted by his friends, he keeps a tireless vigil at your bedside until you wake, occasionally brushing a digit against your tiny hand to provide some reassurance that he's here and watching over you.

·When you do wake up, he's the first thing you see, his gentle smile looking down at you while he welcomes you back to the waking world. The guilt behind his lenses is even more apparent than the pain in every part of your body. Initially he's steadfast in denying he has any such inclinations. All he wants to focus on is your recovery, and making certain you're not traumatized by what you've experienced, he says and insists in a way you know is merely half true. Only when you've recovered enough strength to pressure him does he break, expressing his boundless guilt at having failed you in such a high stakes situation, which he shouldn't even have allowed to happen in the first place. Your reassurance that the only one to blame for the ordeal is the mech who tortured Fort Max brings a measure of perspective, but it's the feeling of your hand in his that solidifies the sense of comfort, your total lack of blame allowing him to turn some of his boundless forgiveness inward. You made it, everyone had made it, and the two of you could bask in the wonder of that simple victory together. That was enough for now.

Cyclonus

·It takes a full legion of bots to hold him back when news of the situation reaches him. You'd been near Rung's office when Fortress Maximus had apparently grabbed you in his rush, and he cares little for calm or strategy when the full weight of the situation is explained to him. The only two other bots in there with you are Rung and Whirl, meaning that you're not only without protection, you're in the middle of a powder keg. He's only prevented from overpowering the barricade when a firm reminder gets him to see the need for caution; all Max need do is bat you aside with his hand and you'll die, which makes your survival unlikely in the event of any altercation. Such painful logic reigns him in to a simmering silence. Joining the main team on the bridge, mostly so he won't try another break in, he's left to watch everything play out on the security feed.

·He only has optics for you as he stands silently by. Though his motionless self could be mistaken for a glowering statue, any bot who looked closer would see the rage boiling in his glare, and how his claws twitched every time there was sudden movement on the screen, which was often due to Whirl gesticulating and Maximus pacing with his weapon ready to fire. Like a hawk ready to dive, he keeps track of it all. You're the center of his focus of course, but he needs to be ready the nanosecond you need him, and that means knowing the terrain to plot out potential rescue missions. Ten minutes into the ordeal he already has fifty or so plans to remove you from just as many scenarios that might play out. While he's initially fine letting the commanding officers take control for the sake of a unified front, that quickly ends when he sees that no effort is being made to storm the room in order to ensure there are no casualties, a goal he hardly agrees with.

·For all of his efforts he fails to hide how incredibly worried he is for you in this situation. Though he snaps the instant someone tries to reassure him, declaring that he has no undue concern but merely wants them to consider the delicate nature of organics, he convinces no one. As he watches Rung lose his thumb, his claws dig so deeply into his crossed arms that they bleed. The lack of audio which follows only makes his worrying turn to nauseous panic. Watching your impossibly tiny form sit tensely on a table brings up a deep buried bit of self loathing, an internal voice taunting him for putting his spark on the line for something so weak, but he crushes its efforts by thinking back to the happiness you've given him. You aren't weak, he's seen the strength of your spirit time and again, your body is simply fragile... As if to cruelly make his point, Fort Max picks you up in a sudden rage, holding you aloft as he roars threats none of them can hear before he squeezes.

·The sight simultaneously breaks his spark and flips a switch inside of him. Ultra Magnus himself is an insignificant obstacle as he does what he should have when this whole thing began; run to your rescue. Cries for him to stop go unheeded, and thankfully for the sake of saving time most are smart enough to get out of his way. As fast as he is, the room you're held in is a fair distance from where he was, and thus there's an agonizing amount of limbo he has to endure on the way there. Even through the dull camera feed he could see how you'd spasmed in Maximus's grasp, and the way your face had contorted in absolute agony... It hurt in a way he wasn't ready to comprehend. There's no way for him to know if you're even still alive, but as unthinkable as losing you may be, he's well aware of what will happen if he arrives to find you lifeless behind the blockaded doors. Hopefully for Fort Max it won't come to that.

·There's a sobering dose of bewilderment when he arrives to see the doors opening of their own accord, but that hardly delays him for long, and he barrels forward to discover a hostage situation that's been settled for precious few moments. Ignoring anything and everyone else, he grabs your tiny self and runs, silent as he's informed through comm that Maximus has surrendered and the medics are ready in the medbay. Unable to be grateful at the sight of you so damaged, he holds you closely but gingerly as if he might break you further, willing your ragged breaths to keep coming unaided for just a little longer. One of his last thoughts as he arrives at the medical bay and the medics take you away is how small your body is in his claws, which somehow makes what's been done all the more agonizing. What reason would any member of his species have to hurt something so incapable of fighting back? As he waits in the common area for news of your condition the question almost mocks him with his own history of misdeeds...

·Seeing you after the surgery does nothing to quell his conscience. Though he's told you'll live, it's difficult to restrain the urge to execute violent revenge on your attacker, and only his greater need to ensure your safety prevents him from doing so. The vigil he keeps over you is tireless and appears stoic to others, but when he's certain you're alone his demeanor is soft and caring, his digits gently adjusting your blankets or brushing errant strands of hair from your face as he waits for you to regain your strength. You awaken slowly and peacefully to the sound of a regal baritone singing a soft song in a language you don't recognize. A familiar thumb brushes your face as you open your eyes, the gigantic claw that greets you not intimidating in the slightest as you behold the faintest hint of a smile on a face otherwise wrought with pain. He's barely able to contain his guilt as he relays his ineffectiveness during your capture, but his gratitude to see you alive is equally obvious in the way he relaxes as you lay your hand in his palm. Weak as you may be, you reveal that you were still conscious when he took you to the medical bay, and how his protective grasp around you had allowed you to believe everything would be okay. The news has a profound effect on him. To hear that he brought peace to you even once, in a manner similiar to what you do each and every day, is beyond anything he could ever imagine. It's enough to make him content just to enjoy the simple gratitude of having you back.

Tailgate

·When he's informed that you're being held hostage he nearly has a panic attack, and when the details of who you're with are relayed only his drive to protect you prevents full on fainting. Through his panicking he's able to convince the commanding bots to let him in the crisis room, if only because not knowing what's going on behind the heavy doors simply tears him apart in a way he can't endure. Knowing what you mean to each other, he's allowed in, and his little visor locks onto your image on the screen without hesitation. Nothing beyond your somewhat blurry face exists in his mind. Small hands clasp as they usually would to hold yours, but the emptiness due to your absence makes him feel pain instead of any kind of comfort, something he doesn't know how to process as he watches you with sad intensity.

·From the moment Maximus makes his first demand he's pushing for your rescue and advocating giving whatever Max wants to facilitate your release. Though he knows that isn't possible, the helplessness of being stuck on the sidelines makes him desperate enough to want Rodimus to give it a try. That sense of powerlessness is exacerbated by the sight of you being held up in the giant's fist. He's woken up after six million years to find someone he adores, and he's going to lose them like this, after so little time together? It's not fair to anyone, but especially you! Rage boils over in his spark as the injustice of it all tempts him to consider charging in himself. All you ever did to Fort Max was be nice, and this is what he does in return? Knowing the bot is suffering a psychotic episode does nothing to quell his anger.

·With nothing good happening on the screen, he tries to recall all the happy moments you've enjoyed together to keep himself calm, replaying the fun movie nights and dates at Swerve's that showed him how wonderful life could be... But the strategy does little to help with his traitorous optics constantly flipping back to the video feed. Nothing has changed each time, but he still can't help looking in some desperate hope that Fort Max will realize you are innocent and either let you go or end this entire ordeal. In his frustration he snaps at the commanding bots for not doing something, and their continued lack of action angers him almost as much as their reassurances. Don't they know how important you are to him?! How you made everything better and that losing you might destroy him?! He's on the verge of a kind of furious panic attack when the situation on the screen goes south dramatically fast.

·Being a small bot means he knows how terrifying it is to be grabbed and pinned by larger Cybertronians, but he can't even begin to imagine how afraid you must be when Fort Max swipes you up far more aggressively than before after an argument none of them can hear breaks out. You're endlessly brave as always, resisting the urge to scream despite the fear and pain visible on your expression, but his worrying turns to a near breakdown when you're held up high and squeezed. The spasm that passes through you is so great he can practically hear the crack of your little bones despite the lack of sound coming through. Resisting the urge to be sick, he grabs onto Rodimus and demands that action be taken before he's forced to do something himself, and despite his tiny size his tone is determined enough to give every present bot pause. By convenient timing that moment is concurrent with Rewind finally getting into position and projecting horrifying images of Overlord into the room, debilitating the hulking Autobot and leaving him helpless whilst Rung talks him down. With you lying motionless in the line of fire Rodimus makes the call to quickly but peacefully have security forces take the room.

·Tailgate is tearing down the hallways before anyone can say another word, desperate to see you as soon as he can if there's still time. The distance between the command center and Rung's office means that he takes some time to arrive, and while he's a quivering mess of panic by then it's only made worse when he hears you're already in the medical bay and receiving emergency care, as your injuries are potentially fatal. Between exhaustion and grief he briefly loses consciousness, but when he awakens in the medical bay he has to be kept from leaping off the berth to aid you. Hearing that you've been stabilized gives him some level of peace, but he still pushes to see you as soon as he can, and no number of visitors can distract him from the agony of waiting, leading to him absolutely jumping when he's told he can see you... Though he finds no comfort in finally beholding your broken body on the medical slab. Still, he takes a dutiful place by your side and whispers idle conversation in a tireless watch that breaks only when he's forced into brief naps by sheer exhaustion.

·Your slow return to consciousness is greatly sped up when, in a rather natural gesture, you squeeze the familiar presence in your hand and get a loud squeak of surprise as a result. A blue visor brimming with tears welcomes you back to wakefulness, but the babbling that pours from the minibot is so emotional you hardly catch even a word at first, and your aching ribs make it almost impossible to speak loudly enough to get his attention. Once he finally gathers himself enough to speak clearly and relay the situation, he's despondent about his nonexistent role in your rescue, something you have to reassure him isn't his fault in the slightest. Weakly but with a smile, you reassure him that thinking about him was the only thing that kept you calm. He tears up again, but this time in a kind of relieved happiness, his helm gently leaning forward to nuzzle you with soft buzzes of affection. Knowing he was able to help in some small way... there's still a lot of healing to be done, but he's determined to stand tall by your side through it all, because you've reminded him that he's strong enough to hold others up.

First Aid

·As a medic, he's usually one of the first bots informed when something goes wrong, to get him ready for a potential influx of patients if nothing else. But this time he's contacted because he's an affected party, and his ever present ability to stay calm is put to a whole new kind of test. Though he manages to keep the panic on the inside, it's raging like an inferno in his spark as he's escorted to the crisis room, his imagination keeping him fully stocked on all the potential ways you could be hurt. Considering Maximus grabbed you in a rush to drag you into the situation, it's not at all unlikely you're already injured. Watching the grainy footage of you in the company of your less than ideal fellow hostages has his processor simmering with terrible possibilities. The reports from the medical bay regarding the rampage victims leave little doubt; Maximus is as powerful as he is unhinged.

·His optics are locked on the screen the instant he manages to gather himself. Every movement, every action and once the audio starts coming through every word is analyzed. Between searching for a solution and ensuring you're okay his thoughts are absolutely racing. There has to be a way to get you out safely, and the moment you're freed as you will be he'll need to be ready for any potential injuries. Losing you isn't an option. In the short few months since meeting you he's become so very close to you, closer than he's ever been to anyone, and in that brief amount of time he's already realized he wants to be with you always. You make him feel worthy, which is perhaps why this helplessness is so incredibly agonizing. For the first time since your relationship began he's feeling that certainty of his incompetence once more.

·The pain of his own self depreciation is offset by simmering anger at his commander's inability to resolve the situation. Deep down he's experienced enough to know they can hardly be expected to control a situation so volatile, but that logic hardly has an impact on his passionate need for action. It only gets worse as things in the room deteriorate. Whirl is hardly staying still to prevent further injury from his impalement, and while Rung covers his bleeding hand to prevent further energon loss, the casual way Max ripped off his thumb makes it clear he has no qualms about violence. An unyielding imagination fills his processor with terrible thoughts about what that same strength could do to your tiny body. Grisly images flash before his optics and drive him to try begging for action once more, though it appears too late as you're suddenly snatched up in a gigantic hand.

·The universe stops moving as you're squeezed with what he knows is too much force for your body to safely handle. The lack of sound doesn't stop him from identifying that you've undoubtedly broken bones, and in fact his hyperactive processor is already trying to work out what damage has been done. Crushed ribs, snapped clavicles, perhaps a fractured humerus, and then there were your softer organs and tissues... The blood on your lips as Maximus lays you down on the table makes it clear something important has been injured that needs immediate medical care. Demanding that a rescue be launched for your sake, he's given a rare bit of luck in the form of two minibots on rivet duty. The specifics of the operation are a blur he can't bring himself to care about, even as the gory footage of Overlord covers the wall, as your limp form is all that exists in his perception. Attempts to count your very breaths only end when the situation is reclassified as under control and he's moving before anyone can say another word.

·Immediate communication with the other medics keeps him in the loop, so he knows you've been extracted the moment it happens, and he plots his course to intercept the team that recovered you even before they reach the medical bay. A random bot on the security detail has you cradled in careful but uncertain hands when he arrives, and is more than willing to hand over the tiny body to someone who actually knows what they're doing. First Aid feels his processor split between his medical training and his personal feelings for you, with the former a calculated source of experienced reason and the latter a maelstrom of agonized panic. Though he's more than able to keep the proper half in charge, he's unable to prevent his emotions from tearing into him as he gets you to the medical bay, where Ratchet and Ambulon have already prepared for emergency procedures. His CMO is adamant on his involvement being voluntary, emphasizing that he knows all too well how hard it is to operate on those you care about, and that he can focus on their other patients if this will be too difficult. First Aid replies that he's grateful for the offer but unwilling to choose anything that doesn't mean giving his all to save you.

·Stabilizing you is a team effort only made possible by the research each medic did in advance on your species, and while he's grateful he took the time to prepare for something such as this, he'll never regret anything more than having to use that knowledge. Waiting for you to wake is harder than it's ever been for any of his past patients. As a medic he has work to keep him busy, but he constantly finds excuses to check in on you, and every spare moment is spent by your side. He checks reports, takes his meals, and even rests all at your bedside. By great fortune he's present when you finally wake up, and you've barely opened your eyes by the time he's checking you over. A worried expression is the first thing you comprehend as a gentle voice asks if you have any sedentary pain. Somehow it's a relief to have your worried medbot be the first thing you see, but you quickly put together this isn't just his usual level of concern, and that there's active remorse in his features. Firm insistence is required to get him to confess; for all of his analytical skills, he couldn't think of a way to resolve the situation to save you. It seems to surprise him when you bring up that he's literally one of the bots that saved your life. An attempt to deflect on the grounds that being a medic is just his job is stopped by himself at your look of silent pleading, and he remembers in an instant how much faith you have in him. Even if he doesn't always feel worthy of that admiration, he knows there must be something to it if it's coming from one such as yourself. That simple reaffirming of his abilities lets him focus on the miracle of having you here with him, and he begins gently and lovingly fussing over you as he always does, bringing the smile back to your face that he so adores.

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creativityobsessed · 3 years

Note

Could I please ask for a Kurodachi 26?

I'm so sorry this took so long! I hope you like it!

Read on Ao3

The first time Adachi has a mid-night anxiety attack at Kurosawa’s apartment is only a month after the first time he’d stayed in Kurosawa’s bed. He wakes up disoriented from a dream of a massive tsunami wiping out Tokyo and everything east of it. In it, he was stuck at home, but had needed to get to work somehow, despite the vast majority of the city being underwater, and, because this was the way of dreams, he forgot how to swim halfway there and began drowning. His heart is racing, his breath catching in his throat as he gulps for air. He rolls over onto his back and uses his right hand to readjust his left - he must have fallen asleep on it and he can’t feel or move it on its own.

After a few moments of listening to Kurosawa’s light snoring beside him, he sighs. With all this adrenaline he’s not going back to sleep any time soon. If he were at home he’d read or play on his switch in the bed, but he doesn’t want to wake Kurosawa. Instead, he slides out of bed and pads softly out toward the kitchen and living area. Even though his breath has steadied, he can still feel his heart racing. Perhaps a cup of tea would help calm him.

He fills the kettle and flips the switch, then reaches for a mug from the rack at eye level. Then he goes through a few drawers, looking for the tea. At home he might have done something with ginger and lemon, but Kurosawa doesn’t seem to have anything like that so he settles for a peppermint.

As the kettle comes to a boil he switches it off, darting glances at the bedroom. He’d never noticed how loud everything is, but now that he doesn’t want to wake Kurosawa, every noise feels loud as thunder. Gently, carefully, he pours the water over the tea, and then leans over to breathe in the steam. Just that one deep breath helps settle him, a heaviness gathering behind his throat and in his shoulders that helps him relax.

He takes the mug over to the futon and sits, wrapping his fingers around the warm ceramic. The heat seeps through his hands, his fingers on the left side still tingling from being asleep, and the combination almost feels like sharp needles are trying to work their way out from the inside. It’ll go away in a few moments, but he winces all the same. It’s never pleasant when this happens. Even with the pain, the weight of the warm mug in his hands steadies him in the real world. He is safe, there’s no disaster, and Kurosawa is sleeping in the next room.

Adachi smiles a little at that thought. Just a few months ago, the thought of Kurosawa sleeping in the next room would have been anything but comfort, a cause for more anxiety. Now he imagines Kurosawa’s concern if he knew this happens semi-regularly, and the way that Kurosawa gathers him up into warm hugs at the slightest sign that Adachi is worried, and even the thought is comforting. He takes a deep breath of the minty steam and sips at his tea again.

He loses track of time for a bit, imagining what it’d be like for Kurosawa to see this side of him, and before long his cup is near empty. From behind him he hears the shuffling steps of Kurosawa’s slippered feet, barely lifting off the ground.

“Adachi?” Kurosawa murmurs, and Adachi carefully sets the mug down on the coffee table before turning around. Then he bites back a giggle.

Kurosawa, perfect Kurosawa, has the worst case of bed head Adachi has ever seen. A tuft stands on end at the back and the typically-perfect bangs are swept to one side and exposing ears that Adachi had never noticed were so big? In contrast the other side poufs out into a cloud that almost makes a halo - Adachi works hard to keep a straight face at the thought: who knew that all it takes is a little sleep to see him in his true form!

“Why are you up?” Kurosawa asks, squinting at the soft light from the street lamps that is coming in the window. He rubs an eye with the back of his hand, looking nothing more than a small child in his sleepiness. Adachi has the sudden mental image of adult Kurosawa in footie pajamas and dragging a stuffed animal by the ear and he really can’t stop himself from laughing this time. Kurosawa just looks confused.

It takes a few moments before Adachi stops laughing enough to explain.

“I’m sorry, I just. I’ve never seen you like this before, you always are so put together by the time I get up. It’s…” Adachi searches for the right word, one that won’t upset Kurosawa, “It’s endearing.”

Kurosawa just blinks at him.

“It’s okay, I’m okay I promise. Much better now,” Adachi reassures him. Kurosawa shuffles over to the futon and sits next to Adachi.

“What happened?” He asks finally, taking in the half-drunk cup of tea. Adachi follows his gaze and lifts the mug to take a sip. It’s gone a little cold but the mint still tastes nice.

“I, um. I had a nightmare. It wasn’t real but when I woke up it was like. I don’t know, my adrenaline was going and I just kind of. Well I knew I wasn’t going back to sleep right away so rather than lie in bed and stew over it, I got up and made tea,” Adachi gestures with the mug in his hand, and then adds, almost as an afterthought, “I’m sorry that I woke you.”

“You could have woken me sooner.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You need your sleep. Besides, I knew that if I just distracted myself long enough to avoid a full anxiety spiral, it’d go away and I’d go back to sleep.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Adachi yawns - a good sign that if he tried to go back to sleep, he might.

“Does this happen often?” Kurosawa asks, sounding very concerned. Adachi winces. He hasn’t really told Kurosawa about all of his anxiety problems yet. Still, after the fiasco at Christmas they’d promised to talk to each other.

“It… can,” Adachi says finally, “but it sort of comes and goes. It depends on my general stress level I guess.”

“Adachi,” Kurosawa says, and he sounds completely awake now, “Promise me you'll wake me if it happens again when I’m here. Please? I’d much rather you wake me up than wake up myself with you gone and wonder where you are.”

“I don’t want-“

“Besides,” Kurosawa pushes on, a devious twinkle in his eye, “I can be very, very distracting.”

Kurosawa reaches a finger for Adachi’s chin and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s soft and warm, close-lipped, just a reminder to Adachi that he’s there and he loves him. Just before breaking away, though, Kurosawa parts his lips just a little and runs just the tip of his tongue along the seam of Adachi’s lips. He chuckles at Adachi’s tiny gasp.

“See? Very distra-“ Kurosawa interrupts himself with a huge yawn “-ting.” Adachi smiles.

“Okay,” he concedes, “I promise. For now though, we should go back to bed.” He downs the last sip of his tea and stands, offering Kurosawa a hand. Kurosawa gives him a sleepy smile back.

“I’d like that.”

#cherry magic #30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい #adachi kiyoshi #kurosawa yuichi #kurodachi #anxiety #nightmares #fluff #fanfiction #hopefully this is what you wanted!#Sorry again that it took so long I burned out real hard on writing like the day after you sent this in so everything takes ten times longer

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multi--kpop--fanfics · 3 years

Text

Place Your Bets - Prologue

Kai x fem!reader x Sehun

warnings: alcohol consumption, gambling, implied sexual actions, mentions of blackmailing

summary: Prologue of the series - Y/N meets two handsome strangers who have set their eyes on her all night long. She decides to spice things up by suggesting a game. A dangerous one.

It was a quite peaceful night, the customers were enjoying their drinks, whether they were with friends or alone. Speaking of which, you were alone too - not that you really minded. Besides, you didn't need to have someone next to you, being the confident and self-made woman you were.

You see, you were the owner of the bar, which you made from literally scrap. You had made quite the infamous name for yourself, managing to hold one of the most notorious bars in the city, attracting even people of the highest class and fame. That was one of the many pros you had managed to acquire. Simply because you weren't running a typical bar.

After the closing time, your bar serves as a gambling place, where your regular and special customers can lose themselves into the thrill of poker, russian roulette and many more games. The sheer adrenaline the customers feel when raising the stakes makes you feel alive. Especially when you are the one raising the stakes and emerge victorious from every nerve-wrecking game.

To be honest, you didn't really care about the money - you wanted to experience the thrill of gambling, you thrive of the pained expressions of your opponents every time they start sweating and panic, afraid that they would lose their precious dollars. Gambling was your addiction, an addiction that made you high every single time - you could even say that it was better than having an orgasm during sex. Although you hadn't experienced the last one in a rather long time.

As you were lost in your thoughts while playing with your half-empty vodka-filled glass, your gaze mindlessly fell on a handsome young man, who was staring at you from his seat. You couldn't see his facial features clearly due to the dim lights of the bar, but his aura was definitely mysterious, and a bit intimidating. He was drinking his scotch, never breaking the eye-contact, until you broke it, turning to the bartender to ask him if he knows the man, only to shake his head negatively. You notice that your glass is now empty and before you ask the bartender for a refill, one of the waiters puts down a brand new drink next to you.

"Boss, this is for you from the gentleman sitting in the booth to your far left" he says. "Thank you, dear" you reply with a soft smile and you turn your head to the aforementioned gentleman, only to see him wink at you and raise his glass to your direction. Wow, definitely not done before, you think and slightly scoff. You take a sip from the glass and the familiar sour taste ironically takes you by surprise. Lemon? How did he know? you think to yourself.

“A woman like you would never drink something sweet or heavy” you hear a deep, honey-dripping voice speak behind you and you turn your head to see the same man who bought you the drink a few minutes before. “Oh? And what do you think i am like?”, you raise an eyebrow and you wrap your scarlet-painted lips around the straw to take another sip of vodka. “You’re the owner of this bar. This means that you’re a very strong and independent woman. However, you are also devilishly gorgeous - a true femme fatale” he replies and kisses the back of your hand with his soft, full lips. “Perceptive and chivalrous... A powerful combination indeed. You are definitely a man many ladies would want by their side” you state with a sultry tone, eliciting a chuckle from the man. “You’re pretty perceptive as well. The real question is, do you want me by your side?”

“And what makes you think that you can possibly be by her side, Kai?” a manly, stern voice cuts off the conversation. You turn around to see the man who was staring at you earlier with an unwavering gaze. Your senses were always right and they most certainly didn’t fail this time - this man had a truly powerful and intimidating aura. You look at the man on your left and you notice his gaze stiffening by the second and his jaw clenching, his sharp jawline even more evident. “Oh? And you say that you can stand proudly next to her, Sehun?”.

Your eyes were alternating between the two men who were facing each other head-to-head, ready to rip each other’s throat out. They know each other…Interesting, you smirk to yourself and take a sip from your vodka. The sight in front of you was one for truly sore eyes: two handsome strangers, the one on your left dressed in a blazing red suit with no undershirt, revealing his golden toned chest and his silver undercut hair was slicked back, his name Kai, as the other man called him a while ago.

Speaking of the man on your right, his name was Sehun and his appearance was a complete contrast to Kai’s, but extremely attractive nonetheless - his jet black hair was in a comma style and he was wearing a black suit with a black buttoned up shirt, his pale skin and sharp facial features making him look like a vampire - a devilishly handsome one.

“Gentlemen, I think there’s a lot of tension piling up here. Perhaps we could settle this elsewhere?” you ask with a sultry voice. “Do you have something special in mind, princess?” Kai asks with a smirk, emphasizing the word ‘special’. “Follow me” you signal to them and they follow you behind the bar. You reveal a small golden key from the V-neck of your slip dress and you unlock the heavy door. You click a switch next to the door and the room lights up from an expensive crystal chandelier.

“A poker table?” Sehun raises a brow at you. “Are we going to settle this through poker?” he asks again and you nod affirmatively. “Now this is getting fun” Kai chuckles. “The rules are simple, gentlemen: 3 rounds of poker, each player has a total of 100 poker chips, total worth 250,000 dollars. The player who wins two out of three rounds, wins the game” you explain the game. You sit on the table, crossing your legs sensually, the two men eyeing you like two lions hunting their prey.

“So, shall we place our bets?”, you ask, your voice dripping honey. Kai takes a step forward and seats himself in one of the three velvet chairs. “May I?” he asks and you nod in agreement. “If I win, you will give me 50% of your business. Also, I want to bend you over the table and fuck you senseless” he admits while licking his lips deviously. You click your tongue and Sehun scoffs in unison. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that”, you reply, “But if you think you can actually get your hands on my business, you’re dreaming, pretty boy. However, I’ll accept the bet, because that will make the game even more enjoyable, right?” you smile with a cheshire cat-like grin.

“What about you, Sehun?, you turn to the other male, waiting for his own proposal. He sits still, his sharp brows furrowed, deep into thinking. After a few seconds, he sits down and crosses his arms in front of his toned chest. He then searches into his pocket and pulls out a tape recorder and your eyes widen in shock.

He’s an undercover agent.

”This recorder is still on and contains every single word that has been said until now. This means that I have clear evidence of you running an illegal gambling club. I think you know what would happen if the FBI were to find out about this, don’t you Y/N?” Sehun says, “So, my proposal is the following: If I win the game, this tape goes straight to the headquarters and you will end up in jail for the rest of your life” he adds, voice still unwavering. You drum your fingers on the table, thinking about the possible outcome. “And if you lose?” you ask. Sehun then bends forward and looks you right in the eyes, not expecting his next words in the slightest:

“I’ll cut any ties with the FBI and I will become your personal bodyguard”.

Kai then scoffs under his breath. “Now who’s the crazy one here? Y/N, you can’t possibly allow this fuckery-” and he’s cut off by your almost maniac laughter, the sound sending chills through the men’s spines.

“This... This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life! This game couldn’t have gotten any better! The highest of stakes, putting our life’s work on the line and letting the cards decide... The pure adrenaline, the thrill! This is the true nature of gambling, gentlemen” you chuckle darkly. You then pick up a brand new pack of cards and slice the lock open with a perfectly manicured nail.

“Let the game begin”.

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taglist: @intokook @bluejaem @cyclothimikhh @kpop---scenarios @making-me-blush @softstan-probably (send an ask if you want to be included!)

#place your bets #prologue #kai #sehun #kim jongin #oh sehun #exo kai #exo sehun #exo series #exo fanfics

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aquietwritingcorner · 3 years

Text

Writers Month Day 6: Amnesia Word Count: 4761 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: T Characters: Olivier Mira Armstrong, Alex Louis Armstrong, Major Miles, Philip Gargantos Armstrong, Armstrong family Warning: Summary: Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong has amnesia, thanks to an attack that caused trauma to her head. Alex will do anything to help her get it back—If its possible. Notes: This will one day be a longer fic. But for now, have this, based off of discussions I’ve had with some friends about this idea! Also, I’ve tossed a few headcanons about Olivier’s past in here—most notably that in her younger days she was taken prisoner by Drachman and tortured for three days. Also, this story gave me the headcanon the her childhood nickname from her father was “rose” because her pink lips reminded him of the pink roses in the rose gardens. AO3 || ff.net

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Amnesia

Major Ephraim Miles stood guard outside of the hospital room. He stood at a resting attention, not letting anyone inside who wasn’t medical and previously approved. Any food that came in, he checked over personally. Nothing was allowed in that wasn’t inspected. It seemed like overkill to many of the hospital personnel, but as far as Miles was concerned, it was a necessary precaution. Someone had to protect the general. Especially since she—

Miles’ train of thought was cut off as he heard a sound coming down the hall—a sound he had both been expecting and dreading. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to avoid it forever, although he had hoped that it would wait a little bit longer, perhaps after he had more answers. Fate was what fate was, though, and at the moment, Miles’s fate was coming in the form of a giant, muscled, mustachioed, worried brother.

Miles sighed.

“Major Miles!” Alex Armstrong’s voice came booming down the hall, more worried than friendly, the man himself only just behind it. A frustrated looking nurse followed behind him. Within moments the large man was there, right in front of him, looking as worried as his voice had sounded. “Major Miles! My sister! I heard she is injured!”

“Major Armstrong,” Miles said, in greeting, although he didn’t move from his place in front of the door. The last thing the general needed right now was her brother bursting into her room.

“How badly is she injured?” Alex didn’t push him aside, but he was clearly, upset. “Why wasn’t the family alerted?” He switched his attention to the door. “Olivier! Are you alright?”

“Major Armstrong!” the nurse finally snapped. “Keep your voice down!”

He startled, as if he had forgotten the woman was there. “Ah—my apologies,” he said to the nurse, lowering his volume and intensity a little.

The nurse just huffed, but Alex focused in on Miles again. His hands took the man by the shoulders and he leaned down, his face close to Miles’s. Miles did his best not to react, although it was a bit unnerving.

“My sister,” he said, his eyes boring into Miles intently, “What has happened to her? I need to know!”

There was no avoiding it. But before Miles could say anything, he heard the door behind him open a bit.

“Miles?”

He turned to look. The general was standing in the doorway, looking out at all of them. Uncertainty—something Miles had become used to seeing—in her eyes. Her eyes traveled over all of them, trying to make sense of the sight.

“What’s going on?” Her voice was uncertain, unsteady, and not at all like the Olivier Mira Armstrong Miles knew.

Alex let go of him. “Sister!” he cried out, stretching out his arms as if to grab her in a giant hug and taking a step towards her. “Sister, I’m so glad to see you up!”

Olivier’s eyes widened, and she let out a little gasp before slamming the door shut. Her footsteps could be heard rapidly retreating from the doorway. Alex froze, looking confused.

“Sister?”

“Major!” the nurse said menacingly, and Alex had the grace to look abashed.

Miles straightened his clothes out. “Major Armstrong,” he said. “Give me a minute to get another guard here, and then I will explain everything to you.”

Alex, his sister’s unusual reaction obviously bothering him, simply nodded. “Yes… of course.”

~*~*~*~

Alex looked down at his cup of watery bland hospital tea, and contemplated what Miles had told him.

“…I see,” he said after a moment. “A complete loss of memory, then.”

“She still has what the doctor called ‘functional’ memory. She still knows how to do things. Sometimes if she’s surprised, she’ll react without thinking in the same way she would before. But all of her personal memories are lost.”

“And is there hope of them returning?”

Miles was silent for a moment contemplating his answer. “So far, the doctors aren’t sure. At first, they said to put her in familiar environments and see if it helped. But she couldn’t navigate the dangers of Briggs, so she couldn’t stay there long. North City wasn’t much help either. Central has many more resources and the added benefit of her family here. It’s hoped that the familiar environments will help, as well as whatever other support Central can give. She also has less enemies in Central that would try to take advantage of her condition.”

“Yes, I see,” Alex said, rubbing his chin. “There are other avenues and options that I can investigate that might help her. And when she’s well enough to move to the Armstrong estate, she can be more closely guarded.”

Miles nodded, and then hesitated. “There is… one other thing,” he said.

“Oh?” Alex looked at him curiously.

Miles reached behind him and handed over a wrapped bundle. Alex took it and started unwrapping it even as Miles spoke, and froze when he realized what it was.

“She said that if anything were to happen to her, to give this to you,” he said.

Alex stared in shock at the sword he now held. The Armstrong family sword. Olivier’s sword. Alex’s heart clenched in his chest, sorrow threatening to overwhelm him.

“I will take excellent care of it and safeguard it until she can take it up once again.”

Miles looked at him and nodded.

“…Can I see her now?” Alex asked. “I would very much like to.”

“Yes,” Miles said. “Just do your best to remain calm. She’s much more skittish now.”

“Of course,” Alex said.

They stood, Alex making sure to gather the sword to him and affix it on his belt, and disposed of the tea. The walk back to Olivier’s room wasn’t far, and the Briggs guard outside of it saluted them as they drew close.

“All normal, sir,” he said. “The general asked where you were a time or two, but other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Thank you,” Miles said. “Major Armstrong and I are going inside.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier replied, and stood aside.

Miles knocked on the door, Alex standing silently behind him. “General? It’s Miles. Can I come in? I’m bringing a visitor.”

There was a pause of silence, and then her voice called out. “Yes, you can.”

Miles opened the door and Alex got his first good look at his sister. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck. She was dressed in a simple white shirt and gray skirt, with black flats. Her eyes, still sharp, but no longer guarded as they had been, looked over them uncertainly. Fading bruising and a healing gash on her head stood out.

“What are you working on?” Miles asked her, as he moved closer to her and looked down at the bedside table she had something spread out on.

Olivier’s eyes stayed on Alex for a moment, but then her attention turned to Miles. “A puzzle,” she said, and her voice was gentle, subdued. “I’m supposed to put the words to these sayings in the right order.”

“How are you doing?”

She glanced at Alex again, but then back down at the puzzle in front of her. “I’m not sure,” there was hesitancy in her voice. “Some of these sayings don’t seem to make sense, but I think I have them in the right order. Others don’t make any sense at all. I liked the puzzle with the numbers and the boxes better. It made more sense.” She sighed. “But I know this one is supposed to help stimulate my memory, because I have to use recall on it.”

“That’s true,” he said. “You’ve got some of them right,” he said. “This one, and this one.”

“Too bad I don’t know what they mean,” she said. Her eyes traveled back to Alex. “You’re the man who was loud outside of my door, earlier,” she said. “Who are you?”

The question was not nearly as demanding as it usually would have been, and it ate at Alex’s heart.

“This is your brother,” Miles said. “His name is Alex Louis Armstrong. He’s a major and a state alchemist.”

Olivier looked over him, considering. “A major. He’s the same rank as you. But it’s a lower rank than me. And a state alchemist… they use alchemy… for the military?”

Miles nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

Alex’s heart broke at all of this, but for the sake of his sister, he kept it together as best he could.

“Why were you being so loud earlier?” she asked Alex.

“I was worried about you, Olivier,” he said. “I’m afraid my emotions got the better of me.”

She nodded. “I’m your… older sister,” she said.

“Yes,” Alex said. “That’s correct.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” she apologized. “Are you here to try to help me get my memories back?”

Alex felt his heart shatter. “Yes. Yes, I’m here to help you in any way I can, Big Sis,” he said.

Olivier smiled at him. “I appreciate that.”

It was many hours later when Alex finally left, Olivier growing tired and having a headache—something that Miles told him was common now. Miles walked him out, and they spoke of arrangements for Olivier. She couldn’t be left on her own, and Miles couldn’t stay here forever. Alex assured him that it would be no trouble at all for her to return to the Armstrong estate. They parted ways, plans in place, and Alex headed towards the mansion, the sword at his side, piercing him with each sound it made.

Olivier hadn’t once asked about it.

~*~*~*~*~

Olivier looked out the window of the car, her eyes wide as they drove through the gates and up to the Armstrong mansion.

“This is… my house?” she asked, incredulous. “This doesn’t look like the other houses I’ve seen.”

“It’s the Armstrong Estate,” Alex told her. “The Armstrongs are an old and well-known family. This estate has been in our family for generations. You are the current head of our family, so it is yours.”

“But what about our parents?” she asked, looking back at him, concerned. “Where do they live?”

“They live here as well, in their own wing. Father takes care of most of the day-to-day concerns. Mother takes care of the social obligations.”

Olivier nodded. “What do I do?”

“Well, you have the ultimate say in anything involving the family. If you wanted to sell this all and give all our family money away, then you could. Or if you wanted to stay here for the rest of your life, you could. Mostly, though, you look at investments being made and sign off on legal documents.”

She was silent. “…I can’t do that now,” she said. “I don’t understand enough.”

Alex rested a hand on her back. “You will again,” he said. “For now, Father will take care of it all.”

Olivier nodded, looking uncertain. The car pulled up to the steps and stopped. Alex got out first, then waited on Olivier. She stayed slightly behind him as she took all of it in. The servants were standing on the stairs, and their family was standing at the top. Alex had the distinct impression that Olivier wanted to duck back into the car and stay there. Instead, he put a hand on her shoulder, and pulled her a little forward and beside him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We can all be a little boisterous, but they care deeply for you. And I won’t leave your side.”

She swallowed, but nodded, and allowed Alex to escort her up.

~*~*~*~*~

The meeting with the family had gone well enough. They had all been gentle around her, trying not to overwhelm Olivier. She had, eventually, relaxed, and many stories had been told of their past. The stories hadn’t seemed to prompt any memories, but Olivier had been eager to learn more about herself and her family. It had gone on for many hours, until she had grown tired.

Alex had noticed first, and had called it a night, showing Olivier to her rooms, as well as how to get to him if she had need of him. He had only left her once he was sure that she was settled in and returned to the family.

The atmosphere after that had been a bit morose, as all of them were worried about Olivier. Still, all eventually retired to bed, leaving the mansion quiet and still. At least, it was until something woke Alex up out of his sleep.

“Alex?”

It was Olivier’s voice, and there was a slight panic to it.

He threw back his blankets and made his way to his bedroom door. He could hear her quietly calling out his name again, the panic still in it.

“Olivier? I’m here,” he said, looking for her.

“Alex.” Her voice was coming a little way down the hall, and he went towards it.

She was just around the corner, and he nearly ran into her. She was, as he was, in her night clothes and robe, but she looked distressed.

“Olivier, what’s wrong?” he asked her.

“I—I… I’m not sure,” she said. “I…”

He put a hand on her back. “Here. Come to my rooms. We’ll sit and drink something hot and soothing, and we can talk.”

She nodded and followed him as he led her in and to a sette, only pausing when he pulled the cord for a maid.

“Here,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you want a blanket?”

She shook her head. “No. Its warm enough as it is.”

Alex blinked at that. It seemed that she still retained her cold tolerance and preference. Was that a physical thing, or was it more mental? He wasn’t entirely sure.

A maid appeared then, knocking on the door, and Alex bade her come in. She had, apparently, anticipated such a need, because he brought a tea cart with her, the aroma of chamomile tea rising from it. Alex thanked the maid and sent her away, fixing the cups for both of them himself. He pressed the cup into Olivier’s hand, and she gave him a tired smile and murmured her thanks.

“There you go,” Alex said. “Now—what has you so upset, Olivier?”

She hesitated. “I… I was dreaming,” she said. “And there was this man in it. A big man, perhaps as big as you, with black hair down the center of his head and a long, thin, braid. He had a thin mustache, and a metal arm that wasn’t always a regular arm. He had a big smile, one that took up his whole face. And… and for some reason… he made me sad. I would see him with Miles sometimes, but… he made me sad, Alex. So… so very sad.”

Alex felt his heart break again as she spoke. “That sounds like Captain Buccaneer,” he said. “He was one of your subordinates at Fort Briggs. He had an automail arm.”

“Captain Buccaneer…” she murmured. “I don’t remember seeing him. Where is he?”

Alex took a breath in. “He died, Olivier.”

“Died?” there was a tremble in her voice.

“Yes,” he said. “Do you remember me telling you how you and your men helped this country? How you helped stop a plot that would have taken the lives of everyone?”

She nodded.

“He died fighting for that. He was an honorable man, very loyal to you.”

She looked disturbed and upset. “… I know I’ve lost men before. I think… I think I see them in my dreams sometimes. Why does his death make me hurt like this?”

It was like she was twisting a knife in his chest, but Alex wasn’t going to lie to her.

“You two were very close. You never said it, but I think that you loved him, Olivier, and that he loved you as well.”

“I… loved him?” she said, and took a sharp breath in as soon as she said it. “Oh…”

Alex looked at her, alarmed as tears began forming in her eyes. Olivier was never one to cry, at least, not before, but apparently now that was different. He reached out to her, pulling her into his arms, and let her weep for something she didn’t fully understand.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Olivier leaned away from the window, a hand covering her eyes. “Are these sessions really doing me any good?” her voice was tired, and a bit irritable.

Alex looked over at her, reaching over to pull a shade down on the window of the car. “You seem to be gaining at least some of your memories back,” he said.

“Yes, a few. But is it worth it?” She asked. “It leaves me with a migraine for days, and only fragments. I still don’t know who I was before. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever return to that woman.”

Alex paused, looking at his sister. “…do you not want to, Olivier?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know who she was, if I was happy as she was. All I know is who I am now. But I don’t know if I’m happy as I am now, either.”

Alex frowned and put a gentle hand on her back. “It is your decision,” he said quietly.

She sighed. “I can’t think straight right now.”

“Then let your mind rest,” Alex said.

The ride to the estate wasn’t much further, and Alex saw her settled into her room. He didn’t expect to see much more out of her for the rest of the day. The Alkehestry sessions left her with a pounding migraine, and she often spent the rest of the day in her bed. Today was no different.

At least, until that evening.

The family was retired to the sitting room where they often spent family time, when a scream pierced the air, a scream full of pain. They all started, Alex, their father, and their mother taking off towards it almost immediately, military and parental instincts spurring their speed. The scream came from Olivier’s room, and more followed it. Philip didn’t even slow down, throwing open the doors to Olivier’s suite, heading straight for her bedroom. Alex was on his heels, gauntlets already on, fearing the worst.

Olivier was still screaming, but there was no apparent cause for her screams. Philip threw back her blankets, but nothing was revealed by them. Olivier was writhing on her bed, screaming, sobbing, fighting, and Philip reached for her, pulling her out of the bed. He sat in the floor with her, their mother immediately reaching to search her over for anything that could have been causing her pain.

“Olivier!” Philip said, shaking her. “Olivier! Olivier, wake up! Olivier!”

There was a gasp from her and then “…Father?”

“Yes, yes, child, yes, Rose, I am here.”

She was shaking, and grasped at his clothes, looking up at him. “F-Father…”

He held her close, shushing her. “Shhh, Rose, it’s alright, I’m here. What happened? Are you hurting?”

“I…” her breath hitched. “I was… I was… I was in a dark place. I was restrained. There were hands… people… men. And then one man—” her breath hitched again. “—one man… he came… he had a metal rod that was white hot. He… he… There was so much pain!”

“Oh, child, oh my Rose, oh Olivier…”

Their father began rocking her, and their mother put herself around them too, both of them forming a safe cocoon for Olivier. Alex backed up, looking at their sisters, and silently guided them out of the room. This wasn’t a place for them to help her. But if any of the memories were to stay gone, Alex wished that the memories of her torture at Drachman hands had been the ones.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Olivier hit the mat and hit it hard. She looked up at Alex, frustration clear in her eyes and body language. She pushed herself up. “I want to try again,” she said.

“Olivier, I think that it’s enough.”

“I want to try again!” she snapped. “It’s almost there… something is almost there.”

Alex paused. “Why don’t we try something different,” Alex suggested. “Perhaps it will help it come.”

Olivier pulled herself up. “Alright.” She looked around and spotted the training swords. “What about those?”

Alex looked over at them, and then gave a nod. He wasn’t sure that she was ready for them, but if she thought she was, then he would try. He went to them, pulling out one for both of them. He took up a stance, and she, taking the sword, did too, although it wasn’t her stance. She was copying his.

Alex had a bad feeling about this. After a moment, she charged at him. He side-stepped and made a move back at her. He could tell that it took her by surprise, but she raised a defense, which, he could see, also surprised her. It was instinctual, not strategy. They exchanged a few more blows, but the match was over in less than a minute, with Olivier on the ground, her sword slid away from her, and Alex’s sword at her neck.

She laid there, shaking, not saying a thing.

Alex relaxed his guard a bit. “Olivier?” he said. He reached out with his hand. “Olivier, are you alright?”

She batted his hand away, and let out a yell, slamming her fist into the mat. “I can’t live like this anymore, Alex!” She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. “I can’t keep doing this! How am I supposed to live like this! I’m not who I was, but there’s enough of her in me that I can’t be someone new! I can’t be anyone anymore! I don’t know who I am, and I can’t live like this! How am I supposed to be who I am, when I can’t even remember things central to me!”

Alex took a step back in surprise. Her temper had been flaring, but she hadn’t had a break down like this yet. “Olivier, we can find a way to work through this. We’ll find more doctors and—”

“No!” she stood up. “No, no more doctors, no more anything!” Her hands went to her head. “I can’t do this anymore!”

“Olivier—”

She looked up at him, eyes blazing. “Get out! Get out, Alex! If I’m truly the master of the house, if I’m truly the head of this family, then get out! Get out of this room, get out of my house! Get out! I want everyone out!” She seized upon the training sword and threw it. It flew across the room and shattered on the wall. She seized the mat, and Alex backed out of the training room as his oldest sister lost her temper, all her frustrations finally coming to a boil.

The next morning Alex returned to the mansion, having honored Olivier’s request to leave. She had an appointment that day, and, if she would allow it, he would accompany her. No one was at the door to meet him, but a maid did escort him to the sitting room. Oliver was waiting in it, looking up at the sword that was on the mantle. Alex didn’t say anything, just stood, waiting. Finally, Olivier turned back around. She looked at him, then looked down a little, shame in her face.

“Alex,” she started. “I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.” She paused, taking in a breath. “You have every right to be upset with me. But… if you’re still willing, I would like your help.”

Alex waited a moment, and then spoke. “You do not need to apologize, Olivier,” he said. “I did some thinking last night. Everyone has been pushing you to return to who you were. None of us have asked what it is you want to do. That isn’t fair of us. If you want to stop your treatments, then I’ll stand by you. And if you want to continue them, then I’ll stand by you as well.”

She looked back up at him, a little relieved. “Then… would you help me through them? I meant what I said about not being able to live like this. I don’t feel whole. I want to. And I think the best way to do that, is to keep trying to regain who I was.”

Alex nodded. “Then I shall stay by your side through it, Sister.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I think we’ve done as much as we can,” the doctor said.

Olivier frowned. “Are you sure?”

The doctor nodded. “Our alkehestrist says that your chi paths are as clear as they can be. He doesn’t feel that further sessions will provide any benefit.”

“What about the memories that are still missing?” Alex asked, knowing that’s what his sister was thinking.

“Those will just have to return on their own—or perhaps they won’t at all. But from what we can tell, you have about 95-98% memory return. Your recall for current events is excellent, and your mental acuity is some of the sharpest I’ve seen.” He closed his charts. “General, I don’t see a reason why you shouldn’t be able to function normally. I would suggest a rest period of about a month before a return to duty, but I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to resume normal life again.”

The room was quiet for a few moments, and then Olivier nodded. “Thank you, Dcotor.”

“Of course,” he said.

They stood, shook hands, and then Alex and Olivier headed out. They were quiet as they walked down the hall.

“…This seems like wonderful news, Sister,” he said.

“It is.” There was a pause. “I was hoping for all of it back, though.”

“I understand,” Alex said.

Olivier just hummed.

The drive back to the mansion was silent, Olivier clearly lost in thought. The minute they arrived, though, she was out of the car, and looking back at Alex. “Come with me,” she said.

Seeing no reason not to, Alex complied and followed her all the way to the family gym. She shed her jacket and walked over to the swords and pulled one off the wall.

“Olivier?” He said. “What are you doing?”

She nodded to the sword on his hip. “You said once that you would keep that until I could earn it back.” She unsheathed the sword she was hold, tossing the sheath to the side. “I’m ready to take my sword back, Alex.”

He blinked at her for a moment, standing there with her hair pulled back, a white sleeveless shirt tucked into a long navy skirt, heeled boots on her feet. Not the Olivier of the past in her uniform. Bot not the sacred, nervous woman who had arrived at the mansion nearly a year ago either. She was some combination of the two.

“Hmph,” Alex tossed his shirt aside, leaving him in his gray trousers and dress shoes. He pulled the sword from its scabbard. “Then let’s see you try.”

She smirked at him—and then the battle was on.

This fight lasted longer than the other one, and Alex was pleased to see his sister’s unique style return. Her spins, her grace, the sweeping motions that she fought with, reminiscent of her talent on the ice—it was all very Olivier, and all very right. Still, Alex wasn’t about to throw this fight—she’d never forgive him if he did—and with the two of them knowing each other’s styles so well, it wasn’t a quick fight.

Olivier was more skilled then him in swordplay, though, and within minutes she had him down, her sword on his neck, her foot on his chest.

“I win,” she said cold eyes staring down at him. “Give me my sword, Alex.”

Without saying a word—as she still had her sword on her neck—he took the sword, and flipped it around with a throw, offering her the hilt. She took it, removed the sword from his neck, and then reached down, unhooking the scabbard from his belt. She stepped back, and Alex set up, watching as she attached the sword to her side.

And as he looked up at his sister, standing there with her fierce pride and the sword back at her side, he couldn’t help but feel like the world was right again. Olivier Mira Armstrong was back.

#writersmonth2021 #Olivier Mira Armstrong #alex louis armstrong #major miles #philip gargantos Armstrong #fma #Fullmetal Alchemist #fma fanfic #fullmetal alchemist fan fiction

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anti-the-glitch-bitch · 3 years

Text

Open Flames

Chapter 2

Word count: 4,311

“Aww, that’s so cute, but no. You’re going to stay here like a good little nightclub owner.” Tony stood outside the plane, arguing with Lucifer. They had been doing this since the three of them had arrived at the airport. Neither one would back down from the other, and it would have been highly amusing if Azar wasn’t worrying herself to death about meeting Tony’s teammates. Did they know about her past? What if they hated her?

Azar watched from her seat as Lucifer gave Tony an offended, hurt look. It changed into one of flirtation and seduction, and soon enough, Tony was letting him onto the plane with a dazed and confused look on his face. She chuckled when Tony sat in the seat next to her with a pouty expression on his face. “Hmm. I see Lucifer will be joining us this evening. I wonder what could have changed?”

“Say anything to the others, and I’ll have Lucifer demonstrate his abilities on you.” Tony glares at me as one of his flight attendants brings him a drink. Thank god for having a rich friend; it certainly made travel much more comfortable.

He takes a sip from his glass and avoids the stare coming from the man sitting across from him. Lucifer grins as he looks at Azar and Tony, who are still avoiding his gaze. “I do believe this will be a rather exquisite trip. Such an exciting event to meet the Avengers. Is Thor around? I haven’t seen him or his brother since that Asgardian party about 200 years ago.” Lucifer put his glass down and clapped his hands together. He looked like an enthusiastic child about to see his favorite classmates after a long summer break.

Azar was taking a drink when Lucifer dropped this small bit of news, causing her to choke on her drink in surprise. Tony thumped her back, trying to help her out but seemed just as shocked. Lucifer seemed a bit concerned that Azar was choking but could not figure out why both of them were so surprised.

“You Know Thor? Why didn’t he say anything to us? When did you meet? How often do you party with them?”

“You’ve been to Asgard? How hot is Loki? Is he as hot in real life? How crazy is he? Does Thor fall in the Jock category? He seems like a jock.”

Lucifer held his hands up at the bombardment of questions coming from both of them. Azar and Tony both talking over each other in their excitement to get more information. Tony’s questions are laced with a bit of skepticism, considering that the person shelling out this new information considered himself the Devil. Azar, more eager to hear about Loki than the blonde-haired Avenger.

“One at a time, please. I’ll answer all your questions. Yes, I’ve known Thor for quite some time. I met him and his brother around the era of Vikings. Quite a lovely bunch, those Asgardians. Really know how to throw a party.” Lucifer continued to answer questions the entire flight. It made the time pass relatively quickly and gave both Tony and Azar insightful knowledge into their companion.

Before she knew it, the plane had landed, and she was gathering her items. Lucifer and Tony didn’t have any luggage but were kind enough to help Azar with hers. Azar was overjoyed when she saw that it was Happy leaning against Tony’s car, waiting for them to show up. Happy stood up and straightened his suit when he saw the three of them coming towards him.

Azar ran for him and gave him an enthusiastic hug. “Happy! Man, have I missed you. You missed a great moment.” She started laughing when Tony gave her a sharp look.

“Azariah, keeping out of trouble, I hope? It hasn’t been the same since you left. Tony keeps moping around the place, complaining about how you abandoned him. Maybe now that you’re back, Pepper won’t have to kick him out every night.” Happy returns the hug, chuckling, before opening the door to the car.

“Uh, excuse me. I was not moping. I openly disagreed with her life’s decision, and Pepper can’t kick me out of my own house. It’s my house. That would defeat the purpose of me having one.” Azar rolls her eyes as Tony gets in the luxury car.

“Well, I’m not sure if he told you, but I’ll be staying here for who knows how long. We’ll have to catch up some time. I need to know if there is some lucky lady that has caught the attention of my friend here.” Tony snorts from inside the car but, surprisingly, doesn’t say anything else.

Happy leans down to see into the car with an offended look on his face. “I’ll have you know that I can get a girl. Maybe not as easy as you, but I can still get one.”

“Don’t let him get to you, Happy. He keeps it up, and I’m going to set his suit on fire.” Azar pats Happy on the back when a throat clears from behind her. “Oh, right, sorry. Happy, this is Lucifer. Lucifer, this is Happy. He's coming with us to meet everyone.”

Lucifer sauntered over with his usual charming grin. “Hello there. Nice to meet you.”

Happy stutters for a moment before leaning into Azar and whispering, “Are you sure this guys' alright? There’s just something about this guy that I don’t like.”

Before she can respond, Lucifer is butting in with a scowl on his face. “Yes, well, I blame Dear Old Dad for that. Blaming me for everyth-“

“Yeah yeah, we get it. It’s all your dad’s fault you’re stuck like this. Get in the back and get over it.” Azar rolls her eyes and moves so the tall devil can get inside. She shuts the door on him just as he opens his mouth to say something else. “Don’t ask, Happy. Let’s just go so I can get settled in and meet the team.”

Happy walks to the other side of the car with a short laugh, and they both get in. Once they are buckled in, he starts the car and takes off. Azar is looking out the window when she feels a hand on her shoulders and a mouth by her ear.

“I do like a woman in charge. Perhaps later, we can see just how in charge you can get.“ Sexual energy seemed to ooze from Lucifer’s words, and the tension in the car rose.

“As much fun as it is to see you get Red all flustered, I’d prefer if she didn’t set the car on fire with us inside.” Tony pulled Lucifer back into his seat, and they stared each other down with a battle of wills.

“Oh, I’d much rather see you flustered, Tony. I’d prefer to see you naked in my bed, but I’ll settle for flustered.” As Lucifer turned his full attention on the cocky man, the look on Tony’s face was a beautiful sight to see. He wasn’t prepared for Lucifer to switch his full attention from person to person, which left him slightly speechless. Tony started clearing his throat and loosening his tie when Lucifer put his arm on the back of Tony’s seat and whispered in his ear.

Happy glanced at Azar with confusion, but she shook her head, trying her best not to laugh. It was funny seeing the tables turned on her friend, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Tony was squirming in his seat now, blushing slightly. Lucifer had the biggest grin on and was enjoying every minute of this.

“Pull over! I, ah, just remembered I have to go and, uh, do something for Pepper really quick. She, yeah, Pepper. My assistant.” Tony looked ready to jump out of his skin, and his cheeks were bright red. He looked like he was prepared to jump out of the car.

“Tony, we’re only 10 minutes away.” Happy was pulling over even as he said this. Probably used to the erratic behavior of the billionaire.

Tony didn’t bother with a response; he just jumped out of the car the moment it stopped. Tapping the reactor on his chest caused his suit to spring to life and envelop him. Before his face mask lowered, he bent over, “You couldn’t handle this,” his face mask shut, and he was off.

Azar was bent over in her seat, laughing hysterically. Lucifer shut the door and had a cat ate the canary look, very content with himself. “Oh, I like this one. Azariah, you naughty girl, why didn’t you tell me you had such fun friends?” Azar was laughing too hard to be able to answer. She was still chuckling to herself when they finally pulled up to the Avengers’ Headquarters.

Azar got out of the car and stood gawking at the giant building in front of her. It was even more impressive than Tony’s original building. Lucifer stood beside her and looked at the facility for a moment before huffing, very unimpressed with it all. “Yes, yes. The building is big. Can we go inside now? I could go for a drink, and I would love to catch up with Thor.”

She shook her and grabbed a bag as Happy and Lucifer grabbed the rest. The moment they walked into the building, a male voice greeted them, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere. “Welcome back, Ms. Azariah. As always, it is a pleasure when you visit.” The voice held genuine emotion yet, at the same time, felt distant.

The addressed woman seemed to light up. Her face brightening at the greeting, though she didn’t bother to look around for the bodiless voice. “Jarvis! I missed you, pal. Still giving Tony hell?”

“Of course, Ms. He has started to ignore me more often than not, so it’s like informing a smart brick wall.” Azar had to laugh at that. It sounded like the relationship between Tony and his AI hadn’t changed a bit. “Mr. Stark has notified me that you will be staying here for some time. Shall I inform you where you will be staying?”

“Uh, Tony said something about setting me up between Legolas and Point Break? I’m not entirely sure who those are supposed to be.” Tony was always coming up with nicknames for people, but he still failed to explain who the nicknames were for or why he had picked that particular nickname.

Happy walked in front of Azar and nodded his head towards the stairs, his hands full with her bags. “I’ll take it from here, Jarvis.” He started walking towards the stairs knowing that Azar would follow.

“Very well, Sir.” Jarvis didn’t say another word after that. Though, if she needed something, Azar knew that Jarvis was always ready to help any way it could.

Azar looked at Lucifer, who had been observing this interaction with curiosity, simply held out his hand, gesturing that she go first. As she followed Happy, she looked around the new building, curious about the differences between Tony’s two buildings. This one seemed to be more practical and filled with things that might suit each team member’s needs. They passed several shut doors down a long hallway before stopping in front of one with her name on it.

Azar opened the door and gawked as she walked inside. It looked as though Tony had been planning this for some time. Her room was styled in shades of black, red, and orange. Her bed was huge and had a pitch-black comforter with stars and the moon. Different bands adorned the walls, all ones she liked. The room had been made specifically for her, and it made her tear up.

“When did he do this?” Azar asked Happy as he put her bags on the bed.

“He has a room set up for you in all his homes. Just in case you ever need somewhere to crash.” Happy glanced around the room briefly, and Azar could just tell he was not fond of the style. He was just too nice to say anything about it.

“Jarvis, is Tony around anywhere?” She had to thank him. It may not mean much to him, but this meant the world to her.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Stark is currently away at the moment. Shall I call him for you?”

“No, it’s ok. Tell him to stop being a chicken shit and get back here before I tell everyone why he ran away.” That should get him to hightail it back.

“Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“That’s it. Thanks, Jarvis.”

Azar observes Lucifer as he walks around the room, checking everything out before turning to Happy. “I’m going to take a nap since I worked last night. Is there an extra room that Lucifer can have?”

“Tony didn’t say anything about this guy staying.” Happy gives Lucifer such a distrustful glare that it was almost comical. He did not want the tall mischievous devil staying here, probably because of what happened in the car.

She laughed and gave him a reassuring smile. “Just a change of plans is all. Seriously, it’s alright. It’s not like he can do much damage with everyone that stays here. Besides, Thor can vouch for him.”

“Yeah, well, I’m keeping an eye on you. I don’t trust you no matter who vouches for you.” Happy points at his eyes and then at Lucifer. Lucifer walks towards the shorter man and smiles, holding his hands out slightly to the side. “Oh, you can keep more than your eyes on me.” That was not the reaction Happy expected, and he widened his eye.

“Lucifer, play nice. At least wait until I get up from my nap before trying to seduce anything that walks on two legs.” She knew she couldn’t curtail his behavior entirely, but she could try and make him wait until she could play referee. Who knows how the others would react to him.

Lucifer stopped and sighed as though this was a massive inconvenience to him. “Well, that’s just plain boring. What am I supposed to do here then?” He threw his hands up in the air.

Azar started pulling out some clothes from her bag and laying them on the bed. “If Thor is around, then you can hang out with him. I’m sure he would love that. You could explore the rest of the place. I’m sure you can find something to do that doesn’t require getting naked. Don’t forget that it was your idea to come along, not the other way around. Don’t get pissy just because this isn’t your playground. Things work differently around here. All you have to do is wait until I get up, and then we can find something to do.”

“I can think of a few things we-,“ Azar jumped at Lucifer, putting her hand against his mouth before he could finish that sentence.

“Don’t even think about it. Now follow Happy like a good boy and behave.” She started pushing both Happy and Lucifer out the door before either one could say something else. Both turned around to open their mouth, only for the door to be shut on them.

Azar sighed in relief and rubbed her eyes. She was exhausted from everything that had happened and couldn’t wait to get some sleep. Changing out of the clothes that Lucifer had given her and into something more comfortable was great. Sliding into the King-sized bed was even better. Before she fell asleep, she told Jarvis to wake her in a few hours or if Lucifer caused any problems. With that done, she immediately fell asleep.

Screams surround her as a fire rages through the house. Smoke fills her lungs, making her cough. She hears her mother scream her name. Turning towards the screams, she sees a wall of fire separating her from her parents. Her dad pushes her mother away, presumably telling her to get out of the house. The more afraid she gets, the more vicious the fire burns until its roar blocks out all other sounds.

The young teen scrambles around her room, looking for anything hard enough to break the window leading outside, the locks having melted from the flames. “Honey, use the bat!” Her father yelled at her from behind the wall of flames. She runs to pick up the wooden bat and hears a crash come from somewhere in the house, her panic driving her to move even faster.

Her vision blurred, and her lungs filled with smoke; she used all her strength and swung at the window, causing the glass to shatter outward. The flames roar hungrily at the fresh air and greedily take it in, becoming yet more ferocious. After knocking out the rest of the glass, she turns to her bed and starts pulling off everything so that she can put it over the doorway in the hopes of creating a hole for her dad to get through, her father screaming at her to get out the entire time.

She almost makes it when the beams start creaking, and then part of the ceiling collapses, burying her father in wood, flames, and smoke. Her screams could be heard from miles away as she cried for her father to get up. Tears would have fallen down the teens’ faces if it hadn’t been for the heat, causing them to evaporate instantly.

She fell to her knees and screamed for him until her throat was raw, in such focused grief that she never heard the sirens or the firemen busting through her window. She struggled against them as they dragged her out the window to others waiting on the other side; her arms still outreached for her father.

“Azariah! Wake up!”

She coughed as the firemen dragged her to the ambulance, and the EMTs started checking her over.

“AZARIAH, YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP!” That voice broke her free from the spell of the nightmare. Tony was standing over her, shaking her awake. She shot up, adrenaline and despair running through her veins, making her heart race. The smell of something burning and the whoosh of a fire extinguisher forced her to look over and see a short-haired redhead woman trying to put out flames that licked at the walls and other furniture with ferocious tenacity. Trying to help her was a man about the redhead’s height. He didn’t have a fire extinguisher but had a bucket of water that he was throwing on the desk in the far corner.

“Hey, Firestarter. Can you do something about the fire currently burning the place to the ground?” Tony snapped his fingers, getting Azariah’s attention. Her pulse is still racing, and her brain panicking from the nightmare, she throws her arm out automatically and calls what flames are left to her. The fire flies to her hand and nestles her palm like a long-lost child finding its way home. Clenching her fist, she snuffs the fire out.

The man stares at the redhead for a moment with a raised eyebrow and then turns back to Azar. “I’d say that’s terrifying, but I’ve met a guy that can wield lightning. This is like a regular Tuesday for us.” The redhead gives him a glare and a shake of her head as if to say, not now.

Azar’s breathing is shallow and rapid as her brain continues to throw out horrible what-if scenarios. Her eyes were assessing the damage that had happened because of her. “Hey kid, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing in here that can’t be-“ He placed his hand on her shoulder, causing her to withdraw from his touch and lunge out of the other side of the bed.

“NO!” The walls started to close in on her as she had a full-on panic attack, “Don’t touch me. I can’t... I can’t breathe. I…I… go have to…out.” She started running past everyone, trying to remember how she had come in, and wholly ignored Tony worriedly calling for her.

She takes off down the hallway, her hair flowing behind her with flames flickering in between the strands. Her bare feet were leaving scorched marks on the wooden floor. It seems to take forever to find the exit, and she doesn’t hesitate to throw the doors open and rush outside, not taking notice of the people she frightened. She continues to run until she can no longer get enough oxygen to keep up the pace and falls to her knees, gasping for air. Sparks fly off her singeing the surrounding area.

Azar is slowly regaining her breath when she hears the crunching of grass behind her. “That’s not how I wanted to introduce you to the team, but I guess that will work.” Tony walks over to her, careful to avoid the still sparking woman. “Think you can put out the fire so we can talk?”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself enough to have a semblance of control over her power. The flames die down and eventually stop altogether. “This was a bad idea, Tony. I could have seriously hurt someone. I shouldn’t be here.” Azar keeps her head down, avoiding Tony’s gaze.

“Actually, you’re in the perfect place. I’ve got precautions in place in case your little fires get out of control. Can you say the same for where you’re living now?” Tony’s complacency about the incident irks her, making her stand up to look him in the eyes.

“I live ALONE! For this exact reason! You’re willing to risk people’s lives for what? So, you can have a freak on your team!? I couldn’t live with the guilt if I hurt someone because I couldn’t control this... this curse!” Azar screams at Tony, her fists clenched tightly. She wanted to punch him in his smug face so bad that it hurt to restrain herself.

He watched her for a moment before snapping his fingers. “What you need is a way to let loose. You can’t keep this part of you locked away forever. It’s a part of who you are and will never go away, no matter how hard you try to wish it away. I didn’t ask you to come here just so you could be part of the team. I wanted you here so you can learn how to control your abilities, and I know exactly how we’re going to do that.” He immediately started walking off, not even bothering to see if Azar would follow.

“Wait? What?” Tony had walked away so quickly and abruptly that Azar was left staring after him in confusion. The way he brushed off her anger and statements left her dazed. Now, she was just trying to keep up with his train of thought.

“What are you up to now, Tony?” Azar rushes to catch up to him, ignoring the looks that various staff is giving them. Tony had a look to him that she didn’t trust at all. She had seen that look, and it never seemed to bode well for her.

Tony’s aura oozed confidence and purpose as he strode back to the compound. “First, I’m going to see if Banner can figure out a way to make a fireproof suit for you. Otherwise, all your clothes are going to burn up, not just the ones you’re wearing.” That comment had her looking at the clothes she had on.

They had small holes in various places that were blackened around the edges. It made her sigh in resignation because he was right. Whatever Tony had planned would probably have her going through clothes like crazy. Not something she could afford now that she no longer had a job.

“Okay, so what else you got planned in that scheming brain of yours?”

“That is for me to know and you to find out. Why don’t you get changed while I round up the posse?” He pushes the doors to the building open and starts to walk away.

“Oh, have you seen Lucifer anywhere? If he isn’t supervised, he tends to get himself into trouble.” Tony rolled his eyes so hard that Azar was a little worried they might roll out of the sockets.

“Your illustrious friend left while you were napping, claiming this place held a serious lack of excitement, and left. He did say he would be back in a few hours.” Yeah, that sounded precisely like Lucifer. She was almost afraid to know what kind of excitement he was delving into.

“I’ll give him a shout and let him know I’m awake. He’d be upset if he missed meeting everyone.” He really would. Knowing him, he would complain and pout for days until something distracted him again. Azar didn’t want to deal with that. They parted ways, with Tony telling her to come to the common area when she was done.

Before she changed, she sent her ex-boss a quick text letting him know what was happening. After a 30 minute shower and a change of clothes, there was still no reply from Lucifer, so she had no way of knowing if he saw the message or not. Well, it wasn’t her fault if he wasn’t here.

With the help of Jarvis, she managed to find the common area with no problems. She stopped as soon as she heard noises, her anxiety spiking. She had been nervous about meeting everyone before her nightmare. Now, she was afraid they would be another bunch of judgmental assholes that couldn’t stand to be around her. She took a few deep breaths and then walked into the room where all sound stopped, and all eyes were instantly on her.

“So, I guess I’m gonna be an Avenger.”

#the avengers #lucifer #ao3 fanfic #slow burn #Oc

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flatfootmonster · 3 years

Text

Remember This

Bum wanted to move. His left foot itched where part of his skin was still damp underneath a too big sock that didn’t belong to him. He wanted to drink the coke in front of him. He wanted to cry. All those things were impossible; he was barely able to remember to breathe. Someone had been shouting that—to breathe in and out—after everything had changed; gone black and then bright, gone quiet and then loud.

They’d just been on their way to Nana’s, him and mum and dad, just like they usually did because it was Friday today. Was it still Friday? And when would everything go back to normal? What did he have to do to make it right? But there was no one to ask even if he could talk.

“Listen,” said the big man, dressed in his plain white uniform—all clean except for a smear of something red on the sleeve. He was shorter than Bum's dad, his hair wasn’t as dark, and his face was rounder—so was his body. This man wasn’t Bum’s dad. When would he see him again? “I’m gonna go and talk to the other nurse next door. Do you remember Nurse Clay? The one who brought the snacks? I’ll be back in a few minutes. Sit tight and try and drink something. And, erm… just let me know if you want to go to the toilet next time—if you can.”

He stared at Bum, a deep furrow in his brow, and Bum stared back, not quite understanding why he was being spoken to or what was being said. Nothing made sense, not this place, or the people here, and not the noises everyone and everything made. Words vibrated in the air and became a constant buzz. If he thought about it too much and tried to decipher the sounds, the screams would come. He didn’t want to hear her make those sounds. Right now that was all he could remember of her—his mum.

With a sigh, the man left through the door. It was held open by a thick wedge of folded paper. The bench Bum sat on was hard, his fingers strained in a death grip as if he were instead on a rollercoaster. But he had no control over his body. Bum wasn’t even sure if he had a body anymore or if anything was real. The only other thing in the small too bright room was a table where an open coke and apple sat. The table had one short leg. It wobbled whenever anyone leant on it.

“He’s not talking. He’s not even nodding or—I don’t know. It’s like he switched off.” The first man's voice was still sounding, but it was in the next room now, muffled by walls but not entirely restrained.

“I called next of kin, but it may take a while for her to get here at this time of night.” There was a second buzz to accompany the first. It was higher in pitch but made just as little sense to Bum as the other.

“It’s a mess. A goddamn mess.”

“I haven’t seen anything like it. Not round here. It’s just not right. Two of them. Who’s gonna explain to them where their mummy and daddy are?”

“One’s too young, thank god—no dad though. It happened near their house, that’s what Tan said. They all came out to gossip with the police—the neighbours. There’s no one to call for him, no family anyway. Doesn’t that break your heart? Too young to understand but he’ll never remember his mum, never have any real family...”

There was a pause in the buzzing. Bum’s blood was throbbing in his ears. He was going to explode.

“Did you speak to the EMTs?”

“I didn’t get a chance. I was with a patient when they came in.”

“They said she reeked of booze—the mum of that little one. They think she was drunk.”

“Drink driving? That’s a damn shame. Do we know his name?”

“Not yet. Just the quiet one: Yoon Bum. Poor thing. He’s barely breathing, can’t say a word. I don’t even think he’s blinking. It’s a miracle they came out without a scratch.”

“One’s going to give himself brain damage from all the screaming he’s doing, and the other is deaf and mute—and their parents are dead. Not sure I’d call it a miracle.” There was a long sigh. “I just want to go home.”

“Me too. I need to hug my kids.”

Another door opened, and a low wail oozed along the white-walled corridor, it didn’t sound the same as the screams Bum had been trying to silence and forget. Footsteps tapped their way across vinyl before a third buzz joined the din.

“Did anyone get milk yet? I don’t know what else to do. He won’t stop.” This one was panicked: edgy, high, shrill. Bum didn’t like it. It made the bench shake, and his teeth were chattering because of it.

“Tan went for some. I don’t know where he is now. That was, what, maybe five minutes ago?” A non-committal hum was added to the statement-question hybrid in vague corroboration.

“I’ll go look for him—you guys can check on the baby. I’ve done enough.”

Whatever protests the first and second voices offered didn’t stop the marching footsteps, tapping an impatient path across vinyl again. They quieted until another door banged shut, somewhere far away from where Bum sat in his windowless room with his warming can of coke. The pop-pop-popping of the bubbles bursting against tin was slowing. It would be flat soon—dead. Had the pop-pop-popping in his mum and dad stopped?

“Maybe if we leave him for a few minutes he’ll go to sleep. Babies cry themselves to sleep anyway, don’t they?”

“You’re the one with kids. What do I know about babies?”

“Do you want coffee? I’m gonna go call the wife.”

The crying was all that was left now. It was quieter, muffled by the boundary the door set, but Bum could still hear it. It was slowing too, getting lower. It was pathetic and begged and tired. Was the baby’s pop-pop-popping stopping?

Bum’s lungs jump-started. That was how they worked now; they’d stop for a long time before remembering what their job was. Bum drew sharp, cool air into his chest before he attempted to move the body he was sure still attached itself to his thoughts. In a jerky motion, Bum slid off the bench. His eyes were dry as he stared at the door to the next room along the corridor. Footfalls had disappeared, nothing moved. There was just a low erratic hum like the one remaining buzz was trying to soothe itself. Wiping his clammy palms down the borrowed shorts, Bum tried in vain to still the vibrations that jostled his atoms around. His hands shook, and his feet were numb. He didn’t even register the damp patch that made cloth cling to his thigh.

Bum made a stop-start path across small islands that were made up entirely of vinyl squares, one foot inching forward before it was joined by the other. If he stood outside of those imaginary landmasses, he’d fall into oblivion—he was sure of it. The room was cramped and, at the same time, vast as an ocean. But the wailing pulled him on. They were so sad, the cries. They were so full of sorrow it was surprising the baby hadn’t drowned in it all. Bum understood it better than he did the buzzing the big people made.

A lull settled just as he reached the door. Maybe the pop-pop-popping had stopped? There was no handle, so his sparse body weight became the tool, cracking the tall, heavy door open far easier than Bum imagined was possible. He slipped inside. It was another cell—just as bright and hard as the other. The only difference was a car seat, sat on the floor with the baby still strapped inside.

He had his eyes squeezed closed, and his face was an angry red—wet with tears and snot. Then the moaned wail picked up strength once more. There was an acrid smell to the room. He’d probably cried and thrown up everything that was in his tummy until all that came out was stomach lining—Bum had done that once when he’d gotten ill. His mum had held him and washed him and made everything OK. The front of the babies zipped up onesie was stained and damp. Who was going to clean the baby up?

Bum wanted to hate him. There was some recollection, a bone-deep understanding, that the fault of all this—the screams, the hard bench, the vomit and piss, the warm coke—was due to this baby's mum. That thing inside burned; it wanted a reason or direction, but it wasn’t strong enough. It didn’t singe his skin or catch fire to his consciousness, and it didn’t outweigh the hurt in the cries that only Bum could feel—feel in dark chambers in his heart, only just discovered tonight.

He stood and stared at the baby with no name. As his heart hammered in his chest, Bum became aware of the mess he’d made on himself. The damp patch was smaller than the first time when he’d wet himself in his own trousers. Perhaps he should go, slip back out and sit and wait on his own. But, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the wail stilled. There was a quiet that no buzzing or screaming dared encroach upon, the baby’s eyes were open and focussed on Bum. His tiny trapped chest rose and fell quickly beneath the straps that held him prisoner. The breaths fell in time with Bum’s heartbeat; his pop-pop-popping was fine, just like Bum’s.

The baby thrust out his hand, and stubby fingers peeked out the end of a grubby sleeve. He babbled something while a snot bubble burst under one porcelain perfect nostril. The fingers wriggled impatiently, drawing attention to the red on his cuff—just like the uniform of the big man. A baby shouldn’t have blood on them. It just wasn’t right—it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Bum lurched forward as his feet stole back their gait, islands and oceans forgotten while his own fingers stretched out, answering where his lips were unable. The baby's grip was strong as it grabbed at Bum’s index finger, pulling it towards his chest and compelling the owner of that finger to crouch or else fall flat on his face.

A stuttered shush broke free. “It’s OK. We’re OK,” he said. The baby babbled again before he grasped Bum’s shirt, trying to haul himself out of the seat. “OK, OK, let me try—” It always looked so hard when his mum or dad tried to do this. His fingers trembled while he probed at the button sitting at the centre of the baby’s chest, easing it this way and that before a catch came free and the straps loosened. There was no hesitation once the restraints were gone, the baby pulled himself up onto his saviour. Bum had always been smaller and thinner than most of his friends, and this baby was big, heavier than Bum could hold—almost as long as Bum was tall already. His balance waned then he fell backwards. The impact of the floor against his backside was softened by arms wrapping around him like vines eager for support and fingers digging into him like roots desperate for nourishment.

For a moment, Bum sat where he’d fallen as bemusement kept him stuck in amber. He’d never known someone could be needful for him—it was always him in need of his parents or his Nana. And he still had her—his Nana. If he’d lost everything else there was that, there were his memories, too. But this baby did not have that—any of it. All he had was the heart that drummed against Bum’s chest; all he had was himself.

A small cream blanket was left in the car seat, padding where the baby had laid. The smudge of dirt and single leaf clinging to it meant it was the cleanest thing in the room after the sterile walls. And behind the car seat was a folded coat—judging by the size, it belonged to the baby. Shuffling over to the bench, where it housed a dark cove, Bum one-handedly set out a makeshift cot within the safety of the shadow and away from the bright, white exposure. There he eased himself and the baby down, head resting on the rolled-up coat and the blanket brought up to cover them both. Chubby legs and arms wriggled, pushing and pulling, as the baby crawled upwards until his head was just beneath Bum’s chin. Then he lay still, his breaths deepening, his muscles finally at ease.

Beneath the smell of the hospital, urine, and stomach acid, there was something else. Bum could sense it as soft, dark hair tickled his nose. It was sweet and safe, and it was peaceful and human—reminding him of something that had detached itself when the cars collided. Turning towards the wall, Bum brought his knees up, curling around the baby and holding on as tightly as he was being held. An aimless tune stirred before it came to fruition, hummed quietly down onto the crown of the baby’s head—like Bum’s mum used to when he couldn’t sleep.

A yawn forced his jaw wide. The baby was already sleeping and Bum remembered something else that was human: fatigue. Warmth replaced the hardness, trauma waivered beneath the weight of desperately needed dreams—full of the past and impossibilities, words came without sense. “We’re going to be OK,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “You can remember me. Remember me, OK? Remember this.”

Note: this was/is a time stamp from an AU I’m writing, although I don’t know if it fits better as a prologue considering it’s how things become altered and we have a different set of issues to play with.

#killing stalking #fanfic #alternate universe #timestamp #yoon bum #sangwoo

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theroyalmenagerie · 3 years

Text

Chapter One: Lazy Morning Interrupted

AO3 Link

Chapter Content Warnings: D/s Dynamics, teasing.

__________

The scent of bacon, fresh pastry, and sugary warm blueberries pulled His Royal Highness, Prince Lysander James Reginald von Friedrick Dairune II from sleep. Through the curtains of his bed, he could see a sliver of bright sunlight, and hear the clinking of silverware as breakfast was set up. Stirring lazily, Lysander smiled at the slide of warm fur and skin against him and the instant complaining from his bedmates as he sat up.

“Lyyysss nooooo,” Caleb whined, bright blue eyes peeking out from his copper curls as he reached up to pull Lysander back down, “It’s too early,”

“Much too early,” Anders agreed from the other side, pressing close and placing a languid kiss against Lysander’s shoulder, teeth nipping softly.

Lysander arched into their touch, luxuriating in the press of their lips against his skin. Caleb’s tail wrapped around one of his legs and he moaned, pulling the little fox-fae closer for a heated kiss. Surely breakfast would keep long enough for Lysander to indulge himself at least once.

Or maybe twice.

“On the contrary,” A serious voice called out from the other side of the cavernous room, startling them, “It’s already past noon, and his Highness has an important meeting with the Elurian delegation in two hours, which just might be enough time to get him presentable,”

“Uggghhh Devereaux, would it kill you to, just once, not be a killjoy?” Anders groaned flopping onto his back.

Lysander cursed under his breath, moving to sit up, “He’s right, and I meant to tell you two I’d be busy today when you snuck in last night,”

Caleb tried in vain to keep Lysander down, and when that failed he switched tactics to slide into his lap, pressing his hard cock against the Prince and moaning, “Wouldn't it feel better to postpone your meeting though? Stay here with us, in bed and just rela- HEY!”

Devereaux ignored his outburst and continued to pull the curtains open, allowing the sunlight to flood onto the bed illuminating the trio, “His Highness knows where to find you if he wishes to relax after his duties for the day are fulfilled,”

Caleb pouted shooting a glare to the interrupting Incubus, nuzzling into Lysander, “Lys! Anders! Back me up!”

“Lovely though it would be to steal Lysander away, I have no wish to be lectured again about-” Anders stood his blond tail lazily swaying as he stretched and switched to a mocking parody of Devereaux’s voice, “respecting the importance of His Highness’ station and responsibilities to the kingdom,”

“Perhaps you would not have to be lectured so often if you remembered your place,”

“Devereaux, Anders, please,” Lysander rubbed his forehead, “I had a wonderful night and would like a matching morning, please don’t start bickering,”

“Lyyyssss,”

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” Lysander tilted Caleb’s face up taking his lips in an apologetic kiss, soft and lingering, “I really should start getting ready,”

“Come along, my mate,” Anders pulled him off of Lysander’s lap, “let steal some of those yummy looking scones and go back to our nest, you’ll just have to settle for me taking care of you until Lysander rejoins us,”

“It’s never settling with you, dearest,” Caleb purred but still looked over to Lysander, “you will rejoin us though right? You haven’t changed your mind?”

“I haven’t, I won’t. I should be done before dinner, order a full spread and I’ll join you then,” Lysander promised, standing to see the pair of fox-fae out, not even bothering to wrap himself in a sheet.

There was little need when everyone in the room had done more than just seen him naked many times before.

Besides his outfit would be decided by Devereaux, who was already rifling through his wardrobes. So Lysander bid Anders and Caleb farewell with another kiss for each and then went over to the fireside table laden with his breakfast. It was beautifully arranged, and still hot, a cup of tea set to the side made exactly how he liked. Devereaux didn’t stand for anything less than perfection, and he demanded such from Lysander.

“Would you like tea, sir?” Lysander asked, relaxing into the headspace he had when alone with Devereaux and looking forward to spending time with the Incubi Alpha.

“No.”

Lysander winced at Devereaux’s harsh tone, unsure for a moment what to do. What had seemed no more than a mild annoyance at finding Lysander lazing in bed with the fox-fae pair was clearly more serious than he’d thought.

“Sit. Eat.”

“I-”

“Do not make me repeat myself, your Highness.”

“Yes, sir,” Lysander sat down and began to eat slowly, mind spinning.

The room fell to silence other than the sounds of Devereaux’s searching and Lysander’s uneasy eating. After a few tense moments, Devereaux closed the last of the wardrobes with a sharp click and came over to where Lysander sat, picking at a piece of peppered bacon.

“Did you forget?”

“Forget, sir?” Lysander blinked for a moment before the cause of Devereaux’s displeasure hit him like a mace, “Shit! I’m sorr-”

“Watch your tongue, cursing is unbecoming of one of your station,” Devereaux chided, draping the clothes across the back of an empty chair, “I have no interest in excuses either when the reason for your lapse of memory is plenty evident,”

“They just arrived back last night and Caleb’s heat is due any time now,” Lysander tried to explain anyway, knowing it was useless but needing the incubus to understand he hadn’t meant any disrespect with his actions.

“That is not your duty to-”

“It may not be my duty, but it’s the first time that Caleb has felt comfortable with me joining them for it, that’s why they came last night, to invite me, and frankly I was so honored and… lonely that I forgot yes.”

“You were lonely for a reason,”

“I know,”

“So not only did you disobey me last night, ignoring my orders to remain chaste, you have spent this morning being rude, interrupting me and cursing,”

Lysander winced.

“What am I to do with you, your Highness?”

Lysander’s already low hunger completely evaporated.

He may be a Prince, but years ago when Devereaux had first crossed his path as an advisor to visiting Incubi dignitaries it was clear to both of them that aside from Lysander’s attraction to the Alpha, he had a craving for a firm hand. It hadn’t taken long for Lysander to convince Devereaux to take him to bed for a night. What had started as an intense night then bled into the next and the next.

Devereaux as he’d promised had taken Lysander in hand, pulling pleasure from the Prince that Lysander didn’t know he could have. While part of that could be attributed to the incubi’s naturally heightened sexual prowess, part of it was that never before had someone dared demand that the Prince submit. Despite the fact that he was an omega, no human concubine would ever think of trying such a thing, not that many had the chance to try.

Lysander never had much desire for the humans that filled his siblings' harems and had begged to be in his, to begin with. They were all so simpering and bland, hiding any sort of personality in a bid to win a place within Lysander’s harem while refusing to even attempt to truly get to know him. To add insult to injury, the few he’d tried out of loneliness and need had balked at any attempt by Lysander to control their encounters, so certain that all the omega Prince should want is a knot while being panderingly praised to.

So for many years, Lysanders bed was rarely filled. After Devereaux so thoroughly upended the Prince’s world with the fulfillment of his basest desires Lysander had spent weeks convincing the incubus to stay instead of returning home with the delegation. Promises of riches, status as the Prince’s own concubine, an easy life, Lysander promised it all, desperate not to be left alone and unsatisfied.

Devereaux nearly said no until Lysander admitted how badly he needed the incubus to stay for more than just his own pleasure, how he wanted to learn from his hand not just to submit but to one day make others submit as he also longed to. It took a promise to take Devereaux’s training seriously, to heed his advice and his orders when issued, to get him to stay.

It was the best thing that had happened in Lysander’s life. Under Devereaux’s tutelage Lysander better understood himself and his desires, and without that Lysander would not be as fulfilled as he was now nor would he have the menagerie he was building of lovers that not only suited his ranging desires but were friends and confidants outside of bed.

It had been a while since Lysander screwed up this badly, and he hated the feeling of disappointing Devereaux not only as his Dom but his dear friend and mentor.

“I don’t know, I am sorry truly and I accept the consequences of my actions whatever they may be, sir,”

Devereaux sighed, “I will ponder it while you attend your duties, for now, we need to get you dressed and that hair tamed, you know the Elurian’s will not look kindly on you being late let alone disheveled,”

Lysander just nodded and stood, knowing even as Devereaux was upset with him he would still take control of overseeing the Prince getting dressed. Devereaux quite enjoyed dressing Lysander up, it had been one of the first bits of submission he’d demanded from the omega. His enjoyment came from the ritual of the act itself but more importantly the rush from having such control over the Prince, one of the most powerful people in the kingdom, that how he was presented to others was of his choosing.

It was very clinical compared to how it would otherwise usually go, however; there were no lingering caresses or sprinkled praise for his stillness and compliance and form. No teasing rolling of his nipples before pulling tight the corsetry that kept him flat throughout the day. Just quick, efficient movements of pulling and lacing and tucking.

The clothes were - as always - well picked, better than Lysander would ever have put together. The tunic’s deep green hue echoed those in Lysander’s hazel eyes and matched the stitching of the soft leather pants. Then there was a richly embroidered vest with gold buttons and matching capelet that made one think of nature, knee-high shiny black boots, and the simple gold circlet that was Lysander’s crown would finish it once his thick black curls were tamed. It was a good pick for meeting with the Elurian’s who hailed from deep within the forests of Mylsavar, it could evoke pleasant thoughts of their home.

Much better than the silver and blue idea Lysander had thought he’d go with. Lysander did try when he dressed himself, but there was something about Devereaux’s sense of style that always made him feel more put together and impressive.

Devereaux’s touch soften a bit as he finished dressing Lysander and moved to carefully comb through the Prince’s curls, braiding and arranging them into the careful half-up-do that he preferred on Lysander, as it emphasized his sharp cheekbones and in the Alpha’s own words, “Entices one to pay attention that they may stay in the presence of such beauty, and encourage them to agree so they please you,”

“There we go, that’s much better,” Devereaux said after placing the crown, careful to make sure it was straight and secure, “and you don’t even have to rush to make your meeting, your Highness,”

“Thank you, sir,” Lysander bit his lip, “and again I am sorry,”

“And you will be forgiven once you receive your punishment,”

“I… do you want me tonight?”

“No. You’ve already promised your company to those incorrigible foxes,” Devereaux reminded him gently, turning with him towards the door and walking out with him, “I will not make you break your promise, tomorrow morning will suffice provided Caleb does not begin his heat,”

“If he does…”

“Then enjoy satisfying his heat, do not forget to take a dose of your suppressant before you join them, and see me the moment it is over,”

“Thank you, S-Devereaux,”

“You are welcome, your Highness, if you have a need of me I’ll be in the gardens,” With that Devereaux faced Lysander and gave him a small smile and a soft touch to his cheek before turning leaving the Prince to walk the rest of the way to his meeting by himself.

Lysander wanted to scream, this was the third set of meetings this year with the Elurian’s and they were no closer to having a trade agreement that satisfied both nations than they were before the first. To make matters worse this whole bit of politics was far from Lysander’s usual duties, he much preferred being charged with running more internal logistics rather than ones that required diplomacy with the other nations.

Give him an infrastructure project to plan, tax laws to adjust, anything but meeting with foreign dignitaries and having to navigate the complicated social interactions to avoid war.

“I understand your concerns, but until the solstice harvest is over even I am not allowed in the groves,” Lysander tried to calm the increasingly irate delegates.

“How can we be assured of your ability to fill the needs we have if we cannot confirm that your groves are producing the quantity that you claim?”

“If you are willing to wait until-”

“We have already waited! Six months!”

“I am aware, but the first party you sent to us were invited to tour the grove when such a visit was acceptable and they said that was unnecessary, by the time you returned demanding access we’d reached the season where only the Hyla were allowed inside,”

“Surely your gods will not strike you down for allowing us to simply see the grove, we need not touch anything,”

“The fact the grove is blessed is why you wish to trade with us, please do not then disrespect our beliefs with demands we cannot concede to,” Lysander struggled to keep his tone calm and pleasant, to draw every bit of patience he had on not starting an incident, “You are more than welcome to come after the harvest,”

“It will be too late after the harvest to get everything in order to have the Kysri brought back to the Elra this year, that would leave us till next year before we can have its aid,”

On and on it went for hours, too tense to even have food brought in. With neither side willing or able to concede no progress could be made. By the time they had to call the negotiations for the day Lysander had a pounding headache and all he wanted was a stiff drink and a tongue buried in his cunt.

“We will have to table this for now, I’m afraid I have other appointments I must keep tonight,”

“Our convoy leaves tomorrow,” the head delegate hissed, “What are we to do then?”

“If you are still interested, as we are, in opening trade between our nations I suggest you come back after the harvest season to see the yield, we are more than willing to work with you to ensure if you are pleased that a shipment of Kysri can be brought back with you. I know that is less than you were hoping for but it would ensure aid to some of your people at least,”

That led to another hour of debating before Lysander managed to convince them to leave him be, and as the last of them left Lysander finally let out the frustrated groan that would have to do because he didn’t feel like explaining why he was screaming to his guards.

“Well that certainly was something,” a low, dark voice drawled out from behind Lysander suddenly.

“Sebastian! Goodness, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Lysander spun around to see Sebastian melt out of the shadows, bright red eyes shining.

“Goodness? You’ve been spending too much time with Devereaux” he snorted, giving Lysander a heated once over, lingering on the exposed length of his neck.

“He has a point, you know, about my speech needing to represent my station,”

Sebastian just rolled his eyes, “Way too much time,”

“Well at least he wants to spend time with me,” Lysander huffed, trying to ignore the twinge in his chest as he addressed the vampire, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you sound jealous,”

“Of that better-than-thou priss? Never.” Sebastian stepped forward, crowding against the Prince, “Was he? When he found you in bed with the foxes?”

Lysander blushed a little but didn’t move, looking up at him deliberately, “Do I even want to know how you know that?”

“Well he abandoned his precious garden hours early today to go pace in the library, and you still smell of them,” Sebastian leaned down and ran his nose down Lysander’s neck and following it with a featherlight kiss against his heartbeat causing the Prince to shiver, “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why his panties are in a bunch,”

“Devereaux doesn’t get jealous, you know he doesn’t care for me that way, he was just… disappointed… I disobeyed him,” Lysander breathed out, pulse-pounding and heat curling low from the presence of the Alpha who moved so his hands rested against Lysander’s hips.

Sebastian tsked, his warm breath teasing against the Prince’s neck, “Naughty boy, you know better,”

“I know,” Lysander couldn’t help tilting his head up further.

“Pity it’s Devereaux’s right to discipline you for it,” Sebastian let his teeth scrape against Lysander’s pulse point, teeth aching to sink in as the omega’s arousal heightened and that wonderful scent of warm honey and cloves filled the air around him, “Is that where you’re heading now?”

“I… Uhm...”

“What was that?”

Lysander took a shaky breath, trying to clear the arousal from his mind long enough to answer, “I’m rejoining Caleb and Anders, actually,”

“Oh? Are you joining for all of Caleb’s heat? Going to play Alpha with a fake knot while wishing it was you hot and fertile and being bred like a good little omega?”

“I-I’m going to join them, yes,” Lysander swallowed hard, “are you jealous now?”

Sebastian chuckled and straightened up, leaving Lysander feeling bereft, “Oh no, little Prince, not at all, I hope you enjoy your little game,”

It was a lie but the little Prince didn’t need to know the growing possessiveness that burned in the back of Sebastian’s mind. He had no right to those feelings. Sebastian had known better than to begin having them in the first place, but the little Prince was so addicting, so intriguing, he hadn’t been able to convince himself to leave him behind yet.

Lysander was more than a little flustered, wanting to reach out and pull Sebastian back or maybe just drop to his knees and beg. Instead, he cleared his throat, “I will, now if you don’t need anything else? I’m already late,”

“Go, have fun Lysander, I’ll catch up with you when you’re not so busy,” Sebastian turned to leave looking over his shoulder before fading back into the shadow at Lysander breathing hard and still blushing and tried hard to ignore the pang in his chest that he wasn’t taking the omega to bed instead.

#The Royal Menagerie #Terato

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hopelessromanticspoonie · 4 years

Text

Trust

Masterlist here

Characters: Tom Hiddleston and Female Novelist Reader

Summary: Finding just the right actor to star in the movie based on your book wasn't an easy process. And then Tom Hiddleston walked into the room, and he may solve more than just your casting concerns.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption

Word Count: 4.2k (whoops)

A/N: This is based off a request given to me by @yespolkadotkitty! I apologize that I haven’t posted in a long while and that this took a minute to get out, but I hope you enjoy it! ALSO. I know nothing about the film industry. Please ignore what I’m sure are several errors concerning that topic.

“Next!”

“He was really good. You sure you didn’t like him?”

You closed your eyes and dropped your forehead onto your hand supported by your elbow on the folding table in front of you. When you had been contacted by your agent that a studio wanted to turn your best-selling novel into a movie, it felt like a dream come true. A whirlwind of paid flights, lunch meetings, negotiations, and signed contracts led you to your spot next to the casting director, several producers, and director for the movie. You were lucky that they were taking your opinion into consideration at all, and you didn’t want to create waves, but there hadn’t been a man reading for the main role yet that felt right.

From several one-note actors to a few who were way off the mark to those who showed up completely unprepared, nobody had made you feel the gripping tension of the troubled but earnest character of Joshua Collins, the struggling artist and male half of your romantic tale.

“Hello, my name is Tom Hiddleston, and I’d like to audition for the role of Joshua Collins.”

That voice. Sophistication roughened with the barest hint of anxiety and smoothed out by a full baritone that dripped honey. Your head popped up from your hand to take in the sheepishly grinning man in front of you. He was tall, so tall that it took an eternity for your eyes to drag from the worn boots on his feet, up the slim legs expertly encased in blue slacks, over the broad chest that strained at the thin fabric of his light blue button-up shirt, to a face that had to have been sculpted by the finest craftsmen with planes and shadows to highlight his arresting stare.

The lines that he read through with a producer’s assistant sounded as if they came straight from your creative imaginings. He was Joshua. The ability he had to convey such emotion with the tilt of his head, the press of his lips, or even the very act of taking a breath to sustain his speech was enough to render you utterly transfixed. Even the silence that fell over the room as he gathered his thoughts for a response had you tense and gripping your pen until your knuckles lightened as you waited with bated breath for a reply you had memorized before he’d strolled in. But with him it was new, organic, somehow spontaneous and heartfelt and so true it resonated deep in your bones.

And then he stood from the chair he had fallen into with an easy, relieved smile on his face as he smoothed his hand down the front of his shirt. “Thank you all for sharing your time with me today. And, if I may,” he shifted his attention from the studio bigwigs to you, “I absolutely adored the raw humanity in your novel. I hope that I can bring it to life for you.”

The sound of the door closing seemed to break the spell that had fallen over the room. You shared a knowing look first with the casting director and then the director herself.

“Joe, please tell those remaining that auditions have been canceled,” Sam smiled, scribbling something in her portfolio in front of her. “We have our man.”

Had you picked up all of the loose bits of trash scattered around your room? Sure, the staff had cleaned that morning, but that didn’t mean that you hadn’t found some way to dirty it since then. Would bottled water be okay? Maybe he preferred coffee. Hotel coffee wasn’t ever the greatest, but it would do in a pinch. Right? And should you have put on nicer clothes? Maybe-

A light, rhythmic knock sounded on your door, stopping your anxious thoughts and making you freeze from where you were bent over making sure the hem of your jeans wasn’t rolled over.

Another knock, and you quickly righted yourself, running your hand over your hair to tame any flyaways as you scurried to the door. Tom stood on the other side, holding two beers in one hand and a thick leather folio in the other.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me before rehearsals begin. May I come in?”

As if anyone would turn down Tom Hiddleston, especially when he came bearing beer. You stepped to the side, allowing him to pass by, leaving behind the very masculine scent of bergamot and citrus in the air that stirred between you. “Of course. You look like you’re ready to attend a class or something.”

He placed everything down on the tiny table meant to be a desk before turning to you with a small smile. His large hands rubbed against his jeans on the outside of his thighs. “Admittedly, I am a bit of a fan of your writing. An avid fan, actually. I was hoping that you wouldn’t mind too terribly if we discussed the book? I want to ensure I fully bring this character to life as you so masterfully wrote it.”

Color you shocked. Sure, you had received plenty of praise for your book throughout this process, the paycheck was evidence enough that it was liked, but to have someone that you personally admired for their own set of talents compliment it was another thing entirely. Working to school your face so that your excitement didn’t show, you grabbed the beer he opened and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ask away, Mr. Hiddleston.”

Draping his long and lithe form into the faded desk chair, he opened his folio and uncapped a pen that looked more expensive than the entirety of your outfit. “Tom, please. We will be working closely together, and we are neighbors in this hotel as well. Formalities are not necessary.”

“Okay,” you nodded and took a swig of liquid courage. “Tom, what would you like to know?”

Questions and answered flowed easily after a few stuttering moments on both sides of the conversation. You were only struck dumb once or twice from the intensity of his thoughtful stare, and you found yourself both grateful and saddened when it would leave you to focus on the copious notes he scribbled down in the folio on his thigh. You’d never felt so heard as to when he watched you ramble on about plot points and motivation and character development, with his hand rasping against the five o’clock shadow that darkened his razor-sharp jawline and his brows furrowed.

Only when you stifled a yawn behind your hand did he seem to pull himself from the focused notes he had been taking after you explained a more difficult aspect of Joshua’s past. He glanced at the leather-strapped watch on his arm, frowning. “I do believe that I have kept you up far too late. I apologize. I should be going so that you may rest for overseeing rehearsals tomorrow. You will be there, correct?”

“I think so, yeah. Unless I’m needed for consultation on a last-minute script change, I think that’s where I’m supposed to be. I’m not really sure how all of this works,” you admitted with a light laugh.

He walked with you to the door after tossing both his and your bottles in the trash and gathering his things that had spread out over the desk. “If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. I know how overwhelming all of this can be. Until then, I very much look forward to seeing you. Goodnight.”

The clasp of his hand on your shoulder was heavy, stretching across your skin with a pleasant warmth that you wanted to curl into and bask in forever. You reached up and patted his hand gently before opening the door. “Goodnight.”

Sure enough, when you watched him head back to his room in the hotel meant to house you for the entirety of the filming project, he disappeared into the room directly next to yours.

The faint scent of his cologne lingered on your clothing as you ducked back into your room to prepare yourself as best as you could for the unknown journey ahead.

In all your days, you’d never met someone as motivated and driven as Tom. When he wasn’t rehearsing, he was exercising, or building comradery between the cast and crew that he would be spending the next year with, or even, to your astonishment, spending time with you.

It had begun under the guise of him delving deep into his character with you over beers and room service. Then it had switched to other books in your catalog, and then, when you had begged off any serious thinking because you’d spent all day arguing with the writers, it changed into something more personal.

You walked onto set holding two travel tumblers precariously with one arm and your overstuffed binder in the other. A meeting with your agent that morning discussing the press tour preceding the premiere of the movie had gone on longer than expected, and you couldn’t wait to sit down and just watch Tom and the cast act out the inner workings of your imagination over the coffee you clutched. The idea of going for so many interviews and appearances weighed heavily on you. To be the object of so much attention wasn’t why you had gone into writing.

But, perhaps this was.

Tom looked quite frustrated as he talked to Sam, the director, in the middle of the set, about a pivotal point in the film where he admits his love to the female lead (who does not feel the same), and he barely glanced your way as you settled in. His hands flew in front of him with every gesture, fingers spread wide and then clenched tightly into fists at his side. Some conclusion must have been reached because Sam came back to her spot behind the monitors and Tom got into place.

It was obvious to everyone that something was off. You especially, as the dialogue didn’t fit what you had written with the screenwriters for the scene. After the cameras stopped rolling so Sam could talk to Tom once again, whose performance had been stilted and unnatural, you turned to your assistant with a frown heavily etched into your skin. “Was there a rewrite?”

She didn’t even look up from the email she was typing away on her phone. “Yes, ma’am. Just given to everyone this morning. I sent it to your email.”

Groaning quietly, you slipped your coffee and belongings into pockets on the sides of your chair and stood up, holding Tom’s tea in your hand. When you caught his eye you raised it in the air and he nodded. He could come get a drink from it when he had a moment.

That moment came much faster than you expected. He held up one finger to Sam, and you barely caught him plead, “Let me take a drink before we run it again,” before he jogged over to you.

“What’s going on?” you asked, offering him the steaming tea and crossing your arms over your stomach.

He took a deep drink and sighed, closing his eyes to savor the flavor and moment of peace before opening them to look wearily down at you. Irritation lived in the lines between his brows and in the press of his lips together. “The rewrites simply don’t feel like Joshua. I don’t feel as if they line up with his motivations. I-” he sighed heavily, dropping his chin to his chest and putting his free hand on his hip.

You stepped closer to him so that he was forced to meet the determined set of your eyes. Of its own accord, your hand reached out and grasped his. He returned the tight grip and your heart squeezed right along with it. Not the time.

“You know him. You’ve brought him to life and fleshed him out into a fuller being than my words ever did. I-”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re immensely talented,” he interjected.

“I’m not. I’m praising your talent. I’ll go fight Sam if I have to, to just get one take like it was written before they changed it. That’s all I can probably get you. Can you do it?”

He took a bracing sip of his tea before handing the travel mug back to you. Gratitude reflected in the stormy blue of his eyes. “I can. Thank you.”

And then he jogged off back to the set, speaking quietly with the female lead, Mary, about the plan. Which left you to face Sam, hopefully, to throw around what little bit of weight you had. In all honesty, she could put a stopper on the whole situation and force Tom to follow the rewrites. But he was watching you with such hope and support that it bolstered your confidence enough to set down his drink and go over to her.

“What’s going on?”

Sam was a fierce woman, having clawed her way up through the ranks to get her position, and it was easy to want to cower under the steel of her stare. Taking a deep breath, you held out your hands at your sides. “The rewrites aren’t working, Sam. He knows it, Mary knows it, and I know it. Can we just try it the way it was written before? Even if it doesn’t work like we hope, then he’ll have gotten it out of his system and we can move on with shooting.”

She studied you, pinning you to the spot as you tried desperately not to fidget while waiting for her verdict. She maintained eye contact when she shouted to the remarkably silent cast and crew, “One take with the old lines and blocking.”

The knowledge that your reputation was very much on this decision weighed heavily on your shoulders as you nodded your thanks before heading back to your chair. Getting situated, you cradled your coffee in your hands and inhaled the calming aroma as you watched everyone scurry around to get ready for the slight change in blocking and places.

And then action was called, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as Tom’s heart was broken and shattered into a million pieces at Mary’s rejection. The anguish he expressed through ragged breaths and glistening eyes was enough to make you want to run from your place and gather him into the safety of your arms in a futile attempt to put him back together. The scene went on naturally after it was meant to finish, Sam not calling cut, and he collapsed into a heap on his knees and ripped the sketchbook before him to shreds before letting out a scream of pain that would haunt you for the rest of your days.

“Cut.”

An intern ran onto the set and handed Tom several tissues, which he took with a watery smile. Every muscle in your body tensed as you waited for Sam’s reaction.

“Reset. Tom, take a moment and collect yourself. Frank, make sure that you’re tighter on his face right after she turns him down. Lisa, good idea on the sketchbook. Get the rest that you have. Good work, people.”

Tom stood up and was instantly surrounded by hair and makeup to fix the mess that he’d made of himself with his heartfelt performance. But, over their bobbing heads, he managed to look at you and mouth, “Thank you.”

The happiness and relief that soared through your veins were more exhilarating than coffee would ever be.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your fingers stilled over your laptop, the words of your latest piece of fiction ceasing in your head at the peculiar sound. Did someone just knock on your wall? Surely the sounds of your quiet music weren’t too loud.

Knock. Knock.

Hesitantly, you twisted in your bed, pressing your ear to the thin beige wall, and rapped against it three times. When there wasn’t an answering knock, you turned around and pressed your back against your pile of pillows to continue tapping away at what you hoped could possibly be another movie brought to life.

And then the same steady knocks sounded on the door to your hotel room. Confused, you closed your laptop and set it to the side, padding to the door in your pajamas. You opened the door with a confused frown to see Tom standing on the other side, holding a covered tray from room service, exhaustion living in the slump of his shoulders and pull on the corners of his mouth.

“On occasion, I find it hard to wind down after filming. Since you’re awake, I was hoping we could share this piece of chocolate cake and chat a bit?”

Suddenly very shy at your mismatched pajamas and air-dried hair from your shower, you blushed, waving him inside. “How can I turn down cake?”

You closed the door behind him and sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening that you had remembered to pick up your dirty clothes from earlier in the day. Turning around, you found Tom sitting cross-legged on the bed, chocolate crumbs on his lips that you longed to clean with your own. “Were you writing? I can leave. I don’t want to disturb you?”

“Nonsense. The ideas are in my notes. I can always make time for you, especially if you ply me with sweets.” You crawled onto the bed next to him and snagged the fork from his hand, taking a bite. “You sure know a way to a girl’s heart.”

His face softened as he nudged your knee with his. “You think very highly of me. On that note, thank you, today, for believing in me.”

“Of course. You are the most talented man I’ve ever met. I trust your gut.”

The rest of the cake was eaten in relative silence, your eyes chasing each other in fleeting glances that had your heart racing in your chest. There was something much more intimate about sharing a dessert in your pajamas, on your bed, than your other late-night meetings in your room. Was it the electric brush of his fingers over yours when you passed the fork to him, or the knowledge that your lips were touching where his had only moments ago? Would he taste like the rich dessert you shared?

Yearning for the charismatic man had grown in you since that first meeting at his audition. How could it not? He was kind, seeking to meet and know every person he interacted with on set. You were not the exception, as your late-night meetings had proved. His intelligence knew no bounds, and you had put it to the test with rousing discussions from everything to literature to current events to Shakespeare to politics. And the fondness that you caught in his gaze from time to time set a warmth alight in your bones that you wanted to live in for the rest of your days. Every brush of his body against yours had you aware of the heat he left behind for hours, and you had long ago imprinted the feeling of his lips upon your cheek in a quick greeting kiss into your memory.

You must have been staring during your descent into your hopelessly pining thoughts, as he was watching you closely with an eyebrow quirked in silent question, when you pulled yourself from your reverie.

“Sorry,” you shook your head, blinking the madness of your wishes away. “Long day. What’d you say?”

“I said that you have a bit of chocolate on your face. Would you like me to get it for you?” he asked quietly.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His thumb brushed against your cheek, sending the smallest shiver down your spine, before he pulled the digit into his mouth. The silence that stretched beneath his darkened gaze held you frozen to the spot. Your face burned where he had fleetingly touched you.

“Were it not for professionalism…” he murmured, a hint of anguish in his voice as his eyes traveled down your face to settle on your parted lips.

How was it possible that you felt like a schoolgirl again? Your heart hammered in your chest so loudly that it seemed impossible to take a deep enough breath to stop your head from spinning. You shifted on the bed, closer to him, peering up at him through your lashes. “You’d?”

He sighed and scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck before lighting it on your face. Holding you still, he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your cheek in a lingering kiss that had your stomach clench in anticipation. Your hands dug into the scratchy duvet beneath you to keep from resting on his abdomen to see if he had the same reaction to the tension that stretched between you like a livewire.

He left one more kiss on your temple, breathing you in and stroking your jawline with his thumb, before pulling away and standing up from the bed with a groan. “You are temptation personified. It would be an injustice to us both if any romantic notions got in the way of your brilliant storytelling. After, though…”

The promise in his lowered voice and the inferno of his eyes was enough to temporarily sate you as you watched him walk out of the door with a shake of his head. Writing for that evening was out of the question as you fell asleep with the remnants of his touch warm on your skin and his cologne perfuming your sheets.

“Did you hear the news?”

You turned from where you were scrolling through your phone at the filming wrap party, perking up at the liquid velvet voice that broke through the terrible house music Sam had requested from the DJ. Tom leaned his shoulder against the very wall that currently propped you up, his head tilted to the side in a way that had your belly fluttering like mad.

“News?”

His hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blazer. “We’ll be on the press tour together, for the movie. The studio wanted someone paired up with you that had a bit more experience with such matters, and I volunteered. I guess you aren’t rid of me yet.”

“As if I’d want such a thing,” you admitted with a quiet laugh. Any anxieties that you'd had about making an idiot of yourself for the worldwide press tour were now replaced with doing the very same, but perhaps now you'd be caught ogling Tom while he waxed on about the movie. Or perhaps you'd simply go mad spending so much time with him in close quarters while jet setting across the globe. Was there time for romantic interludes when you were answering the same twenty questions in twenty different countries?

He stood up straight and offered his arm with a cheeky grin, “At the risk of removing the woman of the hour from the party, would you accompany me outside for a bit of fresh air?”

The mischief that twinkled in his eyes was impossible to ignore. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Says the leading man of the movie and an actual ray of sunshine. Lead on.”

The bar that they’d rented for the evening opened out onto a busy street that replaced the booming music with honking horns and bustling crowds hurrying home. His arm fell to hang at his side, and he caught your hand with his and laced your fingers together before pulling you behind a bit of greenery out front that hid you from prying eyes both inside and outside.

“Along with attending the press tour with you, I was hoping I could accompany you to the premiere?” he asked, leaned against the roughened brick wall behind him, tugging you closer until you stood in between his spread legs. The chilled wind was most unwelcome at your back, but the warmth of the man in front of you was more than enough to make the stolen privacy comfortable.

Your free hand picked a bit of lint from his crimson sweater before stilling, connected to his ribs by just your pointer finger and thumb, drawn into his heat with the bite of the winter air through your thin party dress. “You know what they’ll say.”

Tom was an incredibly private man, and it might create more talk than he’d want to deal with to show up with a date. You’d love more than anything to spend the evening on his arm, basking in his charismatic glow, but not if it caused him any headache or heartache.

His breath, scented with bittersweet alcohol, fanned across your face as his hand settled onto your hip. That simple touch branded your goose-bump covered skin and had you leaned into him until you had to crane your head backward to meet his tender stare. “That I was chivalrous in escorting the novelist who allowed me the opportunity to embody her treasured characters? That it was very thoughtful of me to ensure that you didn’t feel tossed to the sharks for your first red carpet event?”

With just the drop of his chin, his forehead leaned against yours. “Say yes?”

The nudge of his nose along yours, the rub of his thumb over the thin skin on the back of your hand, the push of his leanly muscled chest against yours with every breath, gave you enough courage to close your eyes and touch your lips to his in the kiss that had been denied you months ago. He groaned softly into your parted lips, releasing his hold on you to press his hands over the curve of your backside so you were flush against him. Fire scorched at your insides from the tease of his tongue and you tumbled headfirst into the passion that he finally stoked to life after it had been smoldering between you for so very long.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly against his jaw, pulling away to draw air into your tortured lungs, kneading your fingers gently over his rapidly beating heart.

Leaning against him, with his arms wrapped around you so that your face found a comfortable home in the smooth column of his throat, you closed your eyes and gave in to the enticing man that had caught your attention so very long ago. With Tom by your side, and perhaps even in your bed, you were safe in the knowledge that you wouldn’t have to navigate this new world alone.

Tidbit of Tom taglist: @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @ladyblablabla

Whole Shebang taglist: @just-the-hiddles @yespolkadotkitty @nonsensicalobsessions @vodka-and-some-sass @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @brokenthelovely @myworddump @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian @toozmanykids @claritastantrum @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius @sabine-leo @lovesmesomehiddles @peterman-spideyparker @wegingerangelica @bluefrenchfries604 @catsladen @snoopy3000 @silverswordthekilljoy @villainousshakespeare @kitkatd7

#imagine tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston/reader #tom hiddleston oneshot #tom hiddleston rpf #fluff #yespolkadotkitty #trust #hopelesswrites

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twilightofthe · 4 years

Text

Mace Windu Appreciation Day: Family

Hi everyone! So I didn’t follow any of the specific prompts for Mace Day, but one thing people tend to get wrong about Mace is something that they tend to get wrong about the Jedi Order in general, that they don’t love and that they don’t have any concept of family. I decided to give a massive “to hell with that” and focused my piece on Mace and his family!

“This was not the way I was planning on having our first official line gathering once we were finally all together,” Depa told Caleb as she tapped gently at Mace’s knee, urging him to move it so she could balance the tea tray on his sheets-covered lap.

Mace obediently shifted his legs in bemusement, catching Caleb’s eye as he hovered worriedly in the background while clutching a tin of what Mace hoped were those cookies from that bakery a district over Depa had introduced him to and had cottoned on to him perhaps enjoying more than he’d admit.

Mace’s eyes met Caleb’s. The boy looked uncertain. Mace felt his mouth quirk and gave an over-exaggerated eyeroll at Depa’s fussing. Caleb’s eyes widened in shock and he nearly fumbled the tin. He caught it, luckily, or Mace might have had to explain away some frivolous Force usage to catch the maybe-cookies.

“I didn’t realize you had plans beyond our usual meet-up in someone’s quarters,” he said to Depa as she finally stepped back after arranging a warm teapot and various cups and pots across the tray, Mace and his bed now the makeshift table.

Depa gave him a fond shake of her head, stepping back to pull up two chairs for her and Caleb to sit. “I didn’t. I wasn’t the one who switched the location to the Halls of Healing.”

Mace allowed himself a huff, sitting back into the much too soft pillow the Halls provided. “This was hardly my idea, Depa.”

“Yes, well, you’re here now, and I’m not letting this place keep us from tradition any longer,” Depa replied matter-of-factly, Mace feeling a slight pang of regret at the remembrance of her long injury.

“Tradition?” Caleb blurted out, ducking his head slightly as both Masters turned to stare at him. “Sorry, Masters, I’m just curious. I thought we were just having tea.”

“Oh, we are,” Mace assured him, watching his new grandpadawan shift in his seat with both nervous energy prickling off him in the Force as well as the typical energy becoming of a healthy thirteen year old. It was hard for him to ever remember being that young himself. It was getting harder to remember Depa at that age too, he thought with another pang as his former apprentice smiled gently at her own. “Very important tea.”

Caleb looked confused again, and Depa snorted softly. “When I was a padawan, Master Windu and I would try to carve out time, once a week, to sit and have tea and discussion.”

“Discussion?” Caleb asked. Mace hoped he never lost his inquisitive edge.

“Oh, various things,” Depa mused. “My apprenticeship, what I was learning in classes, what odd fact Mace had come across this week, the goings about of politics and society.”

Mace hummed in agreement, nodding along. “Now, we could talk to each other whenever, but I find having a specific time to relax one’s mind and engage in conversation leads to a healthier bond and a more open mind overall.”

Caleb nodded earnestly; Mace could see the little cogs in his brain grinding to take all of this information in.

“Even after my Knighthood, we would try to always make time for our tea meetings at least once a month, twice if we were lucky,” Depa continued. “It’s become more challenging with the war and all, and my injury certainly put a decent-sized gap between get togethers.” Mace found himself fixed with another warm brown stare. “So when all of us are together in the same place, I’ll take the chance to introduce my Padawan into our own little tradition where I can get it, even if one of us has landed himself on bedrest.”

“Technically, I am fully recovered and back to duties,” Mace pointed out, waving an arm at the datapad full of responsibilities delivered by one of the Council droids upon his request as soon as he received the all-clear. “I’m just being kept here longer so my condition can be monitored. If one of you would be perhaps willing to help me get out of here...”

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you over the memory of you selling me out to the healers the last time I suggested getting out of medical earlier,” Depa murmured, taking the tin from Caleb and revealing the-- yes, the green nut cookies Mace had grown so fond of.

As Mace tried to hide his pleasure at the risk of Depa’s knowing smirk, he saw Caleb’s face again as he reached for a cookie. The boy seemed surprised at their banter, and Mace regretted that it had taken so long for the three of them to get together like this. It had been over a month and a half since Depa and Caleb’s pairing, and Mace had only seen Caleb once briefly since then.

Mace figured it was all the better to get Caleb comfortably into the fold as soon as possible. “Speaking of the wrath of the healers, I trust Caleb here knows to ah, perhaps not remember what exactly we’re enjoying here; I don’t think outside food, no matter how good it tastes, is welcome in.”

Caleb instantly rounded on his Master. “So you were having me smuggle it inside my robe when you told me the cookies were better warmer and with body heat!”

Mace couldn’t help a laugh at Depa’s unapologetically guilty expression as she nibbled on a cookie herself. “Perhaps,” she said, and Caleb giggled, bright and happy.

“All to preserve tradition, right Masters?” Caleb quipped, and Mace felt another laugh coming. The kid was sharp.

“Technically, the tradition only extends to tea-making,” Mace admitted. “Part of the first early get-togethers were lessons in how to make tea properly. It gives you an edge when Master Yoda eventually invites you around for tea.”

“Is he hard to impress?” Caleb asked, paling slightly.

Depa’s mouth quirked, reaching for the untouched teapot to serve herself. “I’ve had tea with him many times. I’d say my Master was a tougher critic than he was.”

“Oh!” Now Caleb was very pale, and he was leaning forward slightly to shoo Mace’s hands away from the teapot. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink that then, Master. I-- I made it, you see, Master Depa wanted me to try. I don’t know if it’s good enough yet for--”

“I’ve been on a steady diet of hospital food ever since I got here, Padawan,” Mace interrupted gently but firmly, swiftly plucking the teapot out of Caleb’s hands and pouring his own cup. “This will be a welcome reprieve, even if it’s beginner’s tea.”

“Mace!” Depa hissed at him as Caleb’s face made another grimace. Mace blinked back unrepentantly as he allowed himself the slightest dash of sourberry juice-- absolutely no sugar, he wasn’t a heathen.

Just because Caleb was a beginner didn’t mean he should pick up bad habits. Allowing himself a sip, he did take pity on the nervous Padawan as he offered him a smile and a raised brow. “Not bad.”

Caleb slumped in visible relief. “Do you think Master Yoda would like it?”

Mace reached for another cookie. “I wouldn’t get that excited.” He laughed in his throat as Depa swiped the cookie tin away from him in disapproval and focused on Caleb. “Master Yoda is very particular about how he takes his tea, and how others take it too. It is one of the few lessons of the culinary kind you should take from him.”

Now Depa was the one laughing in her throat while Caleb’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean by that, Master Windu?”

Feeling amusement bubble up, Mace let Caleb in on a secretive smile. It was his right and civic duty to warn Caleb of this. So few of the Padawans and even some of the Knights made their ways through their apprenticeships-- himself included, unfortunately --without knowing the one key piece of information about the Grandmaster.

Mace called this payback from the time his ignorance had gotten him food poisoning.

“Master Yoda,” Mace began, “has a very specialized diet for his species. He can drink things like teas along with the rest of us, but his meals...”

...memories of himself and a group of other Padawans watching Yoda swallow a live frog on a field trip...

“Well, he eats different things than most sentients do, and when he tries to prepare food for others and offer it to them...”

Depa was full on hiding laughter behind her teacup now, and Caleb was watching him with a completely stunned expression, ever-questioning mouth hung open and silent for once.

Mace tok a delicate sip of not-quite-right tea. “It is best you have a strong stomach-- or at least a strong sabacc face. Now that I think of it, a Master that can teach you to cook so you know the difference between good and bad taste isn’t that bad a thing to have either.”

Stars, Mace had known a number of people either trained by or from a line trained by Yoda, and he could maybe name one from each line that actually could cook more than water.

“So... that’s another reason why tea lessons are so important?” Caleb guessed, and Mace smiled at him.

“Exactly.”

Depa sighed in fake distress. “Honestly. Caleb, if you’re caught badmouthing the Grandmaster this way, you know whose name to give when they ask where you heard it from.”

Mace waited for Caleb to duck his head in laughter and focus on mixing his own tea before Mace mouthed to Depa, But who would believe him.

Depa’s eyes lit up with playful warning. “Oh it is so good to see you again, my old Master. I do hope that nothing happens to you that you should have to stay in here longer.”

Mace had very much missed his old Padawan’s sense of humor.

He grinned challengingly, drinking his tea at her aggressively, only to pause at Caleb voicing another question. “How did you end up in here the first place, Master?”

He looked at Caleb in surprise, who promptly backpedaled just the slightest. “That is, if you wish to share. I just heard you had an accident with some pirates.”

Mace turned to Depa. “You didn’t tell him?”

Depa’s brows rose in a particular movement Mace knew would mean he was due for some explaining in the face of interrogation. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure if I read the incident report correctly. It seems to have configured itself with some of the wilder Temple rumors the mill has spouted.”

Mace offered her a sly smile, and Depa groaned. “Oh, you actually did. How even--” She grabbed at his hand and examined it, seeming to seek satisfaction Mace was truly there in front of her. Mace humored her and wiggled his fingers.

“Caleb,” he addressed his grandpadawan. “A word of advice: space without an atmospheric suit is very, very cold.”

Caleb’s eyes turned to two green moons. “You were in space without an atmo suit?”

Depa made an irritated noise as Mace responded, “Not purposely.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Caleb,” warned Depa.

Caleb shook his head rapidly, spilling a small splash of tea onto Mace’s blankets. “Oh, of course not. But Master Windu, how did you--”

“Survive that long?” Mace finished, flashing back to the icy, tight, pressurized weight squeezing in on his Force shields he had barely managed to throw up in time. “Well for starters--”

Depa made a warning noise in the back of his throat. Mace smiled innocently at her. Perhaps being the indulgent grandmaster was even more fun than he had thought. He scooted over on his hospital bed and gestured for Caleb to hop up and sit by his feet.

“To start with,” Mace began, with a conceding nod to Depa to settle her hackles. “I would recommend not finding oneself in a situation where pirates are threatening to space you in the first place...”

#hope y'all liked!#i've never written a mace pov before but i'll need to for mutual acquaintances anyway so this is good practice!#needs a damn raise #mace windu #macewinduappreciationday #star wars #sw fic #morai’s fic #i don't have a depa tag yet #space cowboy

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aliceslantern · 3 years

Text

Give/Take, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 4

Ienzo has been too busy since the war to be overwhelmed by the past. But with little progress to be made in his work with Kairi, old nightmares start to invade.

Riku is a glorified housesitter. Lonely and faced with no choice but to wait for a way to find his friends, he eagerly accepts when Ienzo asks him to help do repairs around the castle. Before long, the two strike up an unlikely friendship, united by their dark pasts and their attempts to be better people.

But just as they begin to consider something more... Kairi wakes up.

Ienzoku (Ienzo/Riku), post-Melody of Memory, slow burn. Updates Thursdays until it's done.

Chapter summary: Ienzo tells Riku about what happened after their fight at Castle Oblivion. With nothing else to do, Riku helps with castle repairs, and has a conversation with Aeleus.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

For a while after he ran out of Riku’s room like a coward, Ienzo struggled to breathe. He remained sitting against the wall, curled up, adrenaline shocking him in little waves. He hated this sensation, how it robbed him of his self-control--

Breathe in. Breathe out. Riku hadn’t even gone for his throat, but rather his wrist, and only because Ienzo had touched him while he was dead asleep--

Redheaded demon and a puppet and the dark corner sharp hurt burning--

I am okay. I am okay. I am okay. He traced the soft scarred flesh with one hand, loosened the ascot at his throat. I can breathe. That was a memory. It wasn’t real. A flush of embarrassment came to his face when he thought of the strangled, animal sound he’d made. Pathetic.

Ienzo forced himself to his feet. He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket. There was a red mark where Riku had gripped him, and likely later a bruise; but he wasn’t significantly injured. Both of his hands were trembling uncontrollably. Get it together. Riku hadn’t meant to hurt him-- he’d probably taken that whole interaction to heart--

But the thought of going back to him right now and explaining, patiently, why he’d had that reaction, only made him feel nauseous. He tried to turn his mind back to the work, but he kept getting pulled and pulled into the basement, into an itchy achy helplessness.

Ienzo started walking, and walking, as if he could physically get away from the memory. He was so tense his teeth hurt, and his chest was hot and tight from his shallow breathing. He pulled the ascot from around his throat and undid the top buttons of his shirt, but it didn’t help ease the sensation much.

Breathe.

He found himself in the main library, which had once been beautiful but was now in serious disrepair. The collections were disorganized, the recessed lighting cracked and in need of new bulbs. Heartless had shattered several of the shadowboxes, and some of the paintings on the walls were torn. Ienzo reached up and brushed his fingers along the canvas of one. This portrait had evidently been of his adoptive great-grandmother, but anything resembling a face was ribbons of cloth and oil paint. He moved around a bit shamblingly, his body feeling heavy and strange now that the adrenaline was fading. He sank wearily into his favorite armchair, picked up his abandoned novel, and started to read.

It took hours for his heart to stop pounding.

A few weeks passed, tremulously. Perhaps a month, maybe longer; Ienzo’s concept of time was hazy at best. The winter got deeper, colder; they kept working with Kairi. While the light of her heart sustained her physical form, kept her warm and nourished and prevented atrophy, he still felt a stab of guilt that they were not finishing their examination faster. Sixteen years was a lot of memory, a lot to unpack and try to understand, and of course there was the curveball that she was a princess of heart. They all worked as long and as hard as they physically could, but it was still taking much, much too long.

Riku didn’t drop by as much, and Ienzo realized one day that he hadn’t been here since he’d gotten sick. Was this because of the way he’d acted? He knew he should apologize--

For what? An involuntary reaction?

Ienzo considered how he might feel if the opposite were true, if someone had woken him in the grips of a feverish nightmare. He should be glad he’d had little more than bruises, than a panic attack. He would’ve probably done much worse to his own attacker. (He kept a kitchen knife in his bedside table. It was the only thing that helped him feel safe with the nightmares.) He almost wrote Riku several times, but each time managed to find an excuse not to complete the note. A phone call, an urgent task to be completed. This shouldn’t bother him so much; he wasn’t the one at fault. Neither of them really were.

Finally, one snowy day, Riku came back. “I’m sorry for dropping by,” he said, his usual greeting. Ienzo noted with relief that he at least seemed to have adequate winter clothing. “Any… news?”

Ienzo cleared his throat a little. “Not much, I’m afraid. We’re making as much progress as we can.”

He took a few steps closer to Kairi. Ienzo recognized that glint in his eye; loneliness, and to a degree longing. It was the very same sort of look that his Nobody had preyed on.

He wondered if Riku spoke to his other friends.

“Do you…” Ienzo almost stopped himself. “Do you have a moment? To discuss something?” Even gave him an odd look, but Ienzo just glared at him.

“Uh--sure. Yeah. I’ve got a little time.”

“Excellent. I was wanting some tea anyway. Right then.” There was a kettle in the office; Ienzo switched it on. “What kind of tea would you like?”

“Uh--whatever you’re having, I guess. I don’t care.”

They sat down at Ansem’s old desk. Riku’s hair had gotten still longer, just barely brushing his shoulders, and he kept swatting it out of his eyes. It was more white than silver in this light, Ienzo thought, and looked fresh and fluffy, like it had just been washed. He thought of his own dirty, dry hair. For just a breath, he wondered what that hair might feel like under his fingertips.

What an odd thing to think about. He shook his head to brush away this thought.

“So what’s up?” Riku asked.

“I wanted to… talk about what happened, the last time we saw one another.”

He winced. “I tried to find you--”

“...But I avoided you.” He admitted this to his mug. “Truthfully, I must apolo--”

“I’m sorry,” Riku said at the same time. “I’m so sorry.”

Ienzo furrowed his brows. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You had a fever and I startled you when you were dead asleep.”

“I still hurt you. And--” He squinted. “Something just felt really… off.”

“...Which is what I wanted to talk about, because it’s clear that if we’re to have any functioning rapport…” He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to come up with a tactful way of saying this. You look like my murderer. He took a breath. “At Castle Oblivion, after we fought--”

Riku visibly tensed.

“It was, perhaps, only a few moments later that I--”

He dropped his eyes. “I know. Bad blood. Bad memories.”

“But you weren’t the one who… ultimately made it happen.”

Riku bit his lip. “I figured you might’ve… bled out. I don’t like thinking about it.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said softly. “But you recall… the replica?”

“Of me?” He frowned. “Um, yeah.”

“I’m going to say it very bluntly.” His heart was beating hard. “Axel had him kill me. I’d learned too much about the Organization’s coup.” The memory stabbed him, especially seated right across from him. But between the new hairstyle, and the few years’ of aging, Riku did not look much like the puppet anymore.

“Of course you panicked,” Riku said. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“It is wholly embarrassing. I…” He cleared his throat. “For some reason that felt… necessary, in order to move on.”

“...Especially with me randomly poking my ugly mug in,” he said, shaking his head.

Not ugly, Ienzo thought, feeling a different flash of nerves. Perhaps that was part of why this was so unsettling.

“I’ll try to avoid cornering you,” he continued. “And, uh, grabbing.”

“It seems what happened was neither of our faults,” Ienzo said. “But I don’t want us to have to walk on eggshells around each other. I do enough of that as it is.”

A nervous smile flickered on his face. “You guys don’t get along?”

“It’s… a bit complicated.” Ienzo didn’t feel much like going into all that .

“Sounds like you could use a friend.”

Ienzo looked up. His expression was genuine, and if Ienzo was understanding correctly, pleading. Ienzo wondered again if Riku actually spent time with anyone. “...Perhaps I could.”

This smile was less hesitant.

“...And you could stop making up excuses to drop by.” He tried to say this kindly. “I imagine… it’s not easy, doing all this work by yourself.”

Riku’s grip on his mug loosened a bit. “To be completely honest…” He chuckled. “I… am bored out of my mind. When I said I was housesitting? I wasn’t being modest. That’s literally what I was asked to do.” Something honest crept into his tone.

Ienzo blinked. “...I see. Why don’t you go home, then? Spend time with your family?”

Evidently, this was the wrong question to ask: what little humor in Riku’s expression fell. “It feels… wrong, to go back without them,” he said softly. “When we were last home a few months ago… I… made a promise to myself that I would bring them home. I can’t… look their parents in the eye. It feels like my fault somehow.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.” He exhaled. “We will do our best to try and help you get back together.”

“I know. I know you’re all working hard, I didn’t mean to imply--”

“I know.” Ienzo smiled. “But let me do this for you. As friends.”

He nodded.

“Moreover… if you’re bored.” He cocked his head. “Aeleus and Dilan have their hands full doing repairs around the castle. How good are you with your hands?”

His eyebrows shot up, and Ienzo saw the almost desperate glimmer in his eye. “Actually pretty good,” he said. “I used to build stuff on the play island all the time.”

“Great. Then perhaps you’d be willing to help? Say, a day or so a week, or whatever would work best with your schedule? I know traveling back and forth must be annoying.”

“I’d hate to… be an inconvenience,” he said slowly.

“You’d be helping us ,” Ienzo said. “And that way, you don’t need to travel goodness-knows-how-far to pester me about Kairi.”

Riku flushed. “Ha… yeah, I guess so. Ah. I’ll check up on things in the castle and come back.”

“Great. So it’s a date.”

There was a long, pronounced silence, Ienzo wondered if this was the wrong thing to say. His heart was fluttering hard again, the same way it had before, and he swallowed it down. This was… strange, and he wasn’t sure he liked how it felt.

Riku seemed nervous too. “Awesome. So. It’s a date.”

Ienzo cleared his throat. “I won’t hold you up any longer.”

“No, I should… go, so I can come back.” He stood.

“Safe travels,” Ienzo said, hearing the artificiality in his own voice. When Riku was gone, his heart was still pounding, beating hard in an insistent way he didn’t know how to read. He thought, involuntarily, of that hair again, of how it might feel.

Ienzo had a feeling he didn’t want to know.

---

On his way back to the Land of Departure, Riku felt... fuzzy. Nervous, jumpy. This was only amplified by the utter silence of the place. He paced, restlessly, trying to understand what it was he might be feeling. There seemed to be a lot to unpack.

He thought he’d killed Zexion the same way he’d killed Lexeaus. A blow to the spine, some internal damage. Zexion had been a mighty opponent, but not physically that strong. From the moment he’d first struck down Lexeaus, he’d tried not to think of the truth, the brutality, of what he’d done, that he’d essentially just killed a person. Knowing it had led to their direct humanity seemed… both a comfort, and an insult.

Also… the fact that Axel was capable of such brutality… having fought alongside Lea in the war, and seeing the awkward and charming way he acted with Kairi… it made him feel slightly ill.

But you did awful things under the influence of darkness too, the ever-present guilt reminded him. All the Heartless you summoned, and the things Maleficent told you to do with them. You probably killed people and didn’t even realize.

He sat down on his bed and looked out the window. Snow was falling in the Land of Departure. As a Nobody… hadn’t Zexion done the same? And Riku had done this all in the sake of… what… gathering power? Mining his “true potential”? Which was--?

Sitting here overthinking, apparently. The sooner he finished up these loose ends, the sooner he could return and do what Ienzo had asked. Maybe he could even talk to him more about this conundrum, and see if the Somebodies there felt the same way about the things they’d done in the past. Just because both of them had turned over a new leaf didn’t mean the past was forgiven, or forgotten.

He should probably try to get some sleep, too.

After tending to his few chores, Riku lay in bed, trying to switch off. At some point in the past he’d been able to fall asleep practically on command, but now the action seemed something of a labor, and his mind would spin and spin in any direction and on any memory until it was late enough to be considered early. Fighting Heartless, and training himself to physical exhaustion, made it easier , but not easy. He parsed that interaction out in his mind, thinking back to the expression on Ienzo’s face when Riku accidentally grabbed him. Ienzo must have thought of the moment when the puppet… did whatever the puppet did.

(And, Riku thought, if the puppet was a likeness of him, down to his personality at the time, was Riku capable of that kind of violence as well?)

He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to stop thinking about that. Instead, he found himself thinking about the way their conversation had ended. So it’s a date. He didn’t mean-- no, he just meant a place and a time, a date on a calendar. Why would he--

But Ienzo was so eloquent, it couldn’t just be a slip of the tongue. Right? Or perhaps it had? And if so, what did that mean?

The last thing Riku needed was for things to get more complicated. He needed Ienzo and the others to be able to help Kairi help Sora.

Still, the way his heart was beating… was new. And odd. And he thought of that moment during the Mark of Mastery exam, when Shiki had most likely been flirting with him. How he hadn’t felt anything at the time, wasn’t sure if he was supposed to--there was a lot of things going on that were far more important.

But now? When nothing was going on?

There was banter right before he got sick, too. And he’d felt the same jump, the same uncertainty. But he also bantered with Sora and Kairi all the time, and then he sometimes got nervous thinking of witty replies on the fly. But did it make him feel like this? And was this something Riku wanted to feel?

You’re putting way more into this than was there, he thought, shaking his head. What reason would he even have for doing something like that?

He shut his eyes, but the thoughts didn’t stop.

---

Riku was used to the flight between Radiant Garden and Land of Departure by now. He’d started calling it his “commute”, in moments of deeper loneliness. Commuting to see Kairi. He wondered what his life would look like if none of this had happened. He’d be wrapping up his last year of high school, he knew, getting ready for university or the greater world. Riku tried to imagine himself working a job: at a coffee shop, or as a waiter, or bagging groceries. Typing and typing at an office job. Much like when he was fifteen, the notion made him feel vaguely nauseous. But equally, he wasn’t sure of what would become his future now . His eighteenth birthday was some months away. Theoretical adulthood.

Well, he was a Keyblade master now, not that that seemed to mean much of anything. Would he… take on apprentices? Teach them? Would that be satisfying?

Sora and Kairi aren’t even home yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Maybe they would help him make sense of this mess. Yes, that was it. He thought of Kairi, her laugh. Riku, you’re such a downer sometimes, you know? And Sora, as long as it’s the three of us, we’ll be okay.

He wondered how pathetic it was to be having imaginary conversations with his best friends.

Riku landed in the outer recesses of Radiant Garden and started the now-familiar walk to the castle. It was always so cold here, so gloomy, now that winter had come over the city. Thankfully he’d actually been able to get a coat. He tugged his collar up a bit higher. He’d experienced a lot over the past two years or so, but he was still, at heart, an islander.

He wasn’t sure where exactly to go or what he had to do, so he went down to the lab. He couldn’t help but smile a little when he saw Kairi, even if she was completely unaware of his presence. He wondered for the millionth time what she was doing in there, what she was experiencing. How they all made numbers about it was beyond him.

“Ah--Riku. Back so soon, I see?” Even asked, his tone brisk and cool as usual.

“Uh--yeah, actually. Ienzo said you guys needed help with the… repairs, so I figured… I have some time--”

“We mustn’t take you from your duties,” Ansem said.

“No, you’re really not.” He forced a laugh. “This is helpful, actually.” He looked around. “So… uh… where is he?”

“He had some questions about some code and thought Cid might be able to help,” Even said.

“...Questions?”

“There are some anomalies in her heart, recently. We’re fairly certain it’s the differences in structure due to her nature as princess of heart, but it’s always good to… seek a second opinion.” Ansem smiled; Even scowled.

Riku frowned. “Is she okay?”

“As far as we can tell, yes,” Even said. “The sleep isn’t physically affecting her in the slightest--other than the obvious.”

He walked over to her and adjusted the blanket draped over her. “It’s a little cold over here. Can you turn down the AC?”

“We need it to keep the machines--” Even began, but Ansem patted Riku’s shoulder gently.

“I’ll bring in a space heater for her,” he said.

“Thank you.” He watched her breathe for a moment. “So… what should I--”

“I believe Aeleus is painting near the library. Do you know where that is?”

Riku swallowed, suddenly finding his mouth very dry. “Yes. I remember.”

He very nearly left then. He’d only seen Aeleus briefly in passing a few times coming and going, and the man never said much other than to curtly nod at him. While he now knew he hadn’t felled Zexion… well. He was certain he’d finished the job with Lexeaus.

What do you say to someone you’ve killed?

Maybe start with sorry, he imagined Kairi telling him.

Right. It would be… a good idea to not be on tenterhooks here. Especially if he were going to be helping out. If it weren’t for this, he would still be sitting in that castle, bored out of his mind. This was something good, constructive. It was good.

He took a deep breath.

Seeing the deterioration in this castle, Riku felt another stab of guilt. Some of this destruction had been here when he’d arrived, but some of it had come from his own practice trying to get the Heartless to do his bidding. He brushed his fingers across a torn painting, wondering what had happened to the person who made it.

Well. At least he could quite literally undo some of the damage.

He saw Aeleus on a ladder towards the end of the hallway, very carefully trying to paint over a new patch in the ceiling. Riku took a deep breath. He didn’t want to startle Aeleus either. “Hi there,” he called.

He looked over.

“So, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I’m here to… help? If I can?”

“Ienzo told me you were interested in helping do some repairs, yes.”

“Well. Uh. Could I do anything?”

He considered Riku. His expression was nearly impossible to read. “That can of green. If you want to start going over where I whitewashed. You can use the roller. Prime it first.”

“...Thanks.” He went over to the area that Aeleus had gestured to. There had once been wallpaper here, but it had been removed, and the holes and cracks beneath repaired with plaster. Riku poured some of the primer into a pan and got to it. He was glad that his braces couldn’t get stained; he saw that very quickly this could get messy.

For what felt like an eternity, but was maybe only an hour or two, he and Aeleus painted in silence, and the only audible sound was the dipping and rolling of the brush and roller. Riku wasn’t sure if he was imagining the tension in the air or not. He reached up to swat the hair out of his eyes and inadvertently smeared paint on his face. “...Ugh.”

“...You might want to do something about that,” Aeleus said. He took a clean bandanna out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” His hair was at that awkward in-between length that was too short to tie up but too long to feel manageable loose. He could cut it, he knew, and go back to the way he’d looked before, but the spikes reminded him too much of Sora. Riku looked down at the smear of paint on the cloth. Just say sorry. “Listen,” he began. “I just… wanted to say sorry. For everything.”

Aeleus set his brush down on top of the can and turned to face Riku more fully. “What do you have to apologize for?”

He blinked. He didn’t want to have to say it. “...You know. Castle Oblivion. Everything… that happened.”

Aeleus looked into the middle distance for a moment. “You don’t owe me an apology,” he said, in a low voice. “Rather… the other way around. Don’t you think?”

Riku shook his head slowly. “Ienzo said something similar.”

“We… treated you terribly. Tried to use you. Am I supposed to be mad that you fought back?”

“But I…” He couldn’t bring himself to say “killed you.”

“...Which is part of the reason I am here, and working to be better, instead of continuing to do evil in that Organization’s name.” He seemed to be smiling just the slightest.

“It’s not like any of us knew about the reformation at the time--”

“We needed to be stopped,” Aeleus said shortly. “Neither of us blame you, Riku.”

“Do you think you… still would be with the Organization, if your Nobody had survived?”

Aeleus thought about it. “That depends entirely on whether or not Vexen and Zexion survived as well.”

Riku cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure that “friends” is the right term to use,” he said. “But the three of us… well. Even and I raised Ienzo from when he was a boy. Even with our true bonds severed by the lack of a heart, there was enough of a relationship there for me to… make their wellbeing my priority. If they had survived and turned back to the Organization, I would’ve too. But if they’d have passed on, and I survived, I might have… left. But either way…” He spread his large hands. “We all perished, but we are all human now.”

“What does that… feel like?”

Aeleus’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sorry. I just… I’m curious.”

He thought for another long moment. “It is both so strange and so natural,” he said. “The rush of emotion… feels as if it is so strong. There is a lot of guilt. But I feel more… me, than I thought I would, in those rare moments I considered Xemnas’s fake goal of giving us hearts.”

“More like Lexeaus, you mean?”

“We were Nobodies for just under ten years. I was not much older than Ienzo is now when it happened. As the years passed… my human self seemed soft, weak, and what he felt… unnecessary and boorish. But to have those feelings back… well. I realize that humanity is different than what I thought. There is strength to it that the darkness and the nothing couldn’t provide.”

“I think I understand,” Riku said. My friends are my power! He remembered. “Thanks for that.” He breathed the taste of paint. “Do you still feel the darkness?” He didn’t expect an answer.

Aeleus held his chin up, just a little. “I do,” he admitted, “but I know its price. And I intend to keep it at bay.”

Riku nodded. “Yeah. I know how that is.”

“...I think all of us here do.” He climbed back up the ladder and picked up his brush. “Might I suggest bobby pins? Ienzo finds them useful.”

“...You’re probably right.”

#give/take #ienzo #riku #ienzoku #aeleus #ienzo is trans

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glorious-blackout · 4 years

Text

Soooo @rock-n-roll-fantasy wanted me to write an essay on my self-indulgent theory that Muse’s ‘Simulation Theory’ and Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino’ are set in the same universe, and my brain rather predictably used this as an opportunity to develop a novel-length crossover fic instead. I’m starting to doubt that the full idea will ever get written purely because life has a habit of getting in the way, but here’s a bit of an overlong teaser in place of your essay! 😉🥰

*************************************

The trek from Room 521 to the ballroom is a long, monotonous one. Not that that particularly matters; even if Mark didn’t know every corridor like the back of his hand, he no doubt would have been guided to his destination regardless, simply by following the growing ruckus of banal chatter overlying soft musical notes. His own band won’t be the ones playing tonight – thank Christ seeing as he barely has the energy to hold a mic for two hours let alone sing into it – but the prospect of spending the evening alone in his room had hardly been tempting. He could have arranged to meet one of the lads for a drink, he supposes, but he hadn’t wanted to impose. They all have lives beyond the hotel after all, whereas he remains tied to its walls like an obedient dog on a leash.

High-ceilinged corridors eventually lure him towards a set of heavy oak doors, the only veil remaining between him and a horde of guests who by now are likely enjoying their third glass of champagne. Muffled conversations become crystal clear for a moment as one guest stumbles onto the corridor looking considerably worse for wear, but the noise is quickly silenced by an exaggerated slam. The guest sways on his feet for a moment, narrowed eyes struggling to maintain focus on Mark’s face, before he huffs and takes the first step of what promises to be an arduous journey back to his room. No doubt he’ll have collapsed in a pool of his own vomit before he’s even halfway there, adding one more job to the cleaners’ already overflowing pile in the process. Mark sighs, already regretting his decision to be sociable, and forces himself over the threshold before he can change his mind.

The ballroom does ignite a certain pride within his chest, he must admit. The spacious hall - resting beneath a curved ceiling kept afloat by granite columns - is a stark contrast to the narrow claustrophobic corridors leading up to it, and the size is adequate enough that the space never feels too crowded. Waiters flit back and forth between packed circular tables on the fringes, offering blessed champagne or scotch from a well-stocked bar, and an elevated platform at the far-end of the hall proudly showcases the evening’s entertainment.

It would appear the choice of dance tonight is a simple waltz. Guests dressed to the nines in elegant frocks and sharp tuxedos glide effortlessly along the polished dancefloor; guided by lilting piano notes as they sway beneath the soft light of a glittering chandelier. As usual, Mark feels no particular inclination to join them. On occasion, he himself will be the one sat by the piano, enticing his guests to dance for him whenever the evening feels a little too stagnant, but it would appear that his influence is not needed tonight. Besides, the only thing enticing him for the moment is the bar.

Despite having to make his way through the masses in order to reach his destination, luck must be on his side for no-one takes the opportunity to disturb him. He must have timed his trip well enough that the drinks are already taking hold, to the point where the hotel owner himself has become an unnoteworthy presence. His short walk to the bar goes entirely without a hitch, so much so that it probably shouldn’t surprise him when he arrives to find that his luck has run dry.

There’s someone sitting in his usual spot. Logically he knows this isn’t an issue; there are plenty of free stools lined up against the horseshoe-shaped counter, but the sight gives him pause nonetheless. For as long as he can remember, that centerfold seat has been his and his alone, and the sight of someone new sitting there has unease coiling in his gut for reasons he cannot explain. If that were the strangest thing about this situation then he could have moved on and settled himself elsewhere without another thought, but what truly makes him gape is the appearance of the man who has seen fit to take his place.

In stark contrast to the stylish formalwear adorning the vast majority of guests, this man seems to have made it his mission to break every rule of fashion there is. The loud red jeans and shiny trainers would no doubt have been bad enough on their own, but in comparison to the gaudy nylon jacket and the lit neon sunglasses which remain fused to his face despite being indoors, the lower half of his body looks positively tame. Intricate circuitry is affixed to the front of the jacket, with wires snaking their way into a large pocket which no doubt houses a switch designed to make the jacket as loud as the sunglasses. Mark can’t help but wonder how this man hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention and has instead been left to cradle his glass of bourbon in relative peace. Perhaps this is the current fashion trend on Earth and someone has simply forgotten to give Mark that particular memo.

Shaking his head once and remembering his mother sternly telling him that staring is rude, Mark clears his throat and gestures to the free stool by his side when a pair of concealed eyes turn in his direction.

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asks, well aware that he of all people shouldn’t need to ask permission.

A knowing smile graces the man’s thin face and he nods graciously, removing his glasses to reveal surprisingly gentle blue eyes. He appears more normal up close than Mark anticipated, barring a pair of impressively sharp cheekbones and a hairstyle so haphazard he doubts an intense combing session would tame it.

“Be my guest,” the man offers in an accent which turns out to be English, to Mark’s not unpleasant surprise. Besides the lads, he can’t remember the last time he encountered someone from home. “Though I imagine that’s usually your line.”

A surprised laugh escapes Mark at the lame joke, causing the stranger to grin proudly before taking another generous sip of bourbon. Mark considers calling the waiter over – the impressive display of booze resting before him is enough to make his mouth water – but the man in question appears to be preoccupied with an uptight elderly couple nearby, and besides, his curiosity is already threatening to consume him. The booze can wait.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” the man interjects before Mark can ask the question weighing on his mind. The words escape like a bullet, so rapidly that the compliment could easily be dismissed as flippant, but the stranger’s smile seems sincere enough. “You’ve got one hell of a mind, Turner.”

There’s a gravity to his tone that Mark can’t quite comprehend, but he doesn’t dwell on it.

“How did you get here?” Mark asks, aiming for a conversational tone only to flinch when the words emerge as confrontational instead. In an attempt to save face, he adds, “I don’t remember greeting you at the station, is all.”

‘I would have remembered if I had’ goes unsaid, though the implication doesn’t appear to be lost on his new companion.

“Interdimensional portal,” he replies without missing a beat, bringing his glass to his lips once more as he gazes at Mark with mischief in his eyes and a challenge in his smirk.

The ensuing silence is broken almost immediately as Mark bursts out laughing again; an action which appears to serve as an invitation for the other man to join him. The high-pitched giggle is unexpected, but the sound of it is enough to melt some of Mark’s lingering unease.

“I doubt technology’s reached that stage yet,” Mark teases once he’s recovered his composure. “Not unless they’re keeping secrets from me back home.”

“I wouldn’t sound so sure if I were you,” the man retaliates, that same challenge resting on his lips and a single brow quirked upwards with mocking intent. “How long has it been since you visited Earth?”

The lightness in Mark’s chest vanishes for a moment and his brows knit together as he ponders the question. Strange. Now that he thinks about it, he honestly can’t recall how long it’s been.

When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, his companion simply shrugs before facing ahead once more, demolishing the rest of his drink with a single gulp. It’s impossible to tell how much he’s had already. His current glass barely seems to have touched him, unless his strange approach to conversation is merely the product of drunken ramblings. He makes no move to relinquish his seat however, nor does he signal to the now-free waiter for a refill, and Mark finds himself facing straight ahead as he contemplates the choice lying before him.

On the one hand, this man is clearly strange. The unease which continues to coil in his gut is proof enough of that, and Mark imagines that walking away now would spare him a world a confusion. His eyelids feel heavy enough as it is without his mind being weighed down as well.

On the other hand, he honestly can’t remember the last time he had a conversation that was so... spontaneous. He’s grown accustomed to forced chats about hotel business and band rehearsals, to the point where he can’t remember the last time anyone made him laugh in pleasant surprise. Until tonight that is.

And honestly, what is his alternative? Mingling with the guests and sweeping up compliments about the taqueria, or the pool, or the perfect view of Earth offered by the casino’s transparent ceiling? Having to listen to rich businessmen divulge their recent purchases of eye-wateringly expensive yachts or starships, while wives half their age hang onto their arm and pretend to look interested?

It isn’t really a contest in the end.

Decision made, Mark gestures to the waiter, who approaches with what he suspects is a put-on smile. To the man’s credit, said smile doesn’t falter even when he casts a sideways glance towards his boss’s unconventional choice of companion.

“Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin please, Andrew,” Mark orders with an easy smile of his own. “And one for my friend here as well.”

Andrew hesitates for only a moment before preparing the drinks with practiced ease, applying a crystallised ball of ice to Mark’s glass once both whiskies are poured. At his side, the mysterious stranger eyes Mark with what appears to be surprise at this unprompted display of generosity, but the smile returns soon enough as he takes his drink in hand and thanks Andrew with all the grace of a perfect gent.

“You trying to get me drunk, Turner?” he teases, though if he’s opposed to the idea he doesn’t show it.

“Just hoping for some interesting conversation,” Mark responds with a wry smirk of his own. “Scotch usually helps with that, I’ve found.”

Without further ado, he takes a sip and closes his eyes in satisfaction as the golden liquid instantly works its magic. A pleasant burn trails down his throat until warmth settles in his belly, and any lingering stress drifts away like smoke on a breeze.

“You can call me Mark by the way,” he says, raising his glass as an invitation. “It’s about time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think?”

A flicker of unidentifiable emotion crosses over his companion’s face, just for a second, before he returns Mark’s easy smile and brings their glasses together with a soft clink.

“Matthew,” he says, which strikes Mark as such an ordinary name for one committed to looking so extraordinary. “But you can call me Matt. Everyone else does.”

Mark nods in acknowledgement before returning to his drink, and they wile away the following minutes in companiable silence. The band appear to have moved on from classical waltzes and are now playing a smooth jazz number, the seductive groove of the double-bass soothing Mark into closing his eyes and forgetting the hundreds of guests gathered nearby. The chatter has died down slightly since his arrival, but the odd clink of a glass or drunken laugh is enough to assure him that he’s not entirely alone. Not as alone as he would have been had he remained in his room with only the hotel blueprints and a virtual reality mask for company.

In a few more moments he may even have found himself forgetting Matt’s presence, but it isn’t long before his reverie is broken by a now-familiar voice.

“What do you know of ‘Simulation Theory’?” Matt asks flippantly, as though it’s the most ordinary question in the world. The fact that Mark can only stare dumbly for several seconds is likely a sign that his scotch is already beginning to take hold, but he eventually forces himself to give a resigned shrug.

“Not much,” he admits. The name doesn’t sound familiar in the slightest, though he’ll admit that he isn’t known for scouring scientific journals. “I suspect that’s about to change though.”

That statement seems to be invitation enough for Matt, who downs the rest of his drink without so much as a flinch before launching into what appears to be a well-practiced spiel.

Mark can only try to keep up between finishing one drink and ordering another, as Matt starts explaining the concept of computers advancing to the point where they can simulate the laws of physics, so much so that the future of interplanetary travel may end up being achieved via the means of simulated reality - unlimited by the demands of the fragile human body - rather than old-fashioned means such as starships or satellites as ancient sci-fi shows had predicted. The whole lecture is delivered in what must be Matt’s typical rapid-fire delivery; Mark would likely have been left with little breathing room even if he had been entirely sober, which he is becoming less and less so as the evening wears on. With his keen enthusiasm and eccentric hand movements, Mark reckons Matt would have made an excellent physics professor in another life if the concepts escaping his mind weren’t so utterly ridiculous.

“Which of course poses the question,” Matt concludes eventually, pausing to stop for breath. A pleasant buzz is coursing through Mark’s veins by this point, and he rests his head on one hand as he studies Matt with an amused smile. “If we conclude that it is feasibly possible for technology to exist which is capable of simulating reality so convincingly, who is to say that it hasn’t already happened? What if we’re all just cogs in a machine, believing our decisions are our own and that everything around us is real, when in actuality we’re being watched and studied and controlled? Like ants under a microscope?”

“Hmm,” Mark ponders the question as best he can, taking another sip despite knowing it won’t help. It strikes him that the whisky has already rendered him soft and sleepy, whereas Matt doesn’t appear to have been affected at all despite the fact that he’s clearly had more. As quick as his delivery is, Mark can’t even recall hearing a slur. “Like characters in a videogame or summat?”

“Something like that I suppose,” Matt concurs, though there’s a tension in his skinny frame that implies Mark has barely scratched the surface. “What do you reckon would happen if a videogame character realised they were trapped in a videogame? That their entire lives were a fiction and that someone else was in control?”

“I imagine they’d spiral into existential dread,” Mark concludes with a dismissive shrug, polishing off what must be his third glass and placing it face-down on the countertop. It would probably be best if he stops now, seeing as Matt appears to be in a philosophical mood. “Good thing they can’t think or feel anything then, isn’t it? They just do as they’re told.”

An amused smirk graces Matt’s face and there’s a glint in those blue eyes that implies he wants to add something, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. For now at least. Mark uses this window of silence to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes before casting a glance around the ballroom. It’s still relatively busy. The band have given no indication that they’re approaching the end of their set, and so long as the drinks keep flowing, there will always be ample opportunity for dancing and conversation. He loses himself for a moment as he observes the movements of the guests gracing the dancefloor; everyone from beautiful newlyweds to elderly couples celebrating their golden anniversaries locked in intimate embraces, with eyes only for each other. Matt’s musings weave their way through his mind and he finds himself searching for flaws in the system; a hint that what he’s seeing isn’t all it appears to be. He scans the faces of the guests to see if he can find any duplication; eavesdrops on nearby conversations in search of generic, repetitive sentences. He feels the warm cotton of his suit and the cool condensation on his glass and the sticky sweat on the palm of his hand, only to conclude that it all must surely be real. He knows all-too-well what it’s like to wander lucidly through a dream, and this isn’t one.

Still, the possibility is fascinating. Ludicrous, but fascinating.

“Let’s say you’re right,” he starts, taking a moment to select his next words carefully. He doesn’t usually feel the need to be so cautious in conversation, but Matt’s ability to spout ridiculous theories with the utmost confidence has left him feeling like he’s playing catch-up. “And let’s say that we’re the ones trapped in this game, or simulation, or whatever you want to call it.”

Matt turns to him as though shocked that Mark’s actually giving his ramblings any consideration, and he can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been shot down in the past. He pauses, half-expecting an interruption, but Matt’s only response is a smile followed by an encouraging nod.

“What if there’s a reason behind the fiction?” he proposes, more confidently now. “What if we’ve been trapped in a game because reality is terrible.”

“And therein lies our conundrum!” Matt says, eyes lighting up with childlike glee as he leans back and slams his hand on the counter. Tending to a guest a few seats away, Andrew side-eyes him warily, perhaps wondering if he’ll be forced to escort another drunk from the premises soon, but Mark’s total lack of concern seems to reassure him. “Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

The hypothetical weight of the question stumps Mark for a moment. Any thoughts which had previously been running through his mind fragment like shattered glass, leaving only a warm fuzz in their place. He lets himself imagine what it would be like to have an all-powerful, all-seeing creature manipulate his thoughts - moulding them like clay - and despite the room’s pleasant warmth, he finds himself shivering. It’s not that he believes Matt’s theories – far from it – but pondering the question elicits the same uncertainty planted by movies like his beloved Blade Runner; makes him contemplate deep, existential ‘What-ifs’ until sleep eludes him and a shiver creeps up his spine.

When the power of speech finally returns to him, he finds the words spilling forth without having crossed his mind beforehand.

“I think we’re both a little too drunk for philosophical discussions, don’t you agree?” he says blankly, though upon hearing the words even he is left utterly unconvinced. He may already be able to anticipate the crushing headache that morning will bring, but he’s managed to remain somewhat lucid so far. Matt, damn him, doesn’t appear to have been affected by the alcohol at all. Nor does he seem willing to let Mark back down; instead he pointedly says nothing as his lips curl upwards in an unspoken challenge.

Mark sighs, before forcing himself to answer the question with one of his own.

“If the fiction is so convincing that you could go from birth to death without realising it is a fiction, does it really make a difference?”

“A fair point,” Matt concedes with a shrug, though Mark doesn’t miss the way his expression darkens. A twitch in his jaw implies that his words have struck a nerve, only he can’t possibly see why that would be the case. He expects Matt to elaborate further – to quash his argument with a clever retaliation – but he simply turns back towards the wall of booze and signals to Andrew to bring him another glass of scotch. The temptation to tell him that he’ll need to be carried back to his room on a stretcher if he carries on like this is momentarily overwhelming, but the words remain glued to Mark’s tongue like resin. His mouth feels as dry as sandpaper and the flurry of unease which had been temporarily dispelled returns with a burning vengeance. All he can do is watch as Matt gratefully accepts what must be his fifth glass and gulps half of it down his throat without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Something stirs in the back of Mark’s mind. A distant memory perhaps; a vague flicker of recognition which had lain buried until this moment. He can honestly swear he has never laid eyes on Matt before today, but it strikes him that their camaraderie has been a little too easy tonight. Almost as though he should know Matt from his previous life on Earth.

But he doesn’t. He knows that for a fact, and any treacherous doubts suggesting otherwise are swiftly cast aside with an urgency he can’t explain.

It doesn’t take long for Matt to polish off his glass, setting it down on the counter with a finality which suggests it’ll be his last of the night. Just as well, Mark thinks. He can feel the evening beginning to wind down already, and he can feel fatigue settling into his bones.

Before he can offer to foot the bill, his companion finally decides to pipe up again. Any trace of his earlier bravado appears to have abandoned him, leaving him crouched and visibly exhausted, his voice impossibly small.

“If nothing is real – if everything around us truly is a fiction - then it stands to reason that there’s no underlying purpose to our existence. Our lives are there to serve as meaningless entertainment for something lurking in the shadows and nothing more. So everything we do or say, everyone we love...none of it matters in the end. Not really.”

He looks directly at Mark then, his once gentle blue eyes burning with an intensity that makes him want to shrink back like a frightened child. A silly notion really. Of all the words to describe Matt, ‘threatening’ doesn’t immediately come to mind, but the discomfort lingers regardless. Matt must notice, for he averts his eyes to the floor almost immediately and offers a small, apologetic smile as recompense.

“I just don’t think I could live with that,” he concludes with a certainty that has Mark’s chest tightening. “No matter how beautiful the lie is.”

A beat passes. Then another. Mark becomes all-too aware of his heart pounding in his chest, trying to assure him that he’s okay; that he’s solid and real. It occurs to him that he has forgotten how to breathe, and the discomfort in his chest outweighs the soothing burn the scotch had planted there earlier.

Matt doesn’t say anything else. Instead he runs a hand through his wayward hair, before ultimately deciding that fidgeting with his discarded sunglasses would be a better use of his time. Against his better judgement, Mark allows the weight of his words to sink in and momentarily imagines an existence in which all of his actions are pre-determined, his thoughts carefully filtered. Where everyone he loves are simply figments of expertly-written code. Where any responsibilities he may have are ultimately unimportant.

A simpler existence perhaps, but a wholly purposeless one.

“I don’t think I’d want to live like that either,” he admits quietly, so much so that he’s amazed Matt hears him. He must do however, for the words force him to look at Mark again, his expression unreadable besides a hint of sadness in deep blue eyes.

There doesn’t appear to be anything more to say. Words escape him - even the simple courtesies which usually come so naturally - and yet he cannot bring himself to look away. Matt seems to be in the same predicament. For a moment it’s as though they’re both gazing into a supernova, unwilling to look away despite knowing full well that the sight will blind them.

For the first time all evening he finds himself missing his friends. His Matt would have told him to snap out of it by now and Jamie or Nick would have called him a twat for getting so worked up about meaningless theories, and while Mark may have retaliated with a pointed ‘fuck off’, he no doubt would have felt lighter in their presence.

In the end it’s Matt who breaks the spell first. His eyes are drawn from Mark’s face to something lurking in the background, and a palpable shift overcomes him as thin lips are pulled into a grim line. Beneath soft overhead lights, Matt visibly pales and his pupils dilate with what Mark can only presume is fear, and white fists clench so tightly around his glasses that it’s amazing they don’t shatter. Dread claws into Mark’s chest with no explanation, and before curiosity can swallow him whole, he turns his head to follow Matt’s eyeline.

It only takes a moment to locate what has grabbed his friend’s attention. The new arrivals have barely made an effort to blend in after all. Standing out among the throng of increasingly drunk guests, two men linger at the far end of the hall, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses and twin postures stiff and unyielding. Both are clad in leather jackets which are only slightly less conspicuous than Matt’s own, and once again a treacherous flicker of recognition ignites in Mark’s brain before sputtering into a puff of smoke. The taller man must be pushing six feet, his brown hair cropped short and a 5 o’clock shadow darkening his features as effectively as the scowl on his lips. The smaller man must be around Mark’s height and appears slightly less threatening for it, though from a distance he almost resembles Matt himself with the exception of his dirty-blond hair.

For a moment Mark wonders if the two men are members of his own security team, seeking out Matt on grounds of a misdemeanor which Mark has been blissfully unaware of all night. Matt doesn’t necessarily look surprised to see them after all, though their presence certainly disturbs him. That thought is cast aside quickly, however. Mark has made an effort to familiarise himself with every member of his workforce, and even if these two are last-minute recruits, their outfits don’t resemble any worn by the rest of his staff.

The not-so-concealed carry lurking on their belts is hardly a feature of his security team either.

Blood freezing as two hidden pairs of eyes settle on the bar and its occupants, Mark turns to Matt in a panic; mouth open with the intention of voicing a warning, or demanding an explanation, or both, but Matt is already one step ahead of him. Those awful neon sunglasses are back on his face, albeit he has the good sense not to activate them this time, and he throws some crumpled notes onto the counter before turning to Mark with what is no doubt supposed to be a reassuring smile. It doesn’t work of course, though he imagines Matt is well-aware of that.

As a gesture of goodwill, Matt places a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder and offers what sounds like a very final farewell.

“It was good to see you again, Alex.”

And then he’s off, wandering past the quickly emptying dining tables and mixing with the assorted bodies on the dancefloor. Fat lot of good it does; he has about as much chance of blending in here as a giraffe does hiding among a gang of meerkats. Casting a glance towards the mysterious arrivals, Mark spots them making their way towards the dancefloor, the only indication of urgency being the grim determination on their faces. They don’t seem to have any interest in him for the moment, but that prospect brings him little in the way of relief. Instead he simply feels nausea crawling up his throat, and as Matt threatens to escape his eyeline, a new madness takes hold and compels him to follow.

Keeping Matt in his sights is more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. As much as he stands out among the crowd of dancers, once Mark finds himself trapped within that very crowd, his ability to focus on what’s directly ahead of him falters. The band has gone and a DJ has taken their place, enticing drunk youths to stumble to and fro under the guise of dancing, and Mark finds himself being roughly grabbed more than once by revelers inviting him to join in. One man pointedly tells him to “fuck off” when he manages to free his arm from his tight grip, before swanning off to harass some other poor sod, but Mark forces himself to recover quickly and carries on with his misguided pursuit. Later it will occur to him that he is not usually in the habit of hiring DJs, nor is the ballroom usually so crowded at this late hour as the casino tends to attract the night-owls, but for now all he can focus on is Matt’s retreating back sneaking onto one of the many corridors adjoining the hall.

Mark follows him seconds later, having escaped the horde with his limbs intact; not daring to look back to check if their assailants have located them. It occurs to him that as hotel owner, he could abuse his status and stand in their way in order to buy time, but he’s not sure he trusts them to resist putting a bullet in his head for insubordination. He may not have the faintest idea of what’s going on, but it feels so much bigger than him somehow. Like he’s been handed solid proof that everything he’s achieved – the hotel, his band, his reputation – is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe.

He stumbles onto the corridor just in time to spot Matt turning right at the far end, and he follows as quickly as he dares. The next turn is a left, then another left, then a right... an endless maze of blinding white walls and hotel room doors, flanked by sprouting monstrosities emerging from intricately painted plant-pots. After a while it seems like Matt has deliberately chosen this route to tease him, and he begins to wonder if this entire evening has been a devilish ploy, but the thought has barely had a chance to take hold when he finally reaches the end of the line.

There is no turning point at the end of this corridor. Only an unassuming wooden door leading into what appears to be a store cupboard. There aren’t even any hotel rooms remaining in this section; instead the route ahead is lined with marble columns sporting busts with expressionless faces.

Mark only manages one step forward before freezing, as icy fingers of dread crawl up his spine and clutch his heart in a fierce grip.

No being in the universe knows this hotel better than he does. He knows every room, every corridor, every little nook and cranny as surely as he knows his own name. As well he should; he designed every inch of the place.

And yet, he can say with absolute certainty that he has never laid eyes on this corridor before. Not even in a passing dream.

Before he can blame the obvious hallucination on the scotch, or even glance back in search of Matt’s pursuers, the silence is shattered by a blinding red light emanating from the cupboard door, illuminating the corridor in time with a sharp, mechanical whine. Mark raises a hand to his eyes as the light pulses in time with his heartbeat - giving untouched walls the appearance of being drenched in blood - and the accompanying noise slams against his eardrums with unrelenting ferocity. Against his better judgement, he presses onward, cowering as the assault on his senses intensifies with every step. No doubt he will be left with nothing but regret as a result of this choice, but he fears the lack of answers will drive him mad if he doesn’t see what lies beyond that door.

Besides, Matt must be in there. There’s nowhere else he could have gone, and Mark has little desire to leave him for dead.

The pulsating doesn’t stop until he reaches the door. Body trembling in the quiet aftermath, he takes a moment to recover as the light’s echo persists with every blink of his eyes and a sharp ringing assaults his ears. His breathing sounds painfully uneven in spite of his efforts to remain calm, and he can feel his heart hammering away in an attempt to break free from his chest. He finds himself wishing he could explain away these last ten minutes, but his mind feels numb with uncertainty and the alcohol certainly isn’t helping. Has it even been ten minutes since he’d been sitting at the bar? It simultaneously feels like it’s been mere seconds and several hours since he was enjoying his evening without a care in the world.

The cupboard door remains unopened, the handle a seductive enchantress promising answers he isn’t sure he wants. This new silence doesn’t bode well, and his lack of familiarity with this section of the hotel only increases his chances of running into danger on the way back. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s damned regardless of what he does however; he may as well sate his curiosity in the meantime.

A cool trickle of sweat slides down his cheek as a trembling hand curls around the door handle, and he pulls sharply before sanity can take hold, expecting resistance but receiving none.

It seems he will have to settle for not receiving answers either.

The cupboard is empty.

******************************

The details of how he stumbled back to Room 521 and wound up sprawled on his bed are a murky blur. Even as his drunken haze makes way for a pounding headache, he can only recall glimpses of dragging his feet back the way he came; wandering through an almost deserted ballroom followed by similarly empty corridors, before eventually collapsing into bed with a crushing exhaustion. Despite his fears, he never did end up encountering those two assailants on his way back, nor did he glean any further clues as to Matt’s whereabouts. All three men had vanished into the night as mysteriously as they’d appeared, and a numb regret settling over his mind is enough to assure him that he will never see Matt again.

That is, if he even existed in the first place. As the night wears on, he begins to feel more inclined to put the evening’s events down to the drunken hallucinations of a lonely mind. Perhaps if he calls Jamie in the morning, he can put his mind at ease and call him a silly twat, erasing the whole sorry ordeal in the space of one conversation. The urge to pick up the phone now is almost too tempting to resist, but he stays put for now. There’s no need to bother his friend with the drunken ramblings of a madman. Not at this hour anyway.

Reassurance can wait. For now, he desperately needs sleep which is stubbornly unforthcoming.

He misses the presence of moonlight. That notion is so strange that a weak rebellious smile tugs at his lips, before the bitter sting of tears replaces it. Homesickness is unlike him – he has never been inclined to hop on a rocket and return home no matter how easy it would be – but right now his yearning for Earth feels suffocating. He misses the moon’s comforting presence in the sky and the wonder it had elicited from him as a child. He misses it hanging overhead as he wandered along silent streets with friends and lovers, singing and kissing and stumbling drunkenly as joyous laughter broke through the relative peace. He misses waking up with his heart in his throat and a new lyric in his head, only to be soothed instantly by luminous streaks of light.

All he has here is thick, empty darkness which seems intent on crushing him down to dust.

Those memories of home seem so distant now. Unreachable; locked away in a chest sporting a rusted padlock and buried deep beneath the realm of consciousness. Perhaps it would be best if they remained buried. Even if Mark were capable of digging them up and freeing them from their prison, the sheer weight of the memories within would surely drown him in an instant.

Mark shakes his head and closes his eyes before bitter tears can trail down his cheeks. It would be best not to dwell on such things. His nights are sleepless enough as it is.

It only occurs to him later, as unblinking eyes linger on the ceiling above, that Matt had casually referred to him as ‘Alex’ and that the thought of questioning it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

#writing #long post #simulation theory #tranquility base hotel and casino #muse #arctic monkeys #i am extremely rusty but honestly it's been nice to write something just for myself again #well...myself and @rock-n-roll-fantasy :P #my fic

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k0gamis · 4 years

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Temptation ➝Shinkane Week 2019 Day 4 ➝WC: 7225 / Rating: explicit

Upon his return to the country, Akane visits an old friend to get drinks and catch up.

***

22:19

The mesmerizing lights of Tokyo are one of the things Akane loves the most about the city. At night, when the ink of night backdrops the towers and buildings that each forge a shape unique to every onlooker, she feels the lights are especially dazzling.

She’d been enamored with the faux magic since her first drive through the city at night, when a last-minute interview for the CID awaited her in the morning, prompting an unexpected trip from her home in Chiba. She remembers the long breath she drew as her eyes settled on the skyline for the first time, watching the buildings shift around each other as the car drove on. She remembers wondering which building would be her hotel and what excitement she had to look forward to once she moved to the city for good; it was not unlike now, except the hotel she searches for in the distance is not hers, and she finds herself admittedly far more nervous than excited this time around.

The car drives automatically, which is unusual for her; Akane enjoys driving and normally likes to switch off the auto-pilot setting. But from time to time, especially at times like these, where her mind feels somewhere else and her eyes wander aimlessly outside the window, she lets the car drive itself.

She approaches the hotel as the car pulls into the parking lot, and Akane’s stomach does a flip. Her gaze flits between lit windows, counting up the rows until she hits floor number six. One of them belongs to room #644, and knowing him the curtains are likely closed, drawn open only enough so that his eyes can briefly dart outside to watch cars zip by on the freeway in between paragraphs of the book he’s reading.

When she steps off the elevator onto the sixth floor, her heart beats with the rhythm of her footsteps--perhaps even faster--as she follows the signs. Her fist raises, clenching once to squeeze out the nerves, then knocks twice and takes an anxious step back when the door opens.

He’s wearing a black bomber jacket that covers a white collared shirt tucked into dark jeans, somewhat reminiscent of the casual style he donned his formalwear all those years ago. She relaxes the second she catches his eye, feeling her shoulders unclench and the corners of her lips turning up; what had she been so nervous about?

He doesn’t offer the greeting of a normal person, and instead steps to the side so she can enter.

“You’re a bit overdressed,” he says, his voice as rough and calloused as ever. She missed the sound of it. “But you look nice.”

“I came from a dinner party in Chiba,” she explains. Chiba was almost an hour away, leaving no time to change, though she would hardly classify a black pencil skirt and a white ribbed turtleneck as overdressed. She doesn’t argue, and lets him take her coat to hang it in the closet.

The room is small, contemporary, with one bed, a desk with a swivel chair, and a small black chaise in the corner where a paperback book sits open but facedown. The decorations are sleek and modern, brightening the space considerably. A mirror taking up the wall alongside the bed makes the room feel bigger than it looks. She was right about the curtains.

He seems uncomfortable the further into the room they venture. Or perhaps awkward was a better word.

“There’s a bar downstairs,” she says, and that’s all she has to say. Soon she’s back in the elevator and sitting across from him in a dimly-lit booth, ordering a margarita.

“This place seems a little fancy to be holed-up in,” she says casually. “It doesn’t really suit you.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” he says. “And you’re right. The room feels stuffy.”

She giggles a little to herself, as she was thinking he would say something like that. It’s nice to know he hasn’t changed.

“How do the scanners work?” she asks. “Has your hue…?” She isn’t sure how to word her question, how to ask if his psycho pass has improved at all, especially since she is doubtful that it has. But she can’t think of another explanation for how he’s able to be placed here and walk around unsupervised, or to enter the bar without flagging the scanners.

He points to his skull with a single finger, similar to the shape of a gun.

“It’s classified,” he says.

“You can’t tell me?”

“It means I can’t be scanned without permission.”

“They’re placing an awful lot of trust in you to not cause trouble,” she says. He chuckles.

“Still not holding back your harsh remarks, I see.”

Before she can think of a response, their drinks are set down in front of them, Akane’s margarita glass standing tall above his scotch. She takes a tentative sip, watching as he downs a couple gulps without haste, nor does he grimace from the sultry taste.

“How are you?” she asks, her voice lowering. He stares into the contents of his glass, held by his fingers at the rim. The last time she’d seen him he wasn’t terrible, satisfied with distracting himself amidst guerilla operations and tactical advising. But satisfied doesn’t translate to being well, and based on one of their final conversations, he hadn’t seemed all that well at the time.

“I’m alright,” he says finally. It’s hard to get a read on him, to see how much of him is telling the truth. He notices the look of concern on her face despite her attempts to mask it. “Really. I am.”

“Have you thought about receiving psychological care?” she asks, not yet sold.

“I’ve contemplated.”

“That sounds like a no, then.”

“I’m still exploring my options. I only got back in the country a couple days ago.”

“Yes, I’m sure Poe’s poetry has all sorts of resourceful information about your options.” He smirks at her remark over his glass.

“Are you familiar, then?” he asks.

She shakes her head regrettably. “Not as well as I should be. I do more tactical reading these days.”

“You can borrow it if you’d like.”

She smiles softly around the salt on her glass. “I’m tempted, but I’m not sure when I’d be able to return it.”

He shrugs. It’s not like she’d be on a deadline, since he isn’t going anywhere now. That much has yet to completely stick with her. It is almost too good to be true, that she has difficulty believing it at times. He had been away for so long, and even then she’d only known him for a few months prior to his disappearance. It feels unreal for him to be anything but gone.

Did she even have the right to think of him as much as she did all these years, when she’d only known him for such a short amount of time in comparison?

“Why Chiba?” he asks, breaking her from her thoughts.

“What do you mean” she asks.

“Your dinner party.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice turning surprisingly sour. “It was for a school reunion.”

“You don’t seem too thrilled to have gone.” He finishes off his drink and waves a bartender over.

“Well Chiba isn’t exactly nearby,” she explains. “And then having to explain the death of your best friend to everyone who hasn’t heard over and over and…” She pauses, mostly because the bartender steps into earshot near their table, but also because she needs to collect the rest of her thoughts. She hasn’t yet finished her margarita but asks for a second anyway while he’s there, and finishes speaking once he’s gone to prepare their order.

“Of course there were people who she knew who couldn’t come to the funeral, and some people who just didn’t know it happened at all, but there was an overwhelming amount of reactions that just seemed…” Her voice hangs in the air for a moment as she searches for the right word.

“Insincere?” he offers.

“Yes,” she says. “Exactly. It became all anyone wanted to talk about.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

The way she swishes down a few gulps at once rather than the polite sips she’d been taking told him he’s right. Then she continues on, mentioning how one of her old classmates in particular was someone she has the misfortune of knowing more than she’d like to. He watches her finish the rest of her drink and wonders what she means by that. An ex-boyfriend, perhaps? Or was he simply fabricating reasons to project onto his dislike of this individual, other than by the way she spoke of him?

“He dated Yuki for...I’m not sure, a month, maybe?” she says, immediately dissolving his hypothesis and leaving him feeling foolish. “They broke up around the time we took our placement exams. Back then he found it just intriguing how he and I were the only two to score an A ranking for the Ministry of Commerce, which he brought up again tonight and wouldn’t shut up about it. That, and his absolutely incredibly well-paying job as a financial consultant.”

She rolls her eyes and immediately reaches for her second drink once they’re dropped off at their table. He can’t help but feel amused watching her speak. It seemed his hypothesis wasn’t that far off.

She seems to notice his gaze intent on her but misreads it, by the way she suddenly sits up straight, as though she’s caught herself doing something she isn’t supposed to be doing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, giving him a bashful smile. “I’m blabbering on about it. I’ll stop.”

Kogami shrugs. He isn’t bothered. He’s the one who asked in the first place.

“If you need to rant about slimy bastards who can’t take a hint, then you should rant,” he says simply, flashing her half a grin. She lets out a curt, breathy laugh, though she still looks apologetic. “Dude’s way out of his league, anyway. Doesn’t seem like your type in the slightest.”

“And just what do you know about my type?” She narrows her eyes inquisitively at him over the rim of her glass, hiding her lips behind it.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I know you’re not into someone with a boring office job, or incapable of holding an even remotely stimulating conversation, and definitely not someone shorter than you.”

For a moment she looks puzzled, and then her face softens into a curious smile. “Your profiling skills are as sharp as ever.”

He can’t tell if she’s referring to herself or to Mr. Financial Consultant, or maybe both, but he shrugs off the compliment anyway.

“Anything else exciting or otherwise noteworthy?”

Her eyes roll a second time, like the mere act of giving thought to these previous events was as annoying as experiencing them.

“He invited me to his apartment so I could talk more about the tragedy if needed,” she says. The way her voice hardens on one particular phrase, coupled with the lingering traces of anger in her eyes, makes him want to subvert the topic.

“So how did you give him the slip?”

“I told him I had a date to get going to,” she says simply. He nearly chokes on his drink. The gentle rose rising to the tops of her cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed.

He doesn’t remember choosing to lean forward, but then his arms are crossed on the table in front of him and there’s noticeably less distance between them.

“Is that what this is?” he asks.

“Would you call it something else?”

He keeps his gaze fixed on hers, looking for any hints of hesitancy, uncertainty, or even a trace of humor, yet he finds none of that. She stares back at him blankly; it’s a genuine question, and she expects a genuine answer.

“I guess not.”

He studies her again, but differently this time--as though he’s letting himself truly look at her for the first time in a long time, which he is. Her face is no longer curved with juvenile softness like the first day they met; instead it’s been replaced with hardened edges, with stories he’s yet to listen to. Her eyes have grown more intimidating than ever, though she holds in them a gentleness that hasn’t faded in the slightest.

“Is there something on my face?” she asks. She brings a hand up to touch her cheek subconsciously.

“No,” he answers. Then he notices she is shivering. “Are you cold?”

Her composure shifts suddenly, like she hadn’t even noticed that she was, in fact, cold, until he said something.

“A little,” she says. She glances up to the ceiling, finding an air vent positioned directly above their table. Just her luck; purposefully picking the booth furthest off to the side had to have some sort of drawback.

When she turns her attention back to him, he’s shrugging out of his jacket.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to-” But of course, because he’s him, he ignores her protest and passes it over the table. She hesitates, but takes it anyway, thanking him quietly. When she slips her arms through the sleeves, it’s warm and smells like his cigarettes. It’s surreal to find his scent somewhere other than her ashtray.

“Aside from all of that,” he says, referring to her less-than-pleasant dinner party, “how are you?”

“I’m doing fine,” she says. “Though I feel like I’ve talked about myself too much.”

“I don’t mind,” he says.

“I want to hear one of your stories,” she insists. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to pick from.”

“You’re putting me on the spot,” he says. “Now it’ll be hard to think of one.”

“Did you meet anyone special?” she asks.

“What do you mean by ‘special?’”

“Like interesting, noteworthy, quirky, I don’t know. Someone with a story.”

He has to think for a moment, though it looks as though he’s contemplating what he wants to tell rather than searching for something to say.

First he tells her of the few temporary comrades he traveled with after leaving SEAUn, who were mostly mercenaries like him skating by and keeping a low profile. She chuckles to herself as she tries to picture him , of all people, keeping a low profile, which she then explains once he questions her reaction. He laughs along with her briefly, but it doesn’t last long.

His eyes change when his story shifts, and he tells her of a young girl he met named Tenzing. He doesn’t tell her much. His story focuses more on the act of saving a bus full of refugees from armed guerillas--which, to her, sounds a lot more like him than in the previous tale--and how he was followed by the young girl, who’d been on the bus, to seek self defense training.

He tells her she was a cheerful, enthusiastic child with a lot of passion and promise, and that he agreed to train her because she was an orphan of war, and that he felt sorry for her. He pauses there, and she can see the sadness hardening his eyes like steel. She can tell that there is more to the story, but he seems hesitant to continue. So she gives him an out.

“Sometimes I wonder if kindness is actually your true weakness,” she muses aloud.

That takes him aback. “As opposed to something else?”

“I would have said fear before, but now I might be thinking differently.”

He leans back against the booth cushion and studies her with a calculating eye, crossing his arms over his chest. “You must think you have me all figured out, then, right?”

“Is it rude of me to say that I think I do? To a degree at least?”

“It’s not so much rude as it is ballsy,” he says.

She laughs, but goes on to explain her reasoning. “I’ll admit, you puzzled me when we first met,” she says. “I couldn’t figure you out for awhile.”

“That’s funny,” he interjects. “I used to feel the same about you.”

“Do you think you have me all figured out, too?”

“More or less. To a degree,” he adds with a smirk. “Though I’m not as confident as you seem to be.”

“What it comes down to is an understanding of someone’s character,” she says. It took her a long time to figure that out, though she hadn’t figured it out all on her own. “When you understand their character, you can understand their reasoning behind most things.”

“And when you understand reasoning, you can make all sorts of inferences,” he finishes. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”

She nods. She gives him a curious smile, seeing the gears turn in his head. She wonders what he’s going to say next.

“Put your theory to the test, then,” he challenges, throwing back the last of his drink and setting the glass down at the end of the table. “If you have me all figured out, tell me what you think my type is.”

It’s her turn to be taken aback, and she feels her cheeks grow warm. She avoids his eyes, at first wondering why this prompt of all things, then supposes it’s his way of making up for poking fun at her regarding the same topic earlier. Either way, she decides to humor him.

“You’re similar to me,” she says thoughtfully, “you prefer someone intellectually stimulating. Monotony bores you, so you like someone who can keep you on your toes--but not someone too reckless, even though that’s rather hypocritical, if you ask me.” He chuckles at the abrupt drop in her tone, riddled with vexation, before she continues. “You have a very protective nature, so you prefer someone that you can easily protect. But you also like when someone has a strong sense of self and can be assertive when they need to be. There’s a complicated balance there, but the right person won’t make it complicated.”

He takes a long moment to consider everything when she finishes.

“I’d give that about an eighty-five percent accuracy,” he says finally. “Maybe ninety.”

“Did I miss something?”

“You didn’t mention anything about physicalities.”

“You’re not materialistic; you value intellect more than anything. I didn’t think things that are particularly important to you.”

“Not most things, but some things.”

Now she’s the one who doesn’t remember leaning forward. “Like what?”

He mirrors her instinctively, with a peculiar repressed grin on his lips--almost coy. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You’re the one who mentioned it,” she shrugs. She distracts herself by sipping on what was left of her drink.

“Was I?”

She backtracks when she pauses to recall the exchange just a moment before. “It was more of a group effort,” she decides. “But either way, I wouldn’t consider physical preferences as something that can be deduced by one’s character.”

“All right then,” he says. “I take it back. I’ll give you ninety-five percent accuracy.”

“What about the other five?”

“You really don’t settle for less than perfect scores, do you?”

She laughs, because he’s right, yet she fixes a look on him that tells him she isn’t backing down until she hears his answer. Always so persistent and thorough. He sighs.

“It would be inappropriate to say,” he says quietly, and he almost feels bad for the urge to chuckle he has when the rose hue returns to her complexion. She finishes her drink then scoots the empty glass to sit discarded beside his.

“Is it because you’re shy?” she asks. There’s a ghost of a challenge in her tone that he’s positive he isn’t imagining. He no longer feels bad.

He chooses his next words carefully.

“It’s...more of a conversation that would be better had upstairs.”

For a moment, the air between them is stiffer from his implications hanging heavily in it. It takes her a second to process his words, and then she seems to process them a second time to have them finally click, cued by her eyes widening just slightly. Before she responds to him, she checks the time via the terminal on her wrist. He’s surprised by how strongly he anticipates her answer, by how his heart beat with a more vigorous rhythm in his chest than it was just moments before.

“I’m tempted, but,” she says, following her words with a sigh, and he already knows what comes next. “It’s getting late, and I have plans in the morning. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, waving away her apology. Her unwavering sense of responsibility hasn’t changed either, it seems. His ego isn’t bruised by any means. The admittance of temptation alone is enough to satisfy him.

“Perhaps when you find time to return the book, you won’t be visiting too late,” he says.

“I’ll make sure to leave the following morning open, too,” she says, offering him a smile before she gets up to pay the bill.

Back upstairs, she swaps his jacket for her coat, and even though hers is thicker and more suited for the wintry gusts swirling outside, it’s not nearly as warm. She takes Poe from his outstretched hand and tucks it into her purse, and from there she isn’t sure how to bid him goodnight. She feels a desire to do something, but nothing fitting comes to mind. He doesn’t offer anything other than holding the door open for her.

As she steps through the door, she assures him she will call a taxi instead of driving herself home, and promises she will come say hello in the morning when she returns for her car--if he’s awake, that is--and then he returns her ‘goodnight’ as she makes her way down the hall.

She listens for the sound of his door closing as she approaches the elevator, but she doesn’t turn around even though she never hears it.

Once down in the lobby, she makes her way to the front door with a taxi service pulled up on her cell phone. On her way, she passes by the bar she was just sitting in a few minutes ago. A smile dances on her lips, warming her from head to toe. It may be the most recent, but this memory is definitely the one she’s most fond of, even if it was rather fleeting in comparison to the others.

And then something about that thought makes her stop in her tracks, just a short distance from the revolving door. Her thumb hovers over the button she’s just pressed, promising a momentary pick-up, but her eyes are fixed on the cancel button in the corner.

Does she really have to leave so soon? She hadn’t seen him in over two years, and she’s already leaving with no definitive plans to see him again after what, less than an hour? That hardly seems fair in comparison.

She turns back to the bar, and from where she stands, peering into the open space, she can see the table where they sat. The bartender is only just now collecting their used cups, preparing to wipe down the table, and she remembers the way his hand curled around the base of his glass when he drank, how his fingertip drew circles around the rim when he spoke, how his eyes shone in a way that matched his glass reflecting the light fixtures above when he gave her an implied invitation back upstairs.

Perhaps it’s the two margaritas to blame, but she quickly hits ‘cancel’ before she can stop herself. And then she’s walking back into the bar to the counter, and purchases a bottle of Cabernet while she types up a message to Kaori. She hits send, takes back her card and freshly unsealed bottle, and makes her way back to the elevator.

He’s just finished undoing the last button of his shirt when there’s an unexpected knock at the door, barely audible with the shower running. He leans past the curtain to twist the knob, shutting off the water. As he makes his way to the door, he wonders if it’s Akane, but he knows she didn’t forget anything; or maybe it’s a housekeeper, though it seems a bit late for that.

When he opens the door, he’s surprised to see Akane standing before him, holding up a bottle of Cabernet with a look of question in her eyes. They drop briefly to his midsection, then flit back up to his face just as quickly as they fell.

“This isn’t a taxi,” he says, leaning against the door frame. He can see her throat contract when she swallows.

“I don’t need one,” she asserts.

He suppresses a grin and steps to the side, closing the door behind her. She slips off her shoes and drops her purse to the small table next to the closet.

“What happened to your morning plans?” he asks, taking from her the wine bottle as well as her coat. He holds onto the back of the collar while she slips herself out of it.

“I pushed them back,” she says. “Did I interrupt something?” She gestures to his shirt, which still hangs open from his shoulders.

“Just a shower.” With her coat hung properly in the closet, he slides the door shut.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” she says, offering a kind smile. “I can wait.”

“You sure?”

She nods, then pulls the book of poetry from her purse as he turns and heads back into the bathroom, after tossing the bottle safely onto the bed. She can hear the water switch on through the closed door while she surveys the room, and reaches around her neck to remove her necklace.

A small stack of paper cups sit beside a coffee maker on the desk. They aren’t technically proper, but they work just fine for casually drinking wine. She pours herself a small amount, leaving her necklace and earrings on the desk, and curls up on the chaise with his book.

Kogami is quick; by the time Akane reads through only two pages, she hears the sudden absence of pouring water followed by the screech of shower curtain rungs being pulled to the side. She pauses her reading, sipping Cabernet from her paper cup, and decides to wait for him before she continues.

His hair is still wet when he sits down beside her, and he wears the same clothes as before, only his shirt is buttoned rather lazily. The top of his chest is exposed, and she has a nice view of his collarbone. She briefly wonders before deciding with suspicious certainty that he’s done it very much on purpose.

He glances down to read the page where she holds the book open.

“‘Annabelle Lee’ is one of my favorites,” he comments, before swallowing a rather generous amount of liquid from his own cup.

“Really?” she asks. “That’s a bit of a surprise to me.”

“What do you think of it?” he asks.

“I like it,” she says, “but I think I’d like it more if you read it aloud.” He gives her a perceptive smile, obliging, and he dumps back the rest of his wine impressively fast so he can take the book from her hands after discarding the cup to the floor. He invites her to lean into him, draping his arm behind her shoulders across the back of the chaise. She does, with a warm fluttering in her stomach, and curls her legs up onto the seat underneath her, resting her head comfortably against his shoulder.

As he reads, Akane finds that the poem is significantly better read in his voice, which is low and rough, compared to reading it in her head. Something about the rugged resonance of his voice telling the tale of a love so strong and intense that it makes angels envious, a love that ultimately suffers the tragedy of death, brings it to life, as though his voice alone could sculpt the tale into reality.

He turns the page and continues to read, and she listens. Her eyes follow along with the words as he reads them aloud, and she sips on Cabernet until her cup is empty and she holds it lazily with both hands in her lap.

Eventually, the sound of his voice coaxes her eyes to relax, and they flutter closed. Before long, Kogami notices, and he pauses, craning his neck forward to inspect.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” he asks. She hasn’t, and her eyes open. Having his answer, he pulls back.

“No,” she answers anyway. “It’s just nice to hear you read.”

“You didn’t come back just to listen to me read.” It comes out as both a question and a statement, but she stiffens nevertheless when she feels his breath tickle her ear. She can feel his eyes on her, studying her, reading her reaction, and she wants to return his gaze, but she can’t bring herself to look away from the book in his lap.

She can speak, at the very least.

“What did I come back for, then?” she asks. Her words come out sounding stronger than she feels. She wants to say more, to help steer the conversation like she had absolutely no problem doing when she sat across the table from him earlier, but the warm shape of his body against hers is incredibly distracting. Her eyes study the shape of his hand, the bridges of his fingers as they rest on worn pages. She wonders what they feel like.

“A stimulating conversation, maybe,” he muses. His voice is lower than normal, and she can still feel his breath on her ear, and his arm draped behind her edges noticeably closer until she feels it against her back and his hand cups her shoulder.

“You are good at those,” she says through a shaky breath. She notices a small movement in the corner of her eyes so her gaze flits to it, and she finds herself eyeing the zipper of his pants.

“So I’ve heard.” Her cheeks start to feel warm.

“I liked the one we were having downstairs,” she manages. Kogami slowly closes the book, but continues to hold it in his lap.

He hums with feigned confusion, and though she cannot see his face, she can hear the smirk he’s undoubtedly wearing. “You’re going to have to refresh my memory.”

“We were talking about weaknesses,” she says, and as she speaks he moves the book to drop on the floor.

“We never did talk about yours, did we?”

She doesn’t know why, but she laughs. Maybe it’s because she’s feeling on edge, anticipating what comes next, and didn’t think this would be it.

“I really don’t know what it is,” she says with uncertain honesty. She watches as his hand reaches for hers, plucking the empty cup from them and discarding it to join the book. “Sometimes I think I’m too cold-hearted.”

This time Kogami is the one to laugh. The sound of it bursting from his chest melts away some of the tension in her shoulders.

“What makes you think that?” he asks.

“Because my psycho-pass doesn’t cloud.”

“That’s the last word I would use to describe you,” he says, replacing the hole left gaping in her hands with his own. It’s big and warm and fits perfectly between hers, and holding it gives her a sudden rise of insurmountable courage, as though it were a chink in his armor that she can cling to for purchase. She turns her body just slightly so she can look up at him comfortably, and his hand moves from her shoulder to hover just over the back of her neck.

“How would you describe me, then?” she asks, hoping to turn the conversation to her favor. He mirrors her, pulling a leg up onto the seat so he can face her too.

Despite her effort, Kogami is impossible to catch off guard.

“Intellectually stimulating,” he says thoughtfully, and though he doesn’t smile, there is an unmistakable hint of amusement in the corners of his lips. “Maybe you can be a little reckless, but you work with caution. You’re careful and thoughtful. You’re small-” and when he says this, a charmed smile bleeds through his expression despite his efforts to suppress it, “-easy to protect. And you’re an independent thinker. You aren’t afraid to do things your own way. And you’re complicated, but in the best way.”

When he finishes, her cheeks are uncomfortably warm and he’s leaning a lot closer than he was before. She does, admittedly, feel touched upon hearing his words, but despite that, her eyes are wide and taken aback. It’s not verbatim, but he’s just repeated her words from earlier to describe her, and it’s a substantial pill for her to digest.

Still, brave words leave her mouth before she even realizes she is speaking.

“I give that a ninety-five percent,” she says, countering him, her tone incongruent with her demeanor. She’s tense, and she grips his hand to keep hers from trembling. He notices.

“That last five percent is making you nervous,” he observes aloud. His voice, though low and rough, somehow has an easing effect with an unusual gentleness. Maybe it’s the fact that he can read her like a book and she doesn’t have to say it that makes her relax, even if it’s only miniscule.

“A little,” she admits. He surprises her when he takes one of her hands and raises it, her eyes following out of curiosity.

“Don’t be,” he says to her skin. “It’s just me.” A kiss to the back of her hand sends an excited flutter rippling through her nerves, raising the hair on her arms as her heart leaps in her chest so loudly that she’s she he can hear it.

He is right, and she’s fully aware of it. She knows she shouldn’t be nervous around him. There exists nobody else in the world that she trusts more than the man kissing her hand, holding her in the ghost of an embrace.

“Although there’d be no hard feelings if you got that taxi after all.”

It is this moment that secures her in place. He’s giving her an out, before they walk over the line that cannot be uncrossed. A line of which she has never strayed across before, not with anybody, ever, nor has it even been as close as it is now, just under her fingertips, encircling her with a tempting hand teasing the back of her neck and a knee guarding her in place.

Perhaps what makes her tremble is the stark unfamiliarity of senses heightened contrasting with how drawn she is to him, how she longs for nothing but to undo the rest of his buttons and lose herself in what comes after.

It’s sweet, but the idea of leaving now is simply laughable. Her hand travels to his thigh, gripping it with silent reassurance.

Her eyes, wide and brown and eager, say it even louder. His are stormy, and in them she can see the way his heart pounds mercilessly just as hers does, and yet there’s a coolness smoothing his slate sky into something tameable.

Control, she realizes, and she wonders in an instance like this what he’s like without it.

His long hand finally settles at the base of her neck, warm and ever present through the thin layer of her sweater. Her own hand falls from his grip to melt into the crook of his elbow as he moves to capture her jaw instead, and she practically pulls herself towards him by his thigh as he leans into her, until their lips meet and she’s delighted to find his are much softer than they look.

She’s pulled into his lap within moments, his hand cradling her underside and trapping her in place, though she hardly minds. Her fingers fumble awkwardly with the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as far as his shoulders will allow once she frees him of the garment, her polished nails grazing his skin as she drags her hands up his neck to cup his jaws, holding him close as he kisses her furiously.

He breaks the kiss only to slip her sweater up over her head, and the second she’s free he captures her lips again, forcing them apart with his. His tongue, she finds, is just as soft and inviting as his lips.

Distracted, she doesn’t take much notice of his collection of her wrists, as he gently pulls each of them behind her back until he locks one hand ensnared tightly around them. She jumps at this, faltering from his lips, and rests her forehead against his, still close enough that she can feel his sultry breath warming her face.

“Too forward?” he asks, and his rough voice is low and just as hot.

She shakes her head, and she can feel her cheeks glowing with heat; they deepen in color when his eyes narrow curiously and he asks if she rather likes it, to which she nods. And she likes it a lot more when he rewards her honesty with a kiss, but this time he is slower, and more gentle, and as he kisses her his free hand trails down the exposed curves of her body until he’s inching under the hem of her skirt and slowly hiking it up her thigh.

She shudders when his fingers finally forge their way between her legs, and as he strokes her softly he breathes in every single one of the faint cries that spill from her lips.

“Are you still interested in that perfect score?” he asks, muttering in her ear. To her credit, she gives him a playful smirk despite the distracting treatment he’s giving her in her willfully confined predicament.

“The gentleman would really reveal his secrets to me?” she teases. He pulls back to look at her, shooting her a self-depreciating leer of his own.

“I’m no gentleman,” he says.

“You are to me,” she counters, meeting his gaze firmly. Looking at her, he can’t say she’s entirely wrong. His hand retracts, and although she can’t see it beneath the fabric of her skirt, her eyes dart down instinctively as if looking to see why he stopped. But just as quickly, he tips her gaze back up to his by the gentle grip of her chin, and he’s smiling at her strangely.

“I wonder why that is,” he says. His stare is warm and inviting, and it leaves her heart fluttering as he leans in, closing the distance between them once more, only his lips are rougher, and more insistent. Then he releases her wrists silently, placing them on his shoulders one at a time, and then he’s standing, lifting her into the air with him.

He lays her back on the bed, and the lights automatically dim, casting a dull, white glow over them that leaves her bare skin radiant like silver.

Her skirt is too restrictive, and that’s a problem; before he crawls over her frame, he rids her of it entirely, slipping the black from her silky legs along with her tights. She parts her knees for him eagerly, her lips awaiting his return with heated fervor.

In the dark, it’s easier. Hesitation no longer exists, and neither does the past that kept them apart for so long.

He murmurs in her ear with his hand buried beneath her panties, his touches no longer slow and soft, but fast, and rough with need. She struggles to keep up with him.

“I like someone who wants me to take the lead,” he says gruffly. It takes her only a quick moment to figure out what he’s talking about. “Someone who likes to be submissive.”

She can feel the heat spreading across her face, like his rough voice melts into liquid that drips from his lips to her skin and ignites her all the way down to her core. He lets his words hang in the air for a few long moments, busying himself with leaving wet kisses along her neckline.

When her only response is nothing but breathy gasps, he turns the tables on her instead.

“Why don’t you tell me more about your type?” he goads. Being inexperienced, she doesn’t know how to answer, and his generous attention on her makes it difficult to think. But she likes this, more deeply than she thought she would, so that has to mean something, right?

She blurts it out without meaning to, but it’s not the wrong answer.

“You.”

By the way his lips freeze, lingering just above her skin, coupled by his fingers slowing inside her, she guesses that it was not what he was expecting to hear. For a second, she worries she’s said the wrong thing, came on too strongly, pushed herself too far forward on a weak limb.

Minute traces of panic creep through her fingertips as his hand slips from inside her, but are instantly quelled as he shifts his body completely over hers, and he cups her face with both of his hands. Cracks are starting to form in that smooth gloss masking his storm.

The next kiss is hungry, demanding. He’s quickly losing his will to hold back. His hands can’t sit still, and they trade places between holding her jaw, snaking into her hair, and gently squeezing the side of her neck, his thumbs tracing carefully over her trachea with restraint. His knees force hers apart, and she works on forcing him out of his shirt despite the mess of his hands, freeing his thick arms for her to grab onto appreciatively for purchase.

He moves back to her neck, twisting her face away with a firm grip of her chin, his palm daring to press deeper into her throat. She gasps at the feeling of his lips, enjoying the subtle pressure of his hand. Her hips start to move, seeking relief for the heated excitement flaring between her thighs, but as quickly as they start, she stops herself.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“It’s okay,” he says softly against her skin. “Don’t be shy. Show me how badly you want me.” His words of encouragement arouse a new layer of heat to her cheeks that she’s grateful he can’t see in the dark, but she gives in, letting her reservation melt away with the kisses he trails down to her collarbone. His hips meet hers as she grinds against him, and with it she lets out a pleased groan that curls his lips.

Soon after his hands glide beneath her shoulders, and she lifts herself to give his fingers room to slip off her bra. Her hands take root in wet clumps of his hair when he dips his head to her breast, taking the sensitive skin in his mouth and dragging his tongue around it until he’s pulling from her a light string of moans that grind his hips roughly against hers.

The tautness of her fingers alerts him of her growing impatience, closely matching his. His hands drift downward over her stomach, curling around the top of her panties and slipping them down her thighs, but then he freezes suddenly, cursing once he realizes he doesn’t have protection.

Luckily, she’s come prepared, and gestures for her purse on the table. He retrieves it for her, and jots down a quick mental reminder to stock up on his own supply, noting the exact brand labeled on the little square she produces triumphantly from her bag, holding it up in the air like a hard-earned trophy.

He takes it from her hands, then he steps off the bed to slip from the confines of his jeans, and she nudges her panties from her ankles using her feet. The dull light shining from above the headboard lights his skin aglow, and she watches the shadows of his large muscles dance along his arms while he unzips his pants and shifts to step out of them.

He moves at a slow enough pace that she can take in all of him with affectionate, sultry eyes, but not too slow so as to not waste any time. His patience is wearing dangerously thin, and from the gaping distance between them she can see the storm of his eyes threatening to break the glass that holds him back.

Eyeing her body while he rolls on the condom only makes him eager to ingrain the shape of her to his hands’ memory. She lays with her head propped up by pillows, and she watches him with parted, wet lips and a hungry stare. One hand rests above her breast, as though she were holding her heart in place where it threatened to burst from her chest, while the other squeezes the comforter in anticipation. Her legs are bent, her knees resting together, and he’s not sure if she’s fully aware of the intimate display she gives him or if she’s doing it on purpose, but either way, it’s hidden, cast in the shadow of her thighs.

His hands part them needlessly as he moves over her, and she melds her chest to his as he settles on top of her. She cradles his jaw between her soft hands as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss is rough and filled with need, and when he plunges himself into her that need isn’t sated in the slightest; rather, it intensifies drastically.

The first few thrusts are careful, calculating, ensuring she isn’t uncomfortable or hurt, but the way she throws her head back in relief, the intensity of her grip as her hands slide to his shoulders, the way her legs wrap tightly around his waist, all push him just over the edge of caution.

His hips pick up in pace and soon he’s snapping against her in a steady rhythm, and he’s grabbing her wrists to pin her hands just above her crown, their fingers lacing together as he crushes his lips to hers possessively, devouring her pleasured cries in his throat. He has to pull away after a moment to allow them to breathe, and he inches their hands higher above her head, caging her face between his arms. As his thrusts grow rougher and faster, he grunts into her shoulder, and her voice rises higher in pitch, chiming in the air like a blissful song floating through his ears. It only pushes him to move faster, harder, deeper into her to see just how much she can take, how much higher he can guide her cries, until her back is arching sharply and her chest presses roughly into his, and her head is thrown back in a final cry as her body convulses with pleasure beneath his, and he follows shortly behind her with a throaty groan into the softness of her neck.

He rests there for a long moment, holding himself up just enough for her to breathe as deeply as she needs to, to catch her breath while he catches his, taking refuge in her warmth. She pries her hands from under his to hold him. Her fingertips massage his scalp lazily, smiling gently when stray tufts of his hair tickles her nose.

Aside from the dim light above them, the window is the only other source of light in the room, and so her eyes are drawn to the open space between the drapes. The sky outside is darker than their room, illuminated by the very same city lights she tenderly watched pass her by as she drove to see him earlier in the night.

The bubbling nervousness she’d felt then, to her, is simply ludicrous as she lay beneath him now, happy and content and without a care in the world. This isn’t how she’d pictured the night to progress, and she isn’t normally one to give into temptations, especially if those temptations breach her responsibilities.

But as she looks back down at him, at the scruffy, damp mess of his unruly hair sticking out between her fingers, she can’t help but smile. He undoubtedly is, and always will be, an exception. And she is perfectly fine with that.

#i'm sorry if there are any typos i will fix them later when i upload to ao3 i promise (crying emoji)#meant to use the mirror mentioned earlier but forgot and now its too late. damn #my fics #shinkaneweek #shinkane #psycho pass #akane tsunemori #shinya kogami

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