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iceeckos12 · 3 years

Note

Prompt: Jongerrymartin but make it noir.

HI PIT. this was probably not what you were expecting, but hope you enjoy *jazz hands* this is current jongerry, pre-jgm

please let me know if i should tag anything!

Martin stared up at the faded gold lettering painted on the door, wiping a clammy palm against the fabric of his trousers. The other gripped his manila folder tightly, refusing to loosen his grip for even a second, not after all the trouble he’d gone through to get it.

Delano & Sims, the words read. Private Detectives.

He’d talked to one of them over the phone yesterday, a man with an achingly posh accent, who’d said to come at precisely fourteen hundred hours and not a moment later. That clipped, dry tone had almost been enough to scare him off, but...no, he needed this too much to run away.

Martin took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called, and he pushed inside.

The first thing he noticed were the swirls of cigarette smoke so thick that the weak light overhead glowed a thin silver. His eyes immediately began to water at the intensity of the smell, and he desperately wanted to bury his nose in his collar.

There was an exasperated sigh from one shrouded corner of the room, and then, “Christ—Jon, open the window, would you?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” There was a clatter as the blinds lifted, and then a solid thunk, and suddenly fresh air and natural light was pouring through the open window, throwing the room in stark relief.

“Sorry about that,” the man next to the window said, leaning heavily on a handsome wooden cane. He was just a wisp of a thing, dressed in a sweater vest like he was some sort of professional academic, with salt and pepper grey hair and dark, keen eyes. “Forgot we had someone coming.”

This must be the person I talked to over the phone, Martin realized. Sims.

“Do me a favor and try not to kill our clients, Jon.” He quickly turned to look at Delano—who else could it be?—who was stepping away from the fan now juddering to life, swirling the quickly dissipating smoke. It was almost startling how different the two partners were; where Sims was thin and short, Delano was tall and wiry, with inky black hair and cool, gunmetal eyes. The weathered leather trench coat and chunky boots had obviously seen some better days. “We need all the ones we can get.”

Martin’s face flushed as he was struck by how unfairly attractive these two people were.

“Duly noted,” Sims drawled, limping over to the heavy desk stacked high with papers. He set the cane aside and propped himself against it with a quiet sigh, then gestured toward one of the ratty looking chairs. “Take a seat, Mr. Blackwood.”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, I don’t…”

“No need to stand on decorum, not around here.” Delano pointedly plopped into the chair behind the desk, grin wide and toothy. “Jon just likes to pretend that we’re more professional than we actually are.”

“We’re professional,” Sims protested, sounding deeply offended. “Just...unorthodox.”

“Well, alright,” Martin said, and lowered into the surprisingly comfortable chair.

Delano cleared his throat. “Right. So what brings you to us, Mr. Blackwood?”

Martin thought for a moment, not wanting to speak rashly, or to give away anything too personal. “Well, I’ve heard rumors that you two are capable of...discretion, so to speak, and I would prefer that this doesn’t get spread around.”

“Ah.” Sims’ eyes quickly flicked up and down his body, one eyebrow raising. “Out of curiosity, can I ask who referred you to us?”

“Tim Stoker?” Martin shuffled. “He said that you helped him out of a similar bind not too long ago.”

Sims and Delano glanced at each other, their eyebrows doing a complicated little dance, though what information could’ve been conveyed through such a medium, Martin had no clue. They turned to look at him again in unison, expressions very serious.

“When you say similar…” Delano trailed off.

Martin immediately shook his head. “Oh, nothing to do with the Circus. I’m not stupid enough to get involved with them after what happened with Tim and his brother.”

They both relaxed immediately.

“That’s good for you,” Delano told him. “We’ve run afoul of Nikola and her merry band far too many times for comfort. If you’d said you’d gotten on her bad side, I’m afraid we would’ve had to ask you to leave.”

Martin glanced at Sims, who was staring very hard at his feet, then Delano, who was observing him calmly, patiently, the way a bird of prey sights down a mouse. “Oh.”

“Quite,” Sims murmured.

“Anyway,” Delano gave a wide, grandiose gesture. “Please. Why have you come to us?”

The manila folder suddenly felt very, very heavy, and he fiddled with one of the corners, rubbing the material between his fingers. “Well...I work for this, um, this shipping company. I mostly do busywork, administrative tasks, that sort of thing. It’s not very glamorous, but it—it pays really well, despite the company being kind of small.” Martin traced the grain of the paper with one finger. “I think it handles a lot of….specialty items.”

“And the name of this company?” Sims asked, pen poised over the little notebook he’d appeared from seemingly nowhere.

Anxiety plummeted his stomach into his toes. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable giving away that information.”

Delano’s eyebrows rose. “Discretion, remember? Besides, we’ll need to know if we’re going to be able to help you.”

“If we decide to help you,” Sims muttered.

Martin took a few fortifying breaths, swallowing the nausea down. “Right,” he murmured. “Right. It’s, um...Tundra shipping company? Run by Mr. Peter Lukas.”

Sims went very, very still, pen poised above his notebook, expression fixed like it’d been molded into his face. Delano loomed forward, the gunmetal of his eyes gleaming like the sun reflecting off of a loaded barrel. “Is that so?”

Martin glanced toward Sims, wondering at his demeanor, then turned back to Delano and nodded. “Yeah. You two—you know him?”

“Do we.” Delano let out a dry chuckle. “Continue.”

“Right.” Martin shook his head. “Well, one day I was doing some bookkeeping, just...routine stuff, you know? But I noticed something off with the numbers, like...really wrong. And I double checked my math several times just to make sure, but…” he swallowed. “I think that someone may be cooking the books, or...or something. I don’t know.

“Anyway, I went back the next day but the numbers had been changed, and—and Mr. Lukas called me into his office and said some really weird stuff that I think may have been a threat? It was hard to tell.” Martin shook his head, biting his lip. “There’s been other stuff, too. Contracts with companies that I know don’t exist, visitors at odd hours. I think something really rotten is going on, but I don’t think that I can handle it myself.”

Delano and Sims shared an unhappy look. Then Sims pushed away from the desk and began to circle the perimeter of the room, his eyebrows furrowing into a thunderstorm on his brow.

“We’d love to finally be able to pin something substantial on the bastard—on Lukas,” Delano said. “But insinuating those types of claims without a shred of evidence...that’s a nonstarter. We’re going to need a little bit more than that.”

“But I do have evidence?” Martin asked, lifting the manila folder. “I took photocopies of the pages, and notated where the discrepancies were.” He wrinkled his nose. “I wasn’t about to just write on official financial records. There’s also some of the weird contracts I was talking about. I kept copies of everything.”

Sims, who’d walked out of sight while Martin had been talking, suddenly appeared behind him, reaching for the folder. “Can I see?”

“Be careful with it, that’s the only copy,” Martin said nervously, but handed it over.

Sims walked back over to the desk, hopped up on the edge, and eagerly tipped the contents of the folder on the space between him and Delano. They quickly sifted through the papers, wordlessly handing things to each other like a seamless, well-oiled machine.

“This is good.” Delano’s voice was almost hushed, almost awed. “This is...really good, actually.”

“But you see why I can’t go to the police with this, right?” Martin twisted his hands fitfully. “You see why I need your help.”

“Of course not,” Sims said dismissively, though there was an eager gleam in his eyes. “The police are so deep in Lukas’ pocket you might as well have kissed your life goodbye if you’d gone to them.”

“Oh.” Martin swallowed, trying and failing to come up with anything more intelligent than that. “Oh.”

Delano drummed his fingers against the desk pensively. “Speaking of, it wouldn’t be a good idea to pursue this recklessly. We appreciate you bringing this to us, but it does put you in a significant amount of danger. Do you have friends or family outside the country you can stay with, Mr. Blackwood?”

“Um…” He had cousins in Poland, he was pretty sure. Whether or not they would take him in was another question entirely. “Possibly.”

Sims reluctantly gathered the papers up and slid them back into the manila folder, before holding it out. “Come back when you’ve got something lined up.”

Martin lifted a quelling hand as he got to his feet. “I’d...prefer you hold onto it, honestly. It’s probably safer with you.”

Sims blinked, then shrugged and set the folder back down. “I see.”

“We’ll be seeing you later, Mr. Blackwood.” Delano’s grin was a sharp, toothy thing. Despite its grimness, Martin found himself inexplicably comforted by it.

“Please,” he corrected before he could help himself. “Call me Martin.”

-0-

“So,” Gerry said, long after Martin had left and the excitement had faded. He filled a glass with some ice, then tipped a finger of whisky over the top. “What do you think?”

“I don’t trust him,” Jon said almost before Gerry had finished talking, accepting the glass with a quiet murmur of thanks. “It’s a bit too good to be true. After years of searching, someone just...emerges with hard evidence of Peter’s wrongdoings?” An incredulous snort. “I don’t think so.”

Gerry propped himself up against the edge of the desk, staring at the dark bags under his partner’s eyes, the cynical curve of his mouth. He looked exhausted. “You never know,” he said mildly, taking a sip of his whiskey sour before continuing. “I think we’re about due for a lucky break.”

“We don’t get lucky breaks. We get fooled into thinking that we have a lucky break, only to get royally fucked later,” Jon snapped, thumping his cane against the ground for emphasis. “You should know that by now.”

Gerry frowned. “Don’t take this out on me.”

Jon metaphorical hackles went up, and for a moment it looked as though he were about to start shouting—but then he abruptly deflated and looked away. “No, you’re right, it’s just…”

Gerry sighed. It was difficult to stay angry at Jon when he bore such a striking resemblance to a kicked puppy. “I get it.”

They fell silent for a moment, sipping their drinks, lost in their respective thoughts.

“Shall we go?” Gerry asked, setting his glass aside.

Jon paused for a moment longer, before letting out a long, gusty sigh and draining what was left in his drink. “Sure.”

The elevator was still broken, so unfortunately they had to take the stairs. While Gerry knew better than to offer any assistance, his heart still clenched at how tight with pain Jon’s jaw had gone by the time they reached the bottom. They stopped for a few seconds to let Jon get his breath back, before continuing toward home.

About a block away from the office, they froze at the sound of pounding footsteps growing unmistakably closer.

“Hear that?” Jon murmured out of the corner of his mouth, the dying light of the sun glinting off the switchblade in his free hand.

“Mmhm,” Gerry hummed, slipping a hand into his pocket.

Martin was very, very lucky that Gerry recognized him as he rounded the corner; otherwise, it was very likely that Jon would’ve run him through. As it was, Martin crashed into them both, gasping frantically for air, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with abject terror.

“Martin?” Jon demanded, shoving the switchblade away. “What the hell are you—”

“They’re after me,” Martin gasped out, scrabbling at Gerry’s coat. “They—I don’t know how they found out, but they, Peter, he—”

“Shit,” Gerry muttered, suddenly becoming aware of the second set of pounding footsteps growing nearer. He took a moment to assess their surroundings, before grabbing Martin’s shoulders and hauling him into the nearby alley. “Martin, hide behind that dumpster. Jon, distraction time.”

Despite the situation, Jon’s eyes lit up with an exhilarated gleam. Gerry had just enough time to fondly think, adrenaline junkie, before Jon tucked his cane over his wrist, twisted his hands in Gerry’s lapels, and shoved him against the wall for a bruising kiss.

Gerry gasped into Jon’s mouth, his hands instinctively falling to cup Jon’s slim hips. He deepened the kiss, humming encouragingly when Jon shoved his jacket over his shoulders, exposing the thin black t-shirt beneath.

Jon was just beginning to press little kisses down the juncture of his jaw and neck when the harsh beam of a torch fell on them. Jon, who’d been a drama queen long before he’d joined am dram in uni, pulled away with a theatrical gasp, his annoyance almost startlingly genuine. Gerry tucked his face out of the way and adjusted his jacket, affecting embarrassment.

“Do you mind?” Jon asked.

“Oh,” the person on the other end of the torch said, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. Gerry tried to peek a look, but the beam was too strong for him to see into the darkness beyond it. “Sorry to disturb you sirs, um...you wouldn’t happen to have seen a person—?”

“No, we haven’t seen a person.” Keeping one hand curled in Gerry’s jacket, Jon took a step back, lifting his chin defiantly. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we were busy.”

“Right,” the person muttered, and then the torchlight abruptly vanished, dropping them once more into the dying light of the sun.

They stood there for a moment, Jon breathing hard, cheeks flushed. Gerry tipped his head back against the wall, letting his eyes flutter shut as his pumping heart slowed.

Then the grip in his collar loosened, and Jon let out a pained groan and sank against the wall. “Fuck.”

“Alright, take it easy,” Gerry murmured. He pressed a kiss against Jon’s hair and rubbed a soothing hand against his back. “You did beautifully.” Then louder, “Martin, you can come out now.”

There was a brief pause, and then a shadow tentatively emerged from behind the dumpster. Martin looked far less rattled than he had when he’d first run around the corner, though there was still a healthy flush to his cheeks. He peered up the alley, wringing his hands. “Are they…”

“For now,” Jon said, grimacing as he dug his knuckles into the tight muscles. “We should leave before they get back.”

Martin’s eyes honed in on him. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon snapped, straightening. “You should be more worried about yourself. You can’t go home, right?”

The question seemed to remind Martin of the current situation, because his eyes went a little wild again. “No, they...I left to do a bit of shopping, and then came back and, and there they were.”

They fell silent for a moment, considering that.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Jon said brusquely. “You’ll have to come home with us.”

“What?” Martin gaped.

Gerry was already nodding. “We don’t have much room, but we can make up the couch for you.”

That only seemed to make Martin all the more aghast. “Wait! Wait, won’t that put you in danger?”

Gerry looked up and met Jon’s gaze.

“We have...a certain degree of protection,” Gerry hazarded delicately. “It won’t do much against the likes of Peter himself, but lesser threats…”

“You’ll be fine,” Jon completed. “Now unless you want to run into them again, we had better get going.”

Martin glanced mutely between them, looking like he wanted nothing more than to argue. Then his shoulders slumped, probably realizing that he had no other choice considering how dire the situation was.

“Alright,” he murmured, defeated. “Let’s go.”

#tma #ask #pitviperofdoom #iceeckos12 writes #my writing #jongerrymartin #noir au

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sluttyten · 4 years

Text

This Dance

summary: you’re a trainee close to debut under SM, Ten is a very helpful sunbae who helps teach you how to dance better, becomes your best friend, and becomes a lot more.

words: 12,373

tags: idol!verse, friends to lovers, secret relationship (kinda), face riding, oral sex, loss of virginity, etc.

Ten was there to witness your great breakdown. Stress and many sleepless nights, a lacking diet, and your personal failure to do seemingly anything right brought on a bought of hyperventilation and tears and an aching chest, so you stole quickly from the practice room before the other trainees or your trainer could see.

The hallway wasn’t nearly enough of a private place to deal with the panic coursing through you, so you ducked away, wiping at your tears, barely able to see or breathe, so you definitely had no idea where you were going.

And then you bumped right into Ten as he was coming out of one of the other practice rooms.

“Oh, hey.” He caught you before you could fall.

A few other boys gathered in the doorway behind them, and feeling all of them gazing at you, all of them judging you and your tears only made everything worse for you. So you just dropped down into a crouch, trying to fit your head between your knees so you could maybe finally breathe.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ten knelt down in front of you, clearly somewhat uncomfortable as well with your display of emotions. He hesitated to touch you, but when you gave a great wheeze, he took hold of both of your wrists, and you looked up at him. “Breathe with me.”

Ten took a deep breath, held it, and then let it flow out slowly. You tried your best to match it, but it was difficult, and it took a few repetitions before you could manage your shaky breaths in time with his. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of your wrists, his eyes locked with yours as he helped you regulate your breathing.

At some point you noticed that it was just the two of you. The other members of WayV had left. Just Ten holding your wrists, helping you breathe, and when that was under control, you fell back onto your bum.

“What’s wrong?” Ten asks again, his voice so gentle. Tears still drip from your eyes, trailing down your cheeks, from the tip of your nose and chin. Ten carefully reaches over, cautiously swipes the pad of his thumb under your eyes, and then he pinches his sleeve between his fingers to dab at your tears. “Is it the training?”

You nod, choking down a breath, blinking away the tears as best you can. “It’s just a lot. But I don’t need to tell you that, you’ve been through it too.”

“Every experience is different for everyone.” Ten’s sleeves are warm against your cheeks, dry and comforting. You want to lean into him, but at the same time you are brutally aware of the impropriety of this interaction. He’s your senior in the company, a debuted famous idol, and you’re just a trainee who is failing.

“i’m just so bad at everything.” You sigh, sniffling a bit. “Jihye keeps telling me that my timing is off with the song. I know I’m messing up the choreo. And she keep telling me to lose weight, but I’m already--”

Ten shakes his head. “You don’t need to lose weight. You look perfect just the way you are. Well, you’re a little too damp right now, but once your cheeks dry a bit more, you’re perfectly perfect.”

Your face feels like it catches fire at the compliments. They’re certainly nothing that you ever expected to hear from Ten.

“And as for the choreo, I could help you out with that a little, if you’d like. I’m actually, miraculously not too busy right now.” Ten slips his phone out of his pocket and glances down at it, then looks back at you.

“Are you serious? Why would you help me? I’m just a trainee, and not even a very good one. Why help me?”

“I’ve been there.” Ten nods. “Stressed and feeling inadequate. It’s shitty. And I’ve seen you and the others training. You’re good, I promise, but you do need just a little bit of work, and I’d like to help because I think I can and stuff.”

His and stuff seems like a bit of a weak answer, but as your tears dry sticky on your face, you don’t mind the weakness of his answer because you want it. You want Ten to help you train, to help you improve to the standard you need to be at to debut.

“I want to say yes.” You tell him, “But I think right now I should get back in there before they notice and I get in trouble. Hanna and Heeyoung unnie definitely saw me leaving.”

“Of course, but if you still want, just let me know.” Ten rises to his feet.

You sit down there for a second longer, looking up at him.

“I’ll be around, so don’t give up on all this. Next time you’re feeling a bit--” He makes a face and kinda wiggles his fingers in a way like static coming from his head. “--frazzled, come find me. I’ll help you out.”

So you return to the practice room with a bit more confidence, and also the hope that soon you’ll be able to take Ten up on that offer.

That opportunity comes a week later.

You’re surviving the day on exactly one hour and fourteen minutes of sleep, several bottles of water, a handful of vitamins, and pure will to remain as a trainee in this company. While several of the other girls, especially the younger ones, have headed home for the night, you decided to hang back with Miyeon, your closest friend among the trainees.

But she’s currently dozing off in the corner while you drip sweat in the middle of the room, staring down your reflection to analyze your every move as the song plays on repeat from the speakers.

“Can we go home yet?” Miyeon groans. “I’m tired, it’s getting late. We’ll be back here tomorrow. Let’s just go rest.”

But you can’t rest, no matter how much your body begs you for a break. You have to perfect this.

“You go.” You tell her, taking a few seconds to catch your breath, gulp down some water to quiet the hungry rumbles of your belly. “

“I’m not going to leave you here to work yourself to the bone, dummy. And also, knowing you, you’re going to actually work at this until you pass out or hurt yourself in some way. I’m here to supervise.”

You wipe at the sweat under your chin. “You’re falling asleep over there, so you’re not doing a very good job of supervision, Miyeon.”

She frowns at you, but stands up, grabs her bag from beside her, and slips into her jacket. “Fine, I’m leaving, but if I wake up in the morning and you’re not in that bed across from mine, I’m going to beat your ass, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” You stretch your arms over your head. “I’ll just be here for a little bit longer, then I’ll be safe and asleep in the dorm. Swear.”

Miyeon holds you to that promise when she stretches out her pinky to you and waits for you to wrap your pinky finger around hers. You stamp your thumbs together to seal the promise.

She’s been gone for maybe a song and a half when you hear the door open behind you. You spin around, ready to tell her off, when you notice that it’s not Miyeon standing in the doorway watching, but Ten instead.

“Your shoulders are too tense. That’s why that move looks weird.” Ten tells you then he walks forward, leaving the doorway behind to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you. “Watch.”

And then he perfectly executes the choreography you’ve been struggling with for the past few days.

“That’s not fair!” You groan, collapsing onto the floor with your legs folded in front of you. “How are you just going to come in here and do it that easily on the first try?”

“Loosen up. You’re thinking about it too much, you just need to feel the music, let it move you.” He takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out. You mimic the motion, but Ten shakes his head. “You’re still tense. Stand up again.” Ten offers his hand down to you, and you place your hand in his, let him help you to your feet.

When Ten smiles, his eyes shimmer.

“Now, I want you to shake out the tension with me.”

He holds out his arms and starts moving them, shaking them, whipping his head around, bouncing on his feet. He looks silly, but relaxed and happy. You feel silly when you start doing it too. Like Ten just looks so loose and everything, and now that you’re doing this, you feel how tense you are, the stiffness in your arms. But as you shake it out with Ten, a laugh bubbles its way up to your lips, and when it breaks free, Ten laughs too, looking up at you as you both shake out the tension, your body growing looser.

“Now dance!” Ten laughs, stopping the silly moves and sliding right into the choreography to match with the music that’s been playing all this time in the background.

You hear the music, feel it like a thread slipping through your ear, streaming down into your body, and you move. You watch yourself in the mirror and you watch Ten beside you, and for the first time you feel like you’re doing it right. You feel the difference in before and now, the ease with which you let the moves move you.

As the song ends, Ten turns to you. “Perfect!”

You laugh and wrap your arms around him, dragging him into a tight and happy hug. “Thank you. I know it’s silly, but that really did help.”

Ten’s arm curls around your waist. “Happy to help.” His breath is warm on your cheek, his heartbeat pounds against yours, and all at once you’re reminded that he’s your senior, you’re a trainee, and you’ve been practicing like this for hours and you’re drenched in sweat.

You step back quickly.

A few more hours pass, Ten helping you with choreography, but mostly it’s just the two of you goofing around, dancing to whatever songs he plays. It’s getting late--or maybe getting early--so finally you call it quits.

“I have to get back to the dorm. I swore to Miyeon I’d actually get some sleep tonight.” You press your back to the mirror, sink down to the floor. “Though, I am half-tempted to just stay right here and fall asleep.”

“Don’t do that. Come on.” Ten offers you his hand again, and you take it to let him pull you to your feet. “Don’t let Miyeon down. And if you’re just reluctant to leave my wonderful company, don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

Every night for the next week, when the other trainees leave, and it’s only you left in the practice room, Ten arrives. You spend hours together dancing and laughing. Ten gets you to take breaks to just relax for a few minutes watching funny videos or just talking, sometimes he convinces you to eat with him, sometimes he sings, sometimes he convinces you to perform for him too.

Before long you realize that Ten’s more than just mentoring you. He’s not just helping you through this training period, he’s become a friend. You look forward to seeing him, and in those rare moments when you’re in your bed at the dorm scrolling through your phone, you sometimes see things that you know Ten would like to see. So sometimes you send them to him. He always replies. Sometimes he sends you funny things as well.

And then one morning, after a practice that ran nearly all night, Jihye hangs around later than normal to perfect her facial expressions while performing the choreography, and just as she’s walking toward the door to leave, Ten walks in looking freshly scrubbed, wide awake even though the world outside is only just waking.

“Oh?” He looks at her and then looks at you. “Hello.”

She greets him respectfully, throws a curious look back at you, and then cocks her head slightly to the side, but she says nothing. She just excuses herself and leaves you and Ten alone in the room.

You turn away from the mirrors, grab your phone and your bag, and then you face him with a wide smile breaking across your face. “Ten! I wanted to tell you . . .” Before you can say anything else, you yawn.

“Tired?” Ten asks.

You shake your head, but the yawn that immediately follows the first betrays your lie. “Okay, I’m a little tired. I definitely can’t do any more practice with you this morning.”

Ten shakes his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to. But do you want to get breakfast instead? My treat?”

“Oh, well, if you’re paying, then of course I want some.” You bounce toward him. “I need some coffee and probably something delicious to eat. What do you think?”

Ten buries his hands in the pockets of his black jacket, shrugs his shoulders, and tells you, “I thought we’d just see where the morning takes us.”

You’re actually not sure where the morning takes you.

The city is still half asleep as you walk out of the building and start down the street. Ten sticks close to your side, warm in the chilly dawn light, and when you shiver he makes you stop so he can give you the hoodie he wears under his jacket.

“What were you thinking not having a jacket in this weather?” He clucks at you, and you never took Ten for a mother hen sort, but he chastises you even as he hands you the hoodie still warm from his body, smelling like his body wash. You try your best to not make it obvious that you’re trying to inhale the scent of him from the fabric.

Ten leads you along streets, wandering with you until the sun begins to peer over the city, painting the sides of buildings golden, turning shadows blue, and when the sweet, delicious scent of freshly brewed coffee greets your noses, you duck inside a cafe.

It seems a magical little shop with a wall of french windows looking out onto a garden. Cute tables fill the shop, shelves line the walls, old bulbs hang from the ceiling and drape along the walls, and flowers decorate each table. You find a cushiony rounded booth in a corner of the place, and you sink into it while Ten orders something to drink for both of you.

You’re not falling asleep, but you are zoning out by the time that Ten arrives at the table with two steaming drinks. He slides in beside you, his shoulder against yours. You lift the drink to your face, inhale deeply the aroma of coffee and cream, and you take a sip before sitting it back down on the table.

Ten laughs quietly, and when you look over at him, he reaches up to wipe his thumb right above your top lip. His thumb comes away with some foam, and you watch as he brings his thumb to his own mouth. You stare as he sucks his thumb clean, and even once he lowers his hand, you can’t look away from his mouth until he clears his throat and turns back to his drink on the table.

You sigh, turning to the side as you sink against the back of the booth, resting your chin on the soft cushioniness of it. “I think I’m really sleepy. The coffee’s not working.”

“Do you want me to help you to your dorm?” Ten asks.

“Not yet.” You shake your head. “I wanted to tell you something earlier.”

Ten takes a sip from his mug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You sit up as you stifle another yawn. “We got the news while we were practicing earlier. We get to debut. All five of us.”

There’s a loud clang as he sits his mug down hard on the little saucer. “That’s amazing! Do you know anything else yet?”

You smile, unable to fight it. You’re so excited, and it’s all thanks to Ten, you feel like. Without his help, there’s no way that you would’ve been able to improve as much as you have over the last few weeks, and there’s no way that you would have been good enough that SM would want to debut you.

“All we know is that we’re debuting, and we’re not going to be put into NCT.” You laugh, fighting back another yawn. You drop your head onto his shoulder. “It’s all thanks to you, Ten. Thank you.”

“What did I do?” His voice is soft.

You know you should probably sit up, stop using his shoulder as a pillow, but he’s comfy and you’re tired and you don’t want to. So you leave your head there as you tell him, “You encouraged me to not give up. All these nights of practicing with you, you’ve really helped me. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to do this.”

“I think you’re underestimating yourself. And what would Heeyoung noona think if you didn’t attribute anything to her? I know for a fact that she’s been trying to help you too.”

You push at his arm then, and sit up. “Just take my thanks, Ten. Thank you for being wonderful, for being kind and helpful. Thank you for the coffee. Thank you for wiping my tears that day and supporting me ever since then.”

He ducks his head, but still you see the way his cheeks flush pink. “Just drink your coffee, so I can get you home. And I hope you enjoy it because the next time we get coffee you’re going to be the one paying, in the best new girl group in the industry.”

Leading up to and after debut, you don’t get the chance to see Ten nearly as much. For one thing, you’re constantly busy, and he’s pretty busy as well.

Heeyoung, Jihye, Miyeon, and Hanna are all pretty good company as well as your other staff members, but you miss Ten. Even though you message each other whenever you can, it’s not enough. It’s only occasional messages, usually with long lulls in between responses.

There’s a show that the five of you are invited to where the hosts play a song and you have to dance along to the song. Everyone had expected that Jihye and Miyeon were going to be the aces of the game, but you surprised everyone. Those many nights practicing with Ten had given you an extensive knowledge of dances for a lot of the more popular songs.

When the five of you did a VLive the day after that episode aired, several fans were asking questions to just get to know you better. Some asked questions about how close you were with other artists in the company.

“You’re really close with WayV’s Ten, aren’t you?” Jihye asks, nudging you.

You look at her for a few seconds, wondering why she’s decided to say that. If people misconstrue that, it won’t be good for you. The last thing you need as a rookie is to be in a scandalous rumored relationship with Ten. Why couldn’t she have mentioned that you and her are actually quite close with Yeri as well, and Taeyong was close to all of you, kind of like an older brother.

“Yeah,” You shrug at the camera. “Ten’s a good friend, a good dancer. When we were trainees he helped me practice my dancing. Taeyong oppa is really wonderful too. And Yeri, like we just had dinner with her the other night.”

Luckily, the other girls leap onto that bit, gushing to the fans about dinner with Yeri and all the fun it had been. You sit there and pray that everyone will skip over the part about Ten.

Of course they don’t. Shortly after the live is over, you’re online and you see many fans talking about Jihye’s comment, talking about you and Ten and your friendship that they really know nothing about. You even see screenshots and clips and gifs of you talking about him, fans suddenly shipping you together which - okay, weird, but even weirder the way it makes you feel kinda fluttery inside but also gross and watched and judged - and then you see that Ten did an Instalive where fans asked him about you which only fed their fire.

But you don’t get the chance to talk to him or see him until a few weeks later. It’s late and you’re at the practice room to perfect the choreo you and the girls are practicing for a performance you have coming up.

Hanna begs for a break so she can go pee, and as she runs from the room, you see a shape lingering outside the door, looking in.

Ten.

The other girls are gathered around your choreographer, not paying you any attention, so you slip unnoticed from the room.

“Ten!”

“Hey,” He smiles. “I heard you were practicing, so I just wanted to come watch for a minute.”

You sink back to lean against the wall. “And? What did you think?”

“You’re good.” Ten smiles an adorable yet cocky thing. “You must’ve had a good teacher.”

With a laugh, you push at his shoulder, and tease him, “Miyeon and Jihye have taught me so well. Just them, no one else.”

“Oh, really? Because I’ve heard it a little different. And I remember it a little different.” He steps closer to you as Hanna comes bolting back past to squeeze through the door of the practice room. “I remember late nights, just us dancing until you physically couldn’t dance anymore.”

“I miss those nights,” You admit quietly, looking him in the eye as you say, “I miss hanging out with you, both of us sweaty and exhausted and honestly pretty gross, but those were the best times.”

Ten smiles and makes a little face like he can’t believe you would admit to something so cheesy as missing him. And then he softly says, “Me too. You should probably get back in there.” He nods toward the door, and when you look, you see Hanna and Miyeon staring through the glass pane at you and Ten. “I’ll text you later.”

No sooner have you entered the practice room again than the girls all begin teasing you, and no amount of you insisting that “It’s not like that!” they don’t stop until you’re feeling positively flushed, your stomach fluttery and funny, and the thought clings to the back of your mind, is it like that?

The next time you get to see Ten you’re on the verge of another breakdown.

You’ve not had a proper sleep for a week, nor a proper meal in nearly as long. Your group has wholly been a success, and because of that, your schedule as you prepare for this comeback has been extremely taxing on you mentally and physically. Your emotions are a wreck, your body aches and feels heavy. You’re fatigued, but there’s no opportunity for rest. They’ve been working the five of you relentlessly, and finally young Hanna slips, falls, and knocks her head against the practice room’s floor.

While your manager takes her to the hospital just to get her checked out, you and the other three are told to just continue practicing. To perfect yourselves.

The staff member who stays to observe is one that you don’t like. She’s mean, she’s rude, she’s just an intolerable person, in your opinion.

All it takes is a few sharp comments from her on top of you worrying about Hanna, being sleep-deprived and hungry, and then also worrying about the reception of this comeback by the fans. You feel the panic begin to seep into your, dark and cloying, thick like ink running through your veins, constricting your chest, and darkening the edges of your vision.

You walk out and don’t look back.

When you call Ten, he answers on the third ring, sounding sleepy and it’s then that you remember that it’s actually late.

“Ten?” You say his name as soon as you hear him answer.

The panic you’re feeling must come through in your voice, because immediately Ten sounds more alert. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, you were probably sleeping. I just--I’m kind of freaking out, there’s just... everything, and right now I just can’t--Hanna’s on her way to the hospital because she hit her head, and Soyeon unnie is a bitch, and I’m just freaking out about it all, Ten. I walked out of practice and now I’m sitting right outside the building and....” Your chest aches and it’s kinda hard to breathe and you realize that you’ve been crying and why is there not enough air in the world right now?

“Hey,” Ten’s voice is soft, the same way it was that first day, the last time he saw you like this. “Hey, I’m actually right around the corner. I’ll be there in a minute, just breathe for me, okay? Come on, I know you know how. In.” You hear him inhaling deeply. Holds it. And then releases it slowly. “Out.”

You try to do it, but for some reason your lungs won’t cooperate, only sucking in jagged breaths that don’t seem to fill your chest at all before you’re exhaling, and tears pour out of you and a disgusting snotty sob sounds, and all the while you hear Ten’s voice in your ear and everything is just so much, so overwhelming, so everywhere.

And then he’s in front of you, crouched down before you with gentle hands on your wrists. He pries your phone out of your hands, takes your hands away from your face, and the way he’s looking at you makes things worse because he looks at you so tenderly and pitying, and you’re sure you look a mess right now after hours of practice and now your tears and snot and all that.

He says your name, quietly at first, and then when you don’t respond he says it more sharply.

You meet his eyes.

“Breathe with me. I’ve got you.”

And slowly but surely it works. Your breathing is still a bit shaky, and you still feel about one second away from bursting into tears, but Ten holds your hand and keeps talking to you, and for the first time you really feel a surge of love for him. Friendly love and romantic love and just appreciation for this godsend of a human being in front of you.

You collapse against him, resting your head on his shoulder, and Ten takes it with a little laugh, his arms wrapping around you.

“Thanks for coming.” Your murmur into the softness of his hoodie. “What were you doing around here anyway?”

Ten squeezes you a little bit, and says, “The rest of the group’s in China to film something, but I have another schedule so I’m here alone for a few days. There’s this place around the corner that I was craving since we get it delivered sometimes while we’re training. I was about to head in when you called.”

“Sorry to make you miss your food.” You sit back, wipe the backs of your hands over your cheeks, under your nose. “And I probably look like a mess, don’t I? I should head home. There’s no way I’m heading back in there; I already know Heeyoung unnie’s gonna bitch me out for walking out like that.”

“Let Heeyoung noona be mad at you. Come eat with me.” He stands, tugging on your hand still tangled with his. “Come on.”

So Ten holds your hand, wipes at your cheeks again, and together you walk the few streets over to the small restaurant he’d been craving. It’s a tiny place, and they look as if they’re about to close, which you tell him as he starts to open the door, but Ten shakes his head. “They love me here, just watch.”

He pushes the door open and immediately the older woman behind the counter cheers, grinning from ear to ear as she says Ten’s name. They are about to close for the night, it turns out, but that just means that they’ve got some unsold food that they need to get rid of, and they just pile it all into Ten’s arms and send the pair of you off with more than enough food.

“Well,” Ten sighs, shifting the weight in his arms. “Do you want to come back to the dorm and eat with me?”

You think of Heeyoung, of Miyeon and Jihye all leaving practice and returning to the dorm to find you’re not there. Maybe you’ll text them and tell you where you are. . . . But they’ll tease you about Ten, make this into more than it really is. You could just part ways with Ten right here, go back to your own dorm and wait for your members to return, though you’ll get an earful from your leader, and Miyeon’s inevitably going to worm the information out of you about how you’d disappeared with Ten to calm down.

You spend so long deliberating that Ten makes the decision for you. He passes one of the bags over to you, and then another, and when you’ve got bags of food in each hand, Ten starts walking in the direction of WayV’s dorm. You follow quickly behind.

The dorm is dark and quiet when Ten forces the door open. He slips off his shoes, drops his keys in a basket by the door, and trots on into the darkness. You hesitate, suddenly aware of how you’re alone with Ten and no one else knows where you are. Not that you think he’d, like, murder you or anything like that, it’s just an instinctive kind of paranoia you’d feel if it were any man leading you into a situation like this.

“Are you coming inside?” Ten calls, and a second later the lights flip on, illuminating the entry way and the rows and rows of shoes beside the door. You let your shoes join the ranks, and you slide across the floor in your socks, stepping into the open area of the living room and kitchenette.

Off to the left is the living room area: a wide bay of windows looking out to the street with vertical blinds slightly hindering the view. There’s a rather comfy looking sofa, a beanbag chair, a large TV, and various video game consoles.

Directly to your right is the kitchenette, just a fridge and a stove, a microwave, a toaster, and a blender. Ten’s shoving some of his load of leftover food into the fridge, and you sit yours carefully on the limited counterspace. It doesn’t stay there for long. Ten unpacks it and the pair of you move across the room to the sofa (which is just as comfy as it had looked), and he turns on Netflix. You eat and watch, and finally when the last of the food is gone it’s very late and you’re very full.

Ten takes the take out containers as one episode ends, and you wonder if this is the moment when you should tell him that you should leave, head back to your dorm. But a large part of you doesn’t want to leave. You’re really comfortable on this sofa, with Ten, watching this interesting show.

“Are you feeling better now?” Ten asks, falling back down beside you, he lifts his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

“Mmm, but now I’m stuffed.” You sigh. “I don’t think I can even move.”

“So don’t,” Ten says, “Text your members and tell them where you are so they don’t worry. Stay. We can finish bingeing this.”

You excuse yourself to the bathroom for a few moments to collect your thoughts, and while you’re in there you rinse your face and stare at your reflection. Then you pull out your phone and text your members that you’re staying at a friend’s place tonight.

Come tomorrow, you know you might have a few regrets. You might regret all that food you’d just eaten when you wake up feeling bloated. You might regret walking out of practice earlier. You might regret not sleeping in your own bed for an attempt at a good night’s sleep.

But as you rejoin Ten on the sofa, you somehow don’t think you’ll regret this.

He produced a large, fluffy blanket from somewhere and as you scoot closer to him, he drapes it over you and you huddle together side by side. Not that the dorm is really cold or anything, it just feels so nice to be so close to each other, sharing body heat under the blanket.

At some point, the day’s stresses finally hit you. Your eyelids droop, your head nods, and you barely even feel when Ten guides your head to his shoulder.

You dream of a stage, performing up there all alone, a single blazing spotlight focused on you and only you. You can hear the murmurs of the audience as you dance, every sound magnified in the odd quietness of the crowd; every squeak of your shoes on the stage, your breathing thunderous, even the sound of your hair flying loosely around your face has sound. It’s such an odd and mildly terrifying experience, to be so alone and so observed.

You wake with a start.

The TV shut off at some point, and the room is built out of slate gray and black shadows except for the muted blue glow coming from the clock on the microwave across the room. You’re on your side, the blanket still draped over you, and then you hear the quiet of Ten’s breath, feel the flutter of it against your skin, the warmth of his against your back, his legs tangled with yours.

You don’t know how exactly you got like this, to be spooning with Ten on the sofa. But you’re not mad or perturbed or anything other than comfortable and content.

He shifts a little in his sleep, makes the quietest whispery murmur that could almost be a word, though in what language you’re not sure. You press back against him, sink into his warmth, and you fall back asleep.

It doesn’t seem much later when you wake again.

Your phone is vibrating loudly on the floor, chiming quietly as well. Blearily you reach for it, and through the haze of your half-lidded eyes, you read that it’s your manager calling.

“Turn it off.” Ten mumbles, reaching over you to try to lower your phone. When he misses, he doesn’t pull the arm back, just curls it over your waist, dragging you more firmly back against him. You let the phone fall back to the floor because you know you’re not going to answer your manager.

For one thing, it’s quarter past five in the morning. You crave sleep and relaxation, and you know that as of yesterday, your schedule for today was empty until after noon.

For a second thing, Ten’s scent and heat encompasses you, drawing you back into him, and as you sink against him, you feel him pressing back against you.

You roll over carefully to face him, not that it really helps the situation. You can still feel Ten--a hard rigid line in his pants--pressing against your hip. And when you lift a hand to touch Ten’s chest, he stirs, eyes only opening a crack, but it’s enough for him to see you so close and he covers your hand with his, laying your palm flat over his heartbeat.

You make the next first move, lifting your hand toward his jaw. Ten’s fingertips burn against the back of your hand, following you to caress his face with your fingers, admiring the shadows of his face. He watches you carefully, and when you lean closer, lifting your mouth to his, he doesn’t flinch but lets his eyelids flutter closed.

The first press is gentle, soft, not more than a peck.

Ten sighs as you pull back just an inch, and then you dip back in for more and he opens his mouth to let you in. The taste of his mouth is so sweet, but there’s a bitterness to it as well like the take out you’d eaten together hours ago, but you crave more of him, press closer.

Slowly, Ten pulls you over him, your legs slotting together, your chest laid against his. You absentmindedly grind down against him until he moans and drops his head back to swear, “Fuck, what are you doing to me?”

You push your fingers into his hair, and Ten looks up at you as if he’s beholding the entirety of the universe above him. You squirm, pushing your hips down against his thigh, grinding against his bulge again, and Ten’s hands grasp at your waist. You bite your lip, toy with his hair, and Ten swears again and the sound of it is so unrestrained and hungry that you feel a burst of heat in your belly, a gush of wetness where his leg presses between your legs.

This all feels very sudden, but also long overdue.

You think of all the late nights alone together practicing and laughing and talking. Imagine what it would have been like if you’d just kissed him one of those nights. Not that you would have at first. For the first few weeks you made sure to not say or do anything that he would think was you coming onto him in anyway because for those first few weeks you definitely believed that Ten was probably gay.

He’d done little to dissuade you from that notion until a night when you mentioned dating in the industry, and Ten said, “I’ve never had the guts to bring anyone I liked into this. Fans can be so hateful towards girlfriends, I’ve seen it with like Kai hyung. I wouldn’t want to bring a girl I liked under criticism like that.” To which you’d asked, “A girl you liked?” And Ten had nodded, not really noting your ever-so-slight tone of surprise then, and he said, “Yeah, right now there’s not really anyone,” he gave you a sideways look and a smile, “But maybe someday I’ll find a girl who I just won’t be able to get out of my head or my life.”

And now here you are, straddling his thigh on his sofa in his otherwise empty dorm. Are you a girl that he likes enough to not be able to get you out of his head?

His fingertips dip under your shirt, warm on your bare skin as they push just inside your waistband, holding there.

“I was dreaming about you,” Ten tells you. “It all felt so real. The heat of you on me, your perfume and shampoo. How soft you are.” His fingers sink a bit deeper under your clothes, and you want them even deeper, touching you where you need him. Your breath hitches when he does push the waistband of your pants down a little more, the cooler air of the dorm meeting your heated skin. You feel Ten’s heartbeat thundering against yours where your chests are pressed together.

When his fingers skim over the curve of your ass, your breath stutters out of you, and you drop your head to his shoulder with a whimper.

“Is this okay?” He asks, turning his lips to touch your hair. You nod, but Ten waits until you murmur a “yes” before he continues.

You lift your hips to help as he pushes your pants and panties down your legs, and when your hips sink down again, you feel the fabric of his jeans against your bare wet pussy. And a moment later, his nimble fingers brush against your heat. You bite back another sound, tucking your face against his neck.

“Have you done this before?” Ten asks.

“I fumbled around with a boy when I was in high school.” Your lips touch his throat with each word. “But he was the only one. It’s been a while. You?”

Ten only gives you a “Yeah,” and doesn’t elaborate with any details.

You grind down against his thigh, attempt to push back to get his fingers to touch you more, but Ten’s hands return to your hips, holding you still. You sit up to look down at him, and his eyes fall down your body to where your shirt ends and your bareness begins. Heat flushes through you, embarrassment a bit, but Ten’s eyes show nothing but appreciation as he takes in the sight of your pussy against his thigh.

He clears his throat.

“Can I eat you out?”

By this point, the morning light is starting to turn the room from darkness into pale blueness. So there is absolutely no mistaking the hungry way he looks at you. No mistaking the way he licks his lips, the way that his hands flex against your hips and his dick twitches within the confines of his pants against your thigh.

“Please?” Ten asks, and his hold on you has you shifting up his body slightly. Your pussy throbs when you look at his lips again, at his whole pretty face, imagining that tucked between your thighs, his tongue working magic on you.

Ten shifts and wiggles until he’s more comfortable, and to accommodate for that, you shift as well so you’re straddling his hips instead of just the one thigh, and now you sit fully against his bulge. You feel him pulse against your wet heat, divided only by a couple layers of cloth. He feels a decent size, and you wish you could just have him inside you, but Ten once again licks his lips and pleads a soft, “Please sit on my face.”

Hearing him beg for you like that is like nothing else you’ve ever experienced. You go immediately, letting him shift you up his body until your knees rest on the cushion on either side of his head. Ten looks up at you, his thumbs stroking your hips, gentle circles with his fingers, his breath warm and wet.

And at the first touch of his mouth on your needy pussy, you moan for him.

His eyes are half-lidded, his tongue pleasant and warm as he tastes you, and the first beams of morning sunlight break into the room.

You squirm and wiggle and Ten laps at your juices, you grind down against his tongue. He moans, hands grasping at you, pulling you down harder against his face. You press your fingers into his hair, sighing his name as he sucks on your clit, and when he twists his head to the side to nip at your thighs, you swear quietly, but Ten quickly buries his face back against you again, licking and sucking and drinking your wetness.

Your thighs shake on either side of his head as you get closer, and you can feel him smiling against your, loving how he’s getting you to fall apart for him.

You rub yourself against his tongue, grinding against his face, and Ten pushes a hand up the front of your shirt to get at your breasts, massaging his palm against your chest.

Sunlight spills into the room, the full golden warming glow of it breaks over your body just as Ten pulls your orgasm from you. You twist your fingers in his hair, whining and moaning and shaking, squeezing his head with your thighs, and yet he just keeps licking at you sweetly.

Dismounting his face is easier said than done. Your legs quiver, and Ten laughs at your wobbly movement as you attempt to balance on one knee. He slides onto his side, his back against the sofa’s back and you just collapse back in front of him and push at his chest, hiding your face in embarrassment.

Ten’s fingers brush over your forehead, fixing a few strands of hair. His other hand pulls your leg up to his waist, fingers tapping a rhythm against your thigh. “Was that good for you?”

“What a stupid question.” You mumble, tucking your face against his chest. “Did I cum that hard and not feel good?”

“I don’t know, should I do it for you again and see how it compares?” Ten asks, his voice light and amused as his fingers skim up your thigh toward your pussy again. You squirm and whine, and he stops, just massaging your thigh instead. You can still feel his erection against you, but he doesn’t seem in any rush to take care of it.

Instead he kisses your cheek, nuzzles into your hair, holds you against him like that. He pulls a blanket from the back of the sofa to cover you, and you cling tighter to him and ignore the persistent rising of the sun outside, the passing of time. You don’t want to leave. You want to stay cuddled together on this sofa instead of leaving, returning to your dorm with your group members.

You slip your arm around his waist, your leg still hoisted up to his hip where he’d brought it, and though Ten makes no effort to do anything about his erection, you still feel it hard against you, and the longer you do, you wonder why he’s not making a move. So you do.

Ten makes an inquisitive sound when you slip your hand inside his pants, but that sound quickly becomes a moan when you curl your hand around him. His tip is wet, his length warm and achingly hard, and when you ease his cock out of his pants, Ten shivers. Especially when you shift and guide him toward your entrance.

“This bit,” You whisper to him, “This bit I’ve not done.”

Ten pauses, holding back even as you try to get him inside you. “You’re still a virgin?”

You meet his eyes and shrug. “In some ways. Not in others.”

“But in this way?”

“Right.” You nod. You’d only ever messed around with the one guy before. You’d done pretty much everything except have his dick inside you. And then you’d come to SM, became a trainee and you were too focused on perfecting yourself for debut. You’d not had time to waste on dumb boys who you were just going to have to dump before debut anyway.

But Ten is so much more than just a dumb boy. He’s one of your best friends. A mentor, a friend, someone who you’ve got feelings for, someone who’s in this industry too.

Ten kisses you now, still holding back but his bare cock slides against your wetness. You’re so ready for this, you just want him inside you, but he rolls you onto your back and leans over you.

“Ten.” You whine and grip his shoulder.

He kisses the corner of your mouth and then your jaw, your neck, down toward your collarbones. And then he sits up, and you watch as he tucks his cock back into his pants.

“What are you doing?” You pout, reaching for his waistband, but Ten gently pushes your hands away. “Don’t you want me?”

“I want to make sure you’re ready for this. And also, I don’t have any condoms. I was just getting carried away. We can’t right now.” Ten explains, slumping back onto the other end of the sofa, running his hands over his hair. He looks at you there like this, looking flushed and wet and ready, your legs spread open so he can see your pretty pussy.

He swallows hard.

“I want you so much, trust me.” Ten tears his gaze away from between your legs. “But not now. Not like this.”

You sit up, tug your shirt down and yank the blanket back up to cover you. “What’s it going to take? How does it have to be?”

Ten shakes his head a little, like he’s clearing his thoughts. “When we’re more ready. When you weren’t just sobbing and having a panic attack a few hours ago. When I’ve got condoms and an empty dorm again. I want you, I really do, but I don’t think we should risk all of this. Unprotected sex is never a good idea. Plus, it’s going to be your first time, I don’t want you to rush into this.”

“I’m not rushing! I’ve had months to think on this, to think about how much I want you, Ten! You’re handsome and kind and smart and wonderful. You’re gentle and strong, and all of those nights you spent teaching me how to dance better, watching you like that made me want you. I love the way you move, and how you’ve taught me to move like that. So teach me how to fuck, teach me this dance.”

He smiles and reaches for you, and you crawl down the sofa toward him, let him draw you into his lap, and then in for another kiss, sufficiently distracting you for a handful of minutes.

But then he still pulls away from you, strokes your hair back from your face. “Don’t you have a schedule today?”

You pout and sit back on your heels, drop your hand to palm at him (he’s still hard, and you don’t understand how he can be so focused on not getting his own pleasure), and you tell him, “Yes, but not for a few hours. Let’s run out and get some condoms.”

“You’re so horny.” Ten laughs, giving you a nose-wrinkled smile. “Honestly, I’m fine--”

But you don’t care to hear what else he was going to say, you drop down, flatten yourself on the sofa between his stretched out legs, and bring his erection back out into the morning sunlight.

He moans out loud when you take him into your mouth, lips wrapped gently around his tip, tongue warm against the underside of it. Ten’s hands fly to the back of your head, and he doesn’t pull you off or push you down, he just rests them there as a comforting presence when you start bobbing your head and sucking.

You find you like the taste of him, the weight of him, on your tongue. You like the way his legs twitch when you push down until you choke around him. You like his moans when you get a hand down to massage his balls. Ten bucks up into your mouth, choking you on his length again, and you love it even more when he gasps your name and swears and babbles in all the different languages he knows and you wish you understood them all too.

“I’m close,” he warns you moments before he spurts over your tongue, his hold in your hair keeping you there as you swallow around him, trying not to choke on his load, just swallowing it down.

You’ve not even finished and neither has he when he pulls you up. Semen is still dripping from your lips when Ten crushes your mouth to his, and he kisses you with his own cum still on your tongue. He kisses you until your lips feel raw and the cum has dried tacky on your chin and hands and his dick, but then Ten still tries to wipe up with the blanket.

When that fails, he suggests, “Want to wash off?”

He throws the blanket in their laundry machine, and then he fills their shower-tub combo with warm water that fills the room with heat and a light floral scent when he drops in some petals. It’s soft and pretty, much like him and the pretty blush that spreads across his cheeks when you tell him that.

Ten kisses you again for that.

Each of you take your own clothes off, and you spend the whole time checking Ten out, watching every inch of newly exposed skin like you’re ravenous for the sight of him.

He self-consciously covers his dick, although you’ve already seen that part of him. You appreciate the rest of him, the sight of his bare chest, his thighs, the soft tone of his stomach. You feel his eyes on you too, but you don’t care to cover yourself; you want him to see you.

Ten sinks into the bathwater, and after a moment you follow him in.

“This is nice.” Ten’s words echo around the bathroom. You lean back comfortably against his chest, his heartbeat thumps against your back and you rest your cheek against his shoulder. In a softer voice, he admits to you, “I don’t want to move.”

“We don’t have to. Let your members find us like this. Let mine come looking for me here.” You like this casual intimacy, being naked with each other, bathing together. If he won’t have sex with you just yet, then at least there’s this. His hand finds yours in the water, and he twists his fingers with yours. “We can stay here until we’re fully pruned, Ten-ah.”

There were days when you wished that you had truly never left that bathtub with Ten; when you wished that you wouldn’t have so easily let him talk you out of having sex. The bliss of that morning had lasted only a few more hours before your phone’s insistent ringing had drawn you out of the tub to finally answer your manager’s call.

You were in trouble.

And now, weeks and weeks later, you were still in trouble, still on lockdown basically. It sucked.

You weren’t allowed to go anywhere without one of the other members or your manager knowing. You weren’t allowed your phone hardly at all. You were only allowed to see Ten if you ran into each other on company premises. Your manager insisted on supervising those interactions, which drove both you and Ten wild.

You wanted to kiss him. You missed his lips on yours. Just that one morning had made you an addict to his kiss, his touch.

You couldn’t even text or call him, which made everything worse.

So you missed him. Terribly.

But it made sense to you why you were in trouble. You’d not answered any of your manager’s calls for hours that day. You’d run off the night before. Even once you had answered the call, you hadn’t come back to the dorm as commanded for a few more hours. And to top it all off, someone (likely a sasaeng of either yourself or Ten) had taken photos of you and Ten together that night, just walking together along the street.

Representatives from the company had assured the masses that you and Ten were not dating, and now you were being totally kept apart from each other.

Well, until the day of the big SMTown concert.

You were buzzing around backstage, the adrenaline of performing pumping through your veins as well as the opportunity to see Ten.

“Unnie, calm down just a bit.” Hanna suggested as you were sitting beside her getting your makeup done, but your leg was bouncing so intensely that you were shaking your whole body, making it difficult for your stylist.

“Sorry. I’m trying. I’m just so pumped for the show.” You said.

Hanna rolled her eyes and caught Miyeon’s eyes in the mirror too. You watched your two groupmates share a look.

“What?”

Miyeon rolled her eyes too. “We all know that you’re excited to see Ten.”

You’d confessed to Miyeon, as your best friend in the group, about what had happened that night and morning with Ten. The others didn’t know all of the details exactly, but they knew that you were with Ten and that you were actually really good friends and probably more.

“Their dressing room’s just down the hall. I’m sure you could accidentally walk in there,” Hanna suggested. “Or I could, and you could come looking for me. I’m still not too good at reading Korean as a foreigner, you know.” She made an innocent expression that was totally bullshit. She was fantastic at Korean, though she often played it up to the fans that she wasn’t just so she would seem cuter. “And maybe while we’re in there I’ll get a look at Jaemin.”

“You’re drooling, Hanna.” Heeyoung came over to stand behind you. “But she’s right. They’re just down the hall, spread out through like three different dressing rooms, so you’d have to pick the right one at the right time to get them both in the same room at the same time. Better to just wait until we’re all on stage.”

And you know she’s right.

But that doesn’t mean that you don’t peek your head out the door of your dressing room once you’re fully ready to go up on stage.

You can spot several of the NCT members wandering around outside their dressing rooms, but you don’t spot Ten. Though you do see Jaemin and he stares down your direction when Hanna passes by you so she can go down to Red Velvet’s dressing room to hang out with Yeri.

And finally, you see Ten come out of one of those doorways. His arm is slung around Kun’s shoulders and he’s laughing, then he sees you and he just smiles and waves. You would go approach him, but at that moment, your manager appears and pulls you back into your own dressing room for you to film a little clip to be posted later.

When you and your members are taken to the stage for your turn to perform, you pour your heart and soul into it, but a good portion of your mind is still on Ten, wondering if he’s watching your performance, if he’s been as excited to see you today as you’ve been to see him. You wonder if after the show today you might be able to sneak away.

The performance goes without a hitch. The rest of the concert passes by splendidly, and then at last it’s time for the closing stage with the whole SMTown family on stage. It’s crowded with all of the artists milling around the stage, smiling, waving, greeting each other and fans, singing and dancing around.

You almost bump into Ten.

He catches your arm, and though you know there are hundreds of fans around, virtually even more watching, you stand there with Ten and you smile at him, feeling the heat of his hand trailing away from your arm.

“Hey!” You call loud enough that he can hear you, though with the volume of the place, it’s nearly impossible to hear unless you’re speaking directly into each other’s ears. So when he tries to speak to you, you don’t make out very much of what he says at all.

You lean closer, trying to hear him, and when you do he shakes his head, and shouts louder, “Dance with me!”

His hand circles your wrist, and he lifts your arms into the air, swaying along to the music. It barely counts as dancing, but you don’t care.

You smile and wave with your free hand at the audience in front of you, but you hold onto Ten’s hand and sway to the music. Someone says something over one of the microphones, and you and Ten turn to where most everyone’s walking back to the main stage.

Letting go of his hand is the last thing you want to do, but you must. He stays by your side though, still waving at fans, though his smile is more often than not turned to you. You talk nonsense with him, unable to tell him in front of this whole audience that you want him to fuck you, so instead you compliment him on his performance.

You take the final bow beside each other, holding onto his hand with one, onto Miyeon’s with the other.

The moment you’re offstage, out of sight of fans, you turn and look for him again. Your members move by you, the Shinee members run by, and then you see some of the NCT members coming by, and finally Ten.

You grab his arm and he wraps his around you, squeezing you in a tight hug, his cheek against yours. “I miss you.” You tell him, “I want you.”

Ten looks around, notices that the other artist slipping by aren’t paying either of you any attention. He presses his lips to yours in a relatively chaste kiss. It’s not enough and you both know it. You fist your hands in his shirt, bring his mouth crashing back onto yours.

You have no plans the following day. Your flight back to Seoul isn’t until the following day, and then several of the girls are going home to visit their families since you’ve got the whole week off. You know Ten’s schedule’s clear the following day too because you’d bribed your manager to find out his flight information and he’d relented, maybe finally taking pity on you in this whole situation.

“Not here.” Ten tells you even as he continues kissing you. “Can you meet me at the hotel gym? At midnight?”

“The gym? Tonight?”

Ten nods, kisses you again, and then disappears down the hallway, and you have to navigate your way back to your dressing room alone.

Life seems to always get in your way.

Your manager insists that if you’re going to go down to the hotel gym at this hour alone, then you can’t go. But if he accompanies you, then you can go. “It’s too late, and you definitely shouldn’t be down there working out alone.”

“It’s not even that late?” You direct his attention to the nearest clock, showing that it’s only almost ten o’clock at night.

He shakes his head. “You can’t go alone.”

“But--!”

He shakes his head sharply. “No. And why do you even want to go work out? You just finished performing. You should rest tonight. I already know you’re going to be complaining for the next few weeks that you’re tired and never get enough rest. Well, take this chance to take a rest. You have a whole week off. If you really want to work out, go then. But tonight, stay in and relax.”

You can see that there’s no way that he’s going to let you leave your hotel room. So you sigh, “Can I at least have my phone back? It’s been weeks. I’ve been good. Followed all of your stupid rules and restrictions. And I’m an adult, oppa. Stop treating me like a kid by taking my phone away.”

“You’re right.” He makes a face. “Every time you act up we should tell you we’re going to restrict your Ten access. Stay right here.”

He leaves your room for a few moments, and when he reappears, he’s got your phone. “Behave, okay? You’ve got your phone. You got to see and talk to and touch Ten earlier. Please, don’t cause me any more trouble. Jihye and Hanna are doing a VLive in their room. Miyeon and Heeyoung are right next to you. My door is right across the hall, remember, so if you try to go down there tonight, I’ll know.”

“I won’t leave my room, oppa. Good night.” You hurry him out, and as soon as he’s gone you lock the door and leap onto your bed, rejoicing that you got the lucky draw for the single room. And then you call Ten.

His phone rings. And it rings and rings and rings.

Right before it sends you to voicemail, he answers, speaking your name breathlessly into the phone. “You’ve got your phone back?”

“Yes, and my manager won’t let me leave my room to come down to the gym.” You sigh and stare up at the ceiling. “But he never said anything about anyone coming here. I have my room all to myself.”

Ten’s end of the call is silent for a moment, just crackling static, and then, “What’s your room number?”

He’s at your door fifteen minutes later, softly knocking, and you quietly open the door to let him slip inside, then you close it just as quietly.

Ten slides his arms around your waist, and you spin in his arms to face him, cling to his shoulders and let him press you back against the door as he kisses you breathless, until your belly is in knots.

You untangle yourself from him, taking one of his hands from your waist, you begin to lead him away from the door, toward the bed instead. And that’s when Ten spots your bluetooth speaker. “I’m gonna play some music,” he tells you, pulling out his phone from his pocket, and when he does, a whole string of condoms falls out.

You stoop to pick them up, toss them over onto the bed. Ten quickly taps through his phone, and soon music is playing through the speaker, and he drops his phone to put his hands on you again.

You start by pushing his jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and you lift his sweatshirt over his head, groan when you see the tshirt he’s wearing beneath that. “How many layers have you got on?” You whine, dipping your fingers underneath to push it up his chest, getting him naked from the waist up. Ten laughs, his hands moving to strip you too, a much easier feat as you’re only wearing a tshirt and a sleeveless top beneath, which he pushes down to your waist before unfastening your bra.

He touches you lightly, his hands skimming up your side, cupping your breasts, a thumb teasing over each nipple as they harden under his attention. “You’re so beautiful,” Ten tells you, backing you toward the bed, kissing you once before you turn away, pushing your pants and panties down and slinking back onto the mattress.

As you look at Ten there at the foot of the bed, carefully stripping out of his pants, you’re filled with an overwhelming want and need for him. You’re wet and hot, and when you slide a hand down to touch yourself, Ten groans, and his cock appears in his hand as he moves onto the bed too.

You sigh his name, reaching for his hip, drawing him closer.

The music flows through the room, filling the silences, masking any of the sounds you might be making that would otherwise be audible to the rooms on either side of yours.

Ten watches as you play with yourself, your wetness glistening in the room’s lighting. You’re about to actually get a finger inside yourself when Ten’s hand touches your wrist. “I want to do that. Let me do that for you.”

As if you would tell him no?

Ten sinks over you, and his fingers dip between your legs, touching your clit, slipping through your wetness, and then at last, he presses one finger inside you. You squirm and whimper softly, touching his shoulders and his chest, tangling your fingers around the back of his neck to pull his mouth down against yours.

“So pretty,” Ten coos, kissing you once before he moves his kisses to your neck. “Watching you perform earlier tonight, all I could think of was how pretty you are, how talented. How much you deserve to be happy and feel good. Like this.” He slowly pumps his finger inside you, but you want more, and when you buck your hips and whine about it, he gets the message and fits another finger in beside the first.

He fingers you gently, taking his time in getting you nice and wet, stretched for his cock. He kisses you, whispering praises that make you wetter and needier, until you’re certain that you’re dripping onto the bed, creating a puddle on the sheets, but Ten doesn’t let up. He uses his thumb on your clit, swirling it in circles while he presses three fingers inside you, massaging that spongy pleasurous spot inside you.

“Ten, please.” You beg. “Please let me cum.”

He nods, kisses your throat where he can feel your heartbeat. “Cum for me.”

His fingers curl, his thumb rubs your clit just right, and you close your legs around his hand, twist your fingers in his hair, and keen his name. Your orgasm pulses through you in waves as Ten keeps fucking you on his fingers. He even kisses down your throat to your chest and leaves little love bites on your breasts.

And you feel satisfied, but still hungrier for him.

No sooner has he pulled his fingers out, wiping them on the bedsheets, than he’s moving forward, reaching for the string of condoms you’d tossed aside earlier.

Ten tears one open, and you watch as he rolls it down his length, and then you reach for him, pulling him in between your legs where you’re warm and wet and needy. “Fuck me, Ten. I need to feel you fill me up. Please.”

You’re ready for him. Never been readier.

His tip pushes inside you, a strange feeling but not painful or uncomfortable really. And then the rest of him follows slowly. He eases into you, gazing down at you and the way that you bite your lip to keep from moaning, the way you turn your head to the side so you don’t have to look at him looking at you feeling embarrassed about your body and the way that he’s inside you. It feels so strange and intimate and good and sweet and right to be doing this with Ten.

“You okay?” He asks once he’s fully inside you. You breathe shortly feeling odd with something as long and wide around as a penis inside of you. It’s much different than fingers or a tampon. “Alright?”

You nod. “Fine. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Ten laughs. “Just chilling inside a beautiful girl.”

You lift your hips slightly, and something in Ten’s expression changes. He pulls back just a bit and then pushes into you again, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth until you reach up, drag your thumb just under his bottom lip and then lean up to kiss him.

You find very quickly that the rhythm of his hips moving against yours, his cock thrusting inside you, it’s a rhythm that you can follow with your own movements, the rise and fall of your chests against each other, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. It’s all just a dance. A very, very intimate dance, but a dance nonetheless.

Ten soon is moaning for you, burying his face against your shoulder to kiss and bite at the sensitive skin there. Marking you, but in a place where no one will see. He pushes one of your legs higher, giving himself a different angle to thrust in at, and you drag your nails down his back and cry out his name.

When he cums, it’s sudden. His teeth drag against your skin, his breath hot and fast as he moans, bucking into you and filling the condom, though you do wish that you could feel him cumming inside you. His heartbeat races, you can feel it where your hand rests against his back, thundering under your palm.

And you’re not sure what comes over you then, what confidence it is that convinces you to push him over onto his back, and you sit upon him, and ride his cock.

Ten lifts a hand to your breasts, watching you with warm, sensual eyes as you seek your own orgasm. His thumb of his other hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles on the sensitive nub until you feel a pressure building low in your belly, the sweet build up that tingles from your belly to your toes and in your fingers, and Ten sits up, wraps an arm around your waist, his lips dance over your shoulder again, his thumb still building your pleasure, and you cry out, moaning and swearing and your orgasm overflows through you, and it grows more intense and then you hear Ten swear and you can feel your orgasm literally spilling from you as you squirt on his cock.

But it feels so good even as you’re overwhelmed with embarrassment. It takes you a moment to come down, wrapped around his softening erection, your belly and his sticky from your essence.

“That’s embarrassing,” you mumble when you’ve somewhat recovered.

Ten laughs. “No, it’s cute. I promise. Very cute.” He dips forward to kiss you. “You’re the cutest. I wish you could’ve seen yourself just then. So sexy and cute, pretty and wet and warm around me. Never wanna let you out of my arms again.”

He wrapped his arms tight around you and rolled you under him once more, showering your face in kisses until you’re laughing with him still inside you, a stranger sensation than anything yet.

After a while, Ten does pull out of you, leaving you to dispose of the condom. You go pee and get a glass of water, and then the pair of you crawl back into the big bed, drawn together under the covers like magnets, and you fall asleep tangled together like that.

In the morning, you’re woken by your manager knocking on the door, telling you that it’s already late, and you should be awake by now. You hear Miyeon’s voice as well, calling that she wants to go exploring, and she wants you to come with her.

But Ten’s still beside you in bed, looking sleepy and soft. You want to spend the morning with him, wrap yourself around him and draw pleasure from each other again, but Ten kisses your shoulder and climbs from the bed. “You should go. I’ll see you back in Seoul.”

You dress quickly, brushing your hair into a messy bun, and before you walk out the door, you snag Ten’s sweatshirt from the pile of his clothes on the floor and put it on.

If Miyeon or your manager notices the love bites peeking out from the collar of a sweatshirt that’s not yours, neither of them says a thing.

The End

a/n: this was not the story I originally intended. like I was going to write a bakery friends to lovers au with ten, but it became this instead oops. anyway I hope you enjoyed it! please let me know what you thought, like and reblogs are appreciated!

#ten #ten smut #wayv #nct #nct smut #wayv smut

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vegalocity · 3 years

Note

10/18 spicynoodles plis

Prompt meme || @deborahsworld

10.A Shy Kiss/18. Holding Hands

Hell yeah time for fluff

Okay... first date....Going pretty well so far. The Movie was okay—MK wasn't very big on horror movies even ones as old as this one was, but Red Son was really excited when he saw it was being played for a ‘foreign movies’ night at the movie theater and what, could have have argued against such enthusiasm?—if a bit slow going and atmospheric.

Though after the heroes found the monster frozen and seemingly dead in the abandoned Norwegian outpost, all twisted and malformed, he really hoped his appetite wouldn't be killed by the end of this with even worse when the monsters started actually moving.

And then the monsters actually started moving.

The dog turning into a monster and killing the other dogs hurt the animal lover inside him, and he felt a bit of his latent arachnophobia begin to rear its head when the hairy legs sprouted from its back, and then the actual form the monster, halfway through killing the remaining trapped dogs had sent a chill up his spine and then-

“See how they were able to make the monster look goopy? It's not really very goopy except during the close up shots, because it's an animatronic so it had to be dry most of the time, they got the shine effect by piling liquid latex ontop of the finished paintjob until it started drying while it trailed off of the frame. And that right there? When it took the hurt dog? That was actually filmed in reverse, having the tentacles start out around the dog puppet and then rapidly pull away so when they reversed it it looked like they actually moved and had torque behind the action.”

“Really?”

“Yeah it's really fascinating how they went about effects before computer graphics were refined, everything had to be practical so even if it doesn't look the best, it doesn't hit that uncanny valley that bad CGI makes because even if it doesn't look real it looks real enough.”

It didn't feel quite as disturbing with that rattling around in his head, focusing on how much work must have been done to make the monster move as realistically as possible, how many times they'd practiced and trained in a controlled sound stage and adapting it to the set...

They weren't the only ones in the theater, but it was a mostly empty showing, as was usually the case with foreign films as old as this one. So it wasn't like they were disturbing anyone with Red Son leaning over to whisper interesting details MK would have never even thought to look up to make the overall experience less scary. Red Son seemed aware that he wasn't the biggest horror fan, and was trying to soften the blows the more intense moments would bring by talking through them and bringing back the reality that it was just a movie they were watching.

“I was alive in this era and I can state with general expertise that computers were certainly not that advanced yet. Computer AI wasn't past that of your average graphing calculator until at least the mid 1990's.”

“They got that sound effect by putting a microphone in a tin trash can and recording the sound of a racecar zooming by and put it in a reverb chamber until it sounded completely unrecognizable”

“Blair is already a Thing at this point, you remember when he was dissecting the Norwegian base's monster? He was using a pencil eraser to point out that era in its chest and then he'd touched the eraser to his lip! And since it started by probably just a small contingent of shed cells it probably took him longer to assimilate than the others.”

“This is actually really cool! The stunt double for Copper that they got for the scene actually was a double amputee! They made fake hands for him out of latex, filled them with fake blood, and styled the chest jaw like a bear trap for that disgusting pulling shot.”

Though... That one didn't work as well... When the long tendril shot from the Thing's stomach and sprouted slider legs and a second head, the extending neck hissing and glaring down at the heroes, he felt his gut turn, even as the heroes took the flamethrower to the monster.

The monster's first head ripped from its body and grew spider legs. And Oh GOD that was disgusting, without thinking he reached for the edge of the armrest to grip as the heroes had to play cat and mouse with a severed, spider head. He'd missed, and his hand clapped down atop of Red Son's and squeezed.

Red Son jolted beside him and MK saw him turn in his direction in his periphery.

“You know if this is freaking you out too much we can leave.”

“No! No, it's okay. You like this movie! You wouldn't know so much about it if you didn't like it!” Besides, he shouldn't be getting so spooked about some kinda gross kinda spidery horror movie from the 1980s, what kind of hero got freaked out at a little practical effects?

He couldn't see Red Son's face very well with only the light of the movie itself to see by, but he made a strange sort of humming noise and slipped his hand out of MK's, moving his arm to put the arm rest up and then slide his hand back into his own.

“Here, that should be more comfortable then.”

And it was. Red Son's factoids and chatter alongside the movie were doing well at cutting the edge off of it again, and it was aided by not just their connected hands, but now by his physical closeness as well.

“I've heard the director had this stylistic rule about after the Things start invading, the idea is that if a character has light reflecting off their eyes they're human, if not they're a Thing.”

“Most people think Palmers was the shadow the dog assimilated back earlier but I think it was Norris, Palmers didn't get turned into a thing until after they go and talk to Blair again I don't think.”

“Actually...I don't think I like that translation very much. Like yeah it's more polite and Gary's a gentleman, but 'I'd rather not spend the rest of this winter tied to this fucking couch' emphasizes the stress of the situation better.”

And then came the time of the final confrontation, MK braced himself, squeezed Red Son's hand in his own. It was indeed gross, and frightful, and the puppetry alone was REALLY good. All those moving parts and there's no way that THAT was an animatronic so it HAD to be a puppet. And wow that was a REALLY good explosion.

...huh...Apparently he could do it too.

The movie ended with what MK felt like was a tentatively optimistic note. The remaining two heroes sharing a drink as the research facility and the monsters it housed burned around them. And you maybe get the feeling the two of them won't survive the cold, but they stopped the monsters and that’s what matters.

Though MK was right to worry over the movie killing his apatite because by the time the lights went up and the credits rolled he found he wasn't very hungry. Which felt ridiculous since he was always in need of quick carbs for Monkie Kid things. But Red Son had lost his own apatite as well apparently and the two of them could do nothing but laugh a bit awkwardly at their date being derailed by a movie being a bit too gross.

So MK pulled him into a nearby park and they went for a walk instead of the restaurant they'd planned for.

“Most people think that Childs is a Thing and I'm tempted to agree, He doesn't have the eye shine but neither does MacReady and we know he's not a Thing, but MacReady's breath is steaming and Childs' doesn't until the very end there, and MacReady wasn't drinking, those were Molotov Cocktails, that was gasoline and Childs just downed it without a thought to taste or smell.”

“So you think the Thing won at the end?”

“I don't know, but they do have one flamethrower left and Childs whether he's a Thing or not just drank gasoline. So MacReady as a person is probably as good as dead.”

“I Dunno, I like the idea that he wasn't a Thing in the end, gives it something not dissimilar to a happy ending, but like, it's not like they hadn't been wrong about who was a Thing before. The dog handler wasn't a Thing but he got shot anyway.”

“That's very true.”

It was about there that MK realized he'd yet to let go of Red Son's hand.

Well... he hadn't pulled away... MK squeezed Red Son's hand in his own, and Red Son—on a tangent about how in the time before CGI they'd made the stylistic title card with use of a fishtank, garbage bag, flash paper and a lot of smoke—squeezed him back.

A few hours and a plate or two of street vendor food when either of their appetites returned later and Red Son had insisted on walking him home. He was staying in a penthouse that his family technically owned but he was the only one who actually knew about it, and he wanted to be a gentleman before he headed back there.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself a bit. I feel as though I should apologize for choosing such a niche film, mother always said I was the only one who cared about foreign horror movies and just because I find movie effects fascinating especially in a time before technology was as advanced as it is now doesn't mean I should subject others to my incessant yammering.”

he didn't really think Red Son could pull off shy, but he'd folded his arms tightly and was very pointedly NOT looking at him now. And Sure, this felt like a big step, but that playfully self deprecating tone wasn’t gonna fly here. He moved slowly, giving Red Son time to pull away if desired. Placing one hand on Red Son's shoulder, the other on the side of his face to turn his head. He had to get on his tiptoes to make it to his level, but he leaned in-

It was nice. Soft, and Red Son of course ran hotter than an average person so it was warm too. He pulled away just as he felt Red Son start to press back against him. When MK opened his eyes, he noticed Red Son's were still closed for a moment longer before fluttering open.

“I like your incessant yammering.” He had such a cute blush. “it means you're passionate about something.”

“You... wanna come in? Monkey King gave me this new tea blend I've been meaning to try out.”

Prompt meme (I’ll stop when y’all stop sending stuff)

#Spicynoodleshipping #soff first date #Monkie Kid #MK Red Son #MK #letters to vega #Vega writes stories too #prompt meme #deborahsworld #The more times i write for Red Son the more I project hashtag autism moods #tfw u infodump on your date about an SI all night #and then SHCOK DELIGHT when you find out they think its charming

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fidothefinch · 4 years

Text

Homeward Bound

For Whumptober Day 28: Mugged (because I am really late for the “lost” prompt and this is close enough).

Warnings: blood, injury, concussion, one moment of implied solicited child prostitution, homophobic slurs, police officers, briefly implied domestic abuse, briefly implied animal injury Despite the warnings, this is, like, mostly soft.

Read on AO3

“Hey, kid, I think you dropped something.”

When Damian turned, he was looking down the barrel of a gun.

He frowned, unimpressed with the ruse. “I do not carry such crude weapons on myself.”

The man jabbed the barrel of the gun forward, toward him. “Shut up or you’ll figure out just how much damage my crude weapons can do.”

Titus growled up at the man, and the man glanced down just long enough to lose his concentration. Damian sprang forward to attack.

- - - - - - - - -

Damian’s head was pounding. He groaned despite himself and tried to pry his eyes open. They wouldn’t focus as well as he would have liked, but he was pretty sure that he was not waking up anywhere familiar.

He took a moment to assess himself, before broadcasting his return to consciousness. There was a cool breeze running down his shirt, and moisture collected on the places where his bare skin had been touching the air. He wasn’t wearing his Robin gear; that narrowed things down, at least. He didn’t hear anybody near him, either, so risked opening his eyes.

Even as they fought to bring the world into focus, he couldn’t figure out where he was.

There were spindly branches above him, silhouettes against a rapidly-darkening sky. The air smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves; autumnal. He could hear birds chirping, all around him, the low hum of traffic beneath that. A lamppost somewhere past his feet flickered on.

He levered himself up with his elbows. He was sitting on a soft patch of ground. When he lifted a hand to his head to stop the beating there, he found dried blood and several blades of grass in his hair.

What the hell had happened?

He racked his memory, but the last thing he remembered was the taste of the orange juice he had had with breakfast. It was clearly the evening now, and the few people he saw around him were bustling homeward.

Home.

He should get home.

With some work, he managed to get himself all the way to his feet, not even needing more than a single tree to catch his balance when he wobbled on tingly legs. He had been out of it long enough to let his limbs fall asleep, at least.

He reached for his phone; Richard would be worried about him by now, surely. But when he got the device from his pocket, a pit dropped in his stomach. The screen was cracked, and when he tried to press the button on the side, it read “Critical Low Battery,” and turned off again.

He would never hear the end of this.

He sighed, tucking the phone back into his pocket so he could harvest its spare parts for later. He would just have to walk, then, until he found a bus stop – or train station – or ferry – that could take him home. And maybe he would figure out where he is, too.

The pavement he had woken next to stretched off in two directions, and he randomly chose one and walked. It wasn’t like it would make much difference, since he expected it to be a long night, anyway. But as he took his first few steps, he staggered sideways.

Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought. His hand found the bleeding again, and with searching fingers he found a large knot on the back of his head, where the flesh had swelled. Looking around, it didn’t look like he had hit his head on the pavement, and there had not been a significant amount of blood in the grass where he had gotten up. Maybe he had hit his head, and moved before passing out?

It didn’t matter, now.

The air was getting colder, and he hadn’t brought a jacket with him. He didn’t want to spend the night outside, so he quickened his step.

A familiar tinkling followed him down the path. He turned, too abruptly for his failing sense of balance, and nearly fell into his loyal friend.

“Titus,” Damian breathed. The dog whined at him. He was limping, one of his front paws held up. Damian knelt next to the dog and took his injured paw. “What did you do?”

He carefully felt around the pad and found no thorns or irritants, but when he felt around the knee Titus yelped in pain.

Damian hushed him. “I apologize,” he whispered. He rose to his feet again. “I will have Pennyworth take a look at you when we return.” As he tried to rise, another wave of dizziness hit him, and he fell backward, nearly hitting his head again.

“Hey, kid!”

Damian whipped his head around to the source of the noise. A man was walking toward him, down the path. Damian hadn’t heard him approaching.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, then stopped short as he spotted the blood on Damian’s head. “Oh, man.”

Damian waved a hand over his shoulder flippantly and rose to his feet. “I am fine.” Gotham citizens weren’t usually so. . . hospitable, and Damian couldn’t help being suspicious of him. Damian would deal with this on his own. “I am on my way home.”

“Are your parents around? I don’t think you should be—”

A hand landed on Damian’s shoulder, and without thinking he tugged the man down and around into an arm lock. “Don’t touch me,” he warned.

The man’s breath caught. “Let go of me!”

Damian blinked, and he released the man’s hand. The man stood to his full height, rubbing his wrist where it had been bent at an awkward angle. His eyes were wide, now, with something like fear. “H-hey, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Damian stepped back unevenly, and Titus stepped in front of him. His ears pressed flat to his head and his teeth glinted in the light form the lamppost. A warning growl emitted from his muzzle.

The man, wisely, backed away, hands held high.

Damian watched him move away until he was satisfied with the distance between them. Then he clicked his tongue, and Titus’s posture shifted as he glanced back to Damian. “Come, Titus,” Damian called. He mustered enough energy to make his voice steady and commanding.

Titus gave one sharp bark to the man before turning tail and obediently following Damian down the opposite path.

They didn’t make it out of earshot before he heard the man pull his phone out. “Yeah, I’m Robinson Park. I think I’ve found a homeless kid.”

Damian wasn’t close enough to tell whether the man was calling the police, and he certainly didn’t want to be dragged into another kidnapping. He forced his feet to move faster, and he ran.

The man had said something about Robinson Park, right? That put Damian almost an hour’s walk from the penthouse, and that was assuming he was moving in the right direction.

He tried navigating with the stars, but there was too much light pollution; the one star he thought he had found turned out to be a plane.

“Where are we,” he asked Titus.

The dog huffed, but despite Damian’s greatest wish, was not able to respond.

Moving at all was better than staying in place. He would be able to figure out where he was when he got out of the park.

The walk felt like hours. Whether it was fatigue, or dehydration, or his concussion, the world would slant sideways occasionally, tripping him up until Titus’s warm flank would help steady him. His mouth was incredibly dry, and his stomach empty. He grimaced when they got too close to any lamplights, as the glow would make the icepick in his head dig harder. It was better that they stay away from the walking paths, anyway; as it grew dark, the people wandering the park became, in Richard’s words, “shadier.”

He could smell the road before he could see it. Hot asphalt, gasoline, and spent cigarettes wafted from beyond the tasteful brick ledge cornering the park from the rest of the city. The sun had set completely by the time he reached the road beyond.

He reached the sidewalk and peered up at the stared up at the street signs, trying to make sense of them. To his great frustration, his brain refused to make words from the letters. There were still a handful of cars idling at the stoplight. One of them blasted bass music loud enough Damian could feel it under his feet. The more tasteful lilt of classical music spilled out from a different car.

One car pulled up to the curb next to him. Damian couldn’t make out the shadowed face of the man driving, but he knew enough to be wary when he asked, “How much?”

Damian shook his head, despite how it made the world spin. As Robin, he would have taken him out on sight. As Damian, all he could react with was a “No,” as pointedly disgusted as he could make it.

“Faggot,” the man sneered.

Damian didn’t have time to reply before a cup burst against his chest, soaking his shirt and pants in ice-cold slush. His gasp was lost under the squeal of tires as the car pulled away. He didn’t have the thought to memorize his license plate until he was too far away.

The light was green, and cars raced by faster that Damian could track, though he was beginning to think that reflected more on himself than their driving habits. The movement paired with the sticky-sweet cherry smell from the ICEE was making him nauseous.

Titus licked the syrup from his bare wrist in commiseration. His tongue was warm against the cooling night air.

Damian shivered, the breeze from the handful of passing cars cooling his wet clothes even more. He needed to get inside soon, or he risked hypothermia.

He waited until there were no cars before crossing the street, and he walked another block, parallel to the park, before finding a small store and slipping inside.

The heat was a blessing, but the lighting was harsh enough he had to squint. Damian’s fingers tingled as they warmed up, and he perused the small aisles for something warm to wear for several minutes.

“No dogs.”

Damian looked up, and the cashier, who was the only other person in the store, had finally looked up from their magazine.

“He has excellent behavior,” he started.

She rolled her eyes. “Out.” She pointed toward the door.

Damian scowled. He wanted to protest more, but he couldn’t summon the brain power for it. “Very well.” He gave her his best glare on his way past.

Leaving the store was difficult, as the outside temperature felt even colder when he hadn’t had time to acclimate to it.

He shoved his numb hands in his wet pockets. His wallet was missing; he could not have purchased anything, anyway.

He voiced his thoughts out loud as he walked down the street, more to keep warm than with a destination in mind. “If my wallet is gone, somebody may have taken it,” he mused. “I may have been the victim of a mugging.” He felt for that tender place on his head again and winced. “Gone wrong.”

Titus loped along next to him, ears high and alert for any sign of danger.

Damian lost track of time and how many blocks he had walked before he spotted the bus stop. Inside the sheltered benches was a large map. “Titus, look,” he mumbled. Titus did not look, but wrapped himself around Damian’s legs, watching his six o’clock while Damian studied the graphic.

It took far too long for him to find the “You are Here” star, and then he couldn’t make sense of the rest of the lines and letters. They seemed to float around his point of focus, blurred around the edges.

“We’ve got him,” somebody said. A radio blipped. Acknowledged. Over.

Damian turned around when a shadow fell over him. It was a police officer, wearing a sympathetic smile. “Hey, kid.”

Damian didn’t reply, looking him up and down. When he saw his hand resting against where Damian knew his Taser to be, he tutted. “You are not going to Tase me, are you?”

The officer’s hand flexed, then relaxed, but didn’t move from the position. “Not unless you give me a reason to.”

Damian shook his head as much as he dared. “You are the one approaching me.” He turned back toward the map in dismissal.

“Got a name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Where are you headed?”

“None of your business.”

“Look,” and the officer stepped toward him, but Titus growled. “Somebody called in some kid acting confused and wandering the city.”

Damian’s shoulders tensed. “I am not confused.”

“Easy, there. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

Damian turned again and crossed his arms. He hated to admit it was more for the warmth than for the intimidation. “Please go on your way. I do not require your assistance.”

The officer whistled under his breath. “That’s a nice bruise you’ve got there. Did you get in a fight?”

Damian’s hand flew to a second, slightly less painful knot on his forehead, but it was too late. The officer had seen.

Damian had been there long enough. The last thing he needed was to be forced into a physical examination. Without saying anything, he moved to duck around the officer and excuse himself.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “Wait a minute, young man.”

Damian stiffened, and the hold relaxed but didn’t release. “Titus, heel,” he commanded, stopping the pending attack. He gave the officer what he hoped was a measured look. “Let go of me.”

“Is there some place I can take you? Do you need a ride home?”

Damian hesitated, and the officer jumped on it. “I can give you a ride in the squad car. I’ll let you try the sirens.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but despite the patronizing, he asked, “and my dog?”

“We’ll call animal patrol to take him to a shelter, and you can go pick him up—”

“No.”

“He’ll be safe, you have my word.”

“Titus stays with me.” The dog sneered at the officer from where he sat by Damian’s feet, clearly still a threat should the officer choose to lunge.

The officer looked at the dog, and back up. He released Damian’s shoulder, and Damian would feel more relieved if it didn’t make him feel less steady on his feet. “If something happened at home, you can report it—”

“Nothing happened.” Not that he remembered, anyway. Damian’s chin rose. “I will return myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, son.”

Damian didn’t think; he bolted.

“Hey!” The officer shouted, giving chase.

Damian breathed harder, through the nausea and the pain flaring in his head. His blood was roaring in his ears. He demanded his body move faster.

Titus guided him, a second, ghostlier mirror-Titus weaving in and out of his body. The loyal dog stuck exactly to Damian’s pace so they wouldn’t lose each other. The streets at this pace looked more familiar, and Damian thought he recognized an alley opening ahead. “Left,” he directed, and Titus ducked into the alley, as instructed.

“We’ve got a runner.” He could hear the officer behind him huffing into his radio. “I’m going to need backup.” He was gaining ground; Damian was lagging.

He had just slipped into the alleyway when Titus pivoted around, barking angrily at the officer.

“Titus,” Damian wheezed. The world spun around him, and he had to brace himself against a grimy brick wall. “Come here.”

But the dog ignored him. In fact, Titus suddenly lunged forward, out of his sight, and the officer shouted.

Titus yelped.

“No,” Damian moaned.

He had to keep running. He couldn’t let the officer take him. He couldn’t remember why, but there had been a reason. . .

He stumbled down the alley, turning blindly around corners until he found himself back out on a dark street. There were a few lights on in the windows above him, but not a soul in sight.

Damian’s head felt like it would split in two, like there was a wedge being driven between the hemispheres of his brain with every thump of his heart. He squinted through the darkness until he made out the shape of stairs, leading down toward a basement floor and locked door. It would at least get him out of the wind.

He got two steps down before he tripped over his own feet, flipping down the last six.

He allowed himself to groan at the bottom, feeling all the new places that stung and throbbed.

He must have hit his head again, because he had to blink black spots out of his eyes as he half-crawled, half-dragged himself (his arm, at least, was definitely broken) to the corner under the stairs.

He curled his knees up and tucked his head down, conserving as much body heat as possible.

He blacked out.

Something wet was tugging on his face.

Damian scrunched his nose. There was still a dull ringing in his ears.

No.

That was whining.

Prying his eyelids open felt more difficult than lifting the Batmobile. The world swayed, and he immediately had to shut them again.

“Titus,” he whispered. And it did not sound like a whine. “I am alright.”

Titus continued licking his face, nuzzling his nose underneath Damian’s arms so he could get a better look.

“Damian?”

Damian tensed.

“Damian!”

There were feet pounding down the short stairway. “Alfred! I found him!”

Damian winced at the noise. It was much, much too loud.

“Damian,” Richard breathed again. His voice dropped into something much softer. “Can you look at me?”

Damian lifted his head with gargantuan effort, and lifted his eyelids again.

Richard’s face swam into focus, a deep wrinkle in his forehead. He gasped, when he saw the lump on Damian’s forehead. “What happened to you?” he asked. His hand rose to the lump’s twin on the back of his head and lightly brushed away some of the grime.

It had grown more tender since last night. Like it had opened a floodgate, Damian was suddenly bombarded with all of the aches and pains of the night before. His left arm and head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, slightly syncopated.

Richard clicked his tongue, and leaned back to shout up the stairs. “He hit his head.”

“Oh, dear.” Pennyworth must have been standing at the higher level, but Damian couldn’t look that high up for fear of getting lost in the nausea. “And he is soaking wet. I will fetch a change of clothes from the car.”

As Pennyworth’s voice got distant, Richard leaned in closer. “We’re going to get you home, okay?” He didn’t wait for Damian to acknowledge him; he slipped his arms under Damian’s knees and behind his back and lifted him smoothly. “It’s okay.”

Damian tutted, but even he could admit it lacked his usual passion.

Richard tucked Damian’s head under his chin as he walked up the stairs, and though it was an awkward angle Damian was thankful for the body heat he was able to absorb from it.

Titus followed right at Dick’s feet, not taking his big brown eyes off Damian for a second. He was still limping.

Richard must have caught him looking, because he explained, “Animal Control found the chip, called us out here to pick him up. He wouldn’t stop whining until we followed him.”

Damian reached down to pat Titus’s head with his good hand. “Good boy, Titus.”

Pennyworth fussed over him until he was in clean, dry clothes. The heat was already blasting in the car, and Damian immediately felt himself melting into the seat beneath him.

Richard would not let go. Titus collapsed in his lap in a furry, warm heap.

Damian wouldn’t have it any other way. He was finally home.

#whumptober #no. 28 #mugged #fic #dc #damian wayne #a boy and his dog #fido writes #titus the dog

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earamis · 4 years

Text

Crescente, cum Dilectione

“You were bound to Hojo as a protege and mentor. He had trusted you with various responsibilities, some were praiseworthy, some better kept hidden. It was a mutual kind of dependence that benefited both parties. One day the professor granted you access to a whole new part of The Shinra Tower. There laid an unfamiliar territory with a surprise at the end.

One surprise in the form of silver and jade barely two winters old.

When you first saw him, the thought of witnessing the growth of a child who'd eventually change the world for either worse or better never once crossed your mind.”

Sephiroth x reader fic reposted from my AO3 account.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734419/chapters/59792911

Before starting to read, there are some things I want to point out:

1. I gain no profit from writing this. It is written solely for the heck of it, cause I think the fandom deserves more Sephiroth/reader stories.

2. Reader is female, uses feminine pronounce, and can conceive, but in terms of the level of femininity and visual characteristics, I try to be as vague as possible to give more space for the reader's imagination. So, please, visualize yourself as freely as you are possible to do.

3. Reader is called “Praenomen” instead of Y/N. It comes from Latin and translates to “forename”, so reader can treat “Praenomen” or “Nomen” (name) as Y/N, and change it with yours respectively.

4. I will try to include as many canon references as I am able and cater to the timeline of events accordingly (probably some tweaks of time here and there, but not much aside from the reader's part that will be added).

5. Please feel free to ask me anything or point out any mistakes that I make, I will be honored to answer your questions!

I hope you enjoy the story :)

Good day.

Chapter 1: Two Seasons Old

Rain had been pouring outside your room since midnight. The air of early morning hours became colder both outside and in. The corroded, rickety heater your landlord was too lazy to repair could only help so much. Chill seeped from the cracks between windows to invade what warmth was saved inside your blanket. You had been awake for quite some time, and been pretty much reluctant to leave the coziness of your bed. Pitter-patter of tiny raindrops kept knocking on the glass as you watched it with fluctuating sobriety.

The lids of your eyes fought to keep themselves open. Getting some more rest sounded like a really good idea. The clock showed barely six, and work wouldn’t start until nine. Yes. You supposed more sleep would do no harm. You slowly let yourself be lulled back to slumber as you gave up the thought to wake up early and actually do your laundry before going to work.

‘It was raining anyway’, your mind supplied. ‘You won’t be able to dry them.’

So you slipped back to oblivion with the drizzle of morning rain as your lullaby.

Until one and a half hour later, the loud ring of a PHS jerked you abruptly awake. You tangled yourself between the sheets and slipped twice in a hasty attempt to reach it. Swiping your unruly hair from your face, you flipped the device open, then instantly paled to find Professor Hojo’s name blinking on the screen. On what business your mentor called you, you could only guess. It was only thirty past seven, far from being considered late. Strange. So it must be another matter. You quickly fixed your appearance out of habit and cleared your throat before pushing the green button.

“Nomen!”

“Yes, professor?”

“Come to the lab, I must show you something.”

You looked at your state of your partial undress, then at the mirror to find your disarrayed reflection. Your eyes blinked frantically for a moment. “R-right now, sir?”

“Yes!” His curt response left no room for compromise.

You hadn’t got the chance to say anything for he hung up as sudden as he’d called. Stunned, you took a few seconds to process what just happened. But then another sound, this time a small ping, from your PHS broke the silence. You saw a following message from your mentor.

‘Bring the first volume on Mako Molecular Anatomy.’

That book was stranded somewhere beneath the pile of your hoard. The old shelf at the corner had been filled long ago with tomes of your past research. Dozens of newer volumes ended up getting stacked on the floor around it to accommodate them in your snug apartment. Under a brief glance, this part of the room might cause befuddlement, but for you, well, they were still chaos alright, but a neatly organized one.

The required volume laid at the bottom of a stack labeled as “mako basics”. You lifted the heavy books above it one by one, wondering if you needed to up your workout routine after all. You were panting like a dog barely halfway. An academic life really made it easy to submerge one’s attention. For years you’d been doing mostly nothing but burying your nose in books and scriptures. What free time you had you spent either assisting your mentor, writing your own research, or to catch some sleep, hence the embarrassingly lame mass of muscles in your arms. After nearly dropping the last book and toppling every towering stacks over, you breathed a loud sigh of relief at the sight of Mako: Molecular Anatomy and Structure Divisions, First Volume.

For fear of risking your mentor’s wrath, you washed yourself lightning fast, forgetting the idea of brushing your hair altogether as you grabbed a lab coat and your bag in one arm and cradled the book in the other. The sound of your rapid footsteps must be bothering the neighbors. One grandmother from somewhere in the lower floor shot you her elderly disapproving look when you rushed past her. You didn’t even have a care to say sorry. If Hojo lost his patience waiting for you, he’d ignore your reports for the rest of the day and that would be problem. He was a man slightly screwed in the head but an exceptional mentor none the less. He’d given you priceless insights to boost your performance time and time again.

You ran through the morning drizzle with the book wrapped under your coat. Shinra tower was just three blocks away. You entered one of the entrance tunnel reserved for employees to avoid getting wetter. A guard saw you panting at the entrance, definitely suspicious toward the disheveled woman holding a bundle of fabric this early in the morning.

“Halt!” The guard approached as you stood still to catch your breath. “What’s inside that?”

Still panting from exertion, you answered with haste, “It’s a book.” Hojo must be wondering where the hell you were at this point. That man did have some crazy standards.

“Show what’s inside or you will be denied entrance.”

“Oh, Shiva.” You unfurled your coat with slight difficulty, revealing the cover of a thick book.

The idiot guard was still unconvinced. “Open it.”

You blinked incredulously, what in Ifrit’s name did this look like to him? “It’s a book! See? Plain old paper!”

When the guard didn’t say anything, you chose to just ignore him and go ahead, but he pulled the strap of your bag, causing you to jerk backward. “What’s in the bag?”

“For real?!” Hojo would definitely be pissed.

“Entrance will be deni-”

Fortunately, or rather unfortunately in a sense, your PHS rang again, and it was Hojo. He was pissed. You swallowed thickly and slid the device out of your pocket. Answering him was daunting, but not answering him meant certain hell.

“Yes, professor?”

“What is taking you so long, you slug?!”

You peered at the guard. “I’m currently denied entrance, sir.”

“What?!” He screeched so hard, you had to distance your ear from the speaker. “By who?”

You looked at what was written on the man’s nametag. “Uhm…. Markus P., sir.”

Hojo spat at the end of the line, “Tell him to let you pass or he’ll be the one passed into my lab.” Then the professor hung up, leaving an awkward silence to hang between you and Markus P. Said man was dumbfounded. You decided to pass on what your mentor had said, then, in a moment of peculiar understanding, his face turned five shades paler and let you pass.

You muffled a thanks.

Down in the lower levels of the tower, was Shinra’s Science & Research Division. The floors was each designated to one specific subdivision. Environmental research would be at the topmost, followed by civil engineering, mako development, bio-engineering, and lastly were Hojo’s personalized research labs. Only authorized personnel belonging to one of the subdivisions might enter. Every subdivision hosted plenty of confidentiality that not all members were permitted to move freely between the levels. You were one of the few who were granted more access due to working directly under Hojo’s mentorship.

The elevator ride was long enough to give you plenty of time fixing yourself. You put on your white coat and combed your hair between your fingers as best as you were able to. Thanks to the early hours, you’d only have to pass three other people beside Markus P., and two of them were overtime workers already knocked out on their desks. Hojo’s labs were inaccessible via the main lift. You had to transfer into a private entrance beyond the common area. The machine blinked green when it scanned your fingerprints, allowing you to descent straight into the professor’s office.

“Nomen. You’re finally here.”

“I’m sorry. I was-”

“Yes, yes.” Hojo waved his hand dismissively, not in the mood to hear your ramblings. “Come here child, and did you bring the book? Good.”

He led you away from the main hall to a winding pathways even you weren’t familiar with. You had the urge to ask where he planned to take you, but thought better. Hojo wouldn’t have called if this was anything but pertained to his research. There was a double metal door at the end of the aisle. Hojo scanned his palm to allow both of you access. You looked around, this was definitely an area you’d never ventured into. Everything about it was unfamiliar. There was an open space with multiple doors on its walls. Several glass windows showed medical facilities and rows of sealed bio-pods. Now you couldn’t scratch the itch to ask away.

“Professor, what’s in the pods?”

Hojo knew exactly what you were referring to. “Those, my dear, are the chrysalis of my latest experiments,” he said. “Let me show you a glimpse of their beauty.”

Your course teetered to one of the door. He entered with you on his tail. From this distance you could see series of numbers written at on each pod. There were about twenty of them connected to one another and by a single gargantuan pipe. Every pod had a small window about on its door, about as high as your head, but the glasses were tinted in black that you couldn’t get a glimpse of what was inside.

Hojo stopped in front of one labeled P-XII-001. He beckoned you to come closed and you did. A panel on the right side of the window was opened. Hojo typed a series of code and with a smooth whirr, the machine came to life. The tinted glass began to set alight, revealing the familiar green of liquid mako. You stood on your tiptoes to try and get a better look.

“Chimeras?”

“Yes!” Yelled Hojo with a childlike glee. “Oh…. Aren’t they exquisite?”

You observed with keen interest. The specimen behind that door wasn’t anything you had set your eyes on before. It looked humanoid with the characteristics of a cuahl – its skin was patterned, extended whiskers protruded from the top of its mouth, and two huge feline ears stood above its head.

“Taken straight from Gaea’s Cliff, I have enhanced its ability to thrive amongst the harsh winter of the north. They are suited to conquer mountainous terrain as they please.”

“Have you made prototypes, sir?”

“I have, and none were as perfect as this one would be.”

Amazing was too degenerative a word to describe him. You always wondered just how he found the time to create this things amidst the chaos of Shinra’s busiest department. Moreover, lately President Shinra himself had decreed expeditions to plant new reactors in strategic locations. Probably half of the Science & Research Division had to be deployed and here was Hojo, managing everything under his thumb like he was merely playing chess. Even Hollander, the Division Head himself, was having difficulties splitting his responsibilities.

“Alright, that’s enough.” He said suddenly, turning the pod back to sleep. “This is not what I had intended to show you. Let’s not get sidetracked, shall we?”

The professor moved along. In deafening silence you began to wonder who else had ever roamed this place. Curious tools and paraphernalia were scattered all around. You thought the winding path would never end, but then Hojo stopped once again, now before a small metal door. He opened it with, surprisingly, a set of analog keys instead of digitalized lock system.

“Now…. I know I need not ask this of you, Nomen. You have proven yourself reliable beyond my expectation. But still, I feel like I must inquire something.”

You stared at Hojo. His black eyes behind the round spectacles probed yours. Aware that you were treading on the edge of something unknown, you hesitantly nodded your head. “Yes, professor?”

His glasses flashed for a moment as his chin upturned.

“Do you like children?”

You needed a moment to let the question sink in.

“Do you?”

“I- I’m sorry…. I fail to see how that is relevant to….”

“Just answer me.”

You cleared your throat. “Uh, I don’t have any particular feeling, or, um…emotion toward them.”

Hojo nodded, apparently the answer was enough. “I suggest you get yourself used to one.” Then he pushed the door open.

Behind it a view you would least expect to be found in the deepest part of a Shinra lab was revealed. The professor had stepped aside to give you better vision. You doubted your eyes for a moment, but as you moved inside, slow on your feet, you knew that the object lying right before you was, in fact, a crib. A baby crib, complete with colorful ornaments and a heap of soft blankets. Such infantile properties were clashing horrendously with the sterile white and grey of the lab. You scanned around it to find even more objects of similar quality littered around the floor.

“What is…,” your words were cut short. As you casted your gaze back into the crib, the previously unmoving lump of velvety blankets had sat up to stare at you with equally curious eyes. They were most beautiful color of jade you had ever seen.

And they belonged to a baby.

“Behold, my ultimate creation.” Hojo slinked past you, waving his hand to the tiny form in the crib. Said infant followed the movement of your mentor with alertness uncanny to his age. “My son, Sephiroth.”

Right in that moment, your jaw dropped. That was…?

“Your s-son…?”

Hojo pushed the rim of his glasses up his nose. His face looked maniacal with a grin splitting it. “And you, Nomen, are the only one besides me who’s privileged to witness the wonders of this being. Give me the book and take him out.”

You absently handed the book to your mentor. He had asked to get…what was his name...? Sephiroth? “Pardon me, professor, but I’ve never lifted a child in my life.” You gawked at Hojo with wide eyes, hoping for leniency, yet Hojo had buried his nose inside the pages. Just like any other scientist and their tomes, he was immediately lost, deep in his own mind. That left you with his round-faced ‘offspring’ alone. The little boy directed those jade irises at you, blinking innocently. That only served to unsettle your nerves.

‘How does one even lift an infant? What if I drop him?!’

Steeling your resolve, for the sake of your mentor’s trust and your career, you lifted your palms toward the child. They were slightly trembling and your back was damp with perspiration. This felt ridiculous in a sense. Sephiroth was just a bundle of softness oblivious to your inner turmoil when you were only supposed to lift him up. And how in Shiva’s name you were going to get used to this, pray tell.

That calm eyes flicked to your hands as you froze in your way to hold him. You swore you saw him tilt his head one side like he actually understood what was going on, and lifted his arms. Either it was an encouragement or a force of habit, you didn’t know. Since the party involved had seemingly gave you an explicit clue on how to handle him, your hands finally landed around his middle. And, boy, was he soft.

A smile inadvertently bloomed on your lips.

Sephiroth was unexpectedly heavy when you lifted him. Or you were simply weak. The living, breathing bundle in your arms offered zero resistant. You cradled him to your chest and immediately the scent of chamomile and all the things calming hit your nose. You’d like to think this was exactly how purity would smell if it had one.

“…the aforementioned properties of its distilled liquid will cause the chain reaction of so and so and such…,” Hojo’s mumbling took your attention away from the boy that had begun to suckle on his own hand. You were considering taking it out but the professor addressed you first.

“Put him on the table.”

You walked to the mentioned furniture and carefully put him down, feeling somehow reluctant. Hojo came next to you, dumping the heavy volume in front of his child. He opened a chapter on distilled mako before pointing a finger upon one passage.

“Read, son.”

Your breath literally stopped in your chest. You made a sound teetering between a chortle and a gasp. The sun must have barely reached a quarter of its course yet today had presented so much anomaly. This infant couldn’t have lived longer than 3 winters and his self-proclaimed father asked him to read, an advanced mako science none the less! What in the world was going on, you didn’t know. Maybe your glorified mentor had finally snapped. He did have some screws loose in that big head of his.

Hojo casted a challenging look in no way you were capable of defeating, snapping you back in place. You quickly realized your slip and was planning to rectify that mistake when an ambiguous gurgling sound was heard.

If jaws could be taken off its hinges like a door, yours would certainly drop to the floor.

“mmako…ditti..aion”

“In Holy’s name….”

The pipsqueak just spelled freaking mako distillation, with baby language!

“…te…a- aometioned poppetie isth dilled…,” Sephiroth made a pause, his nose scrunching in confusion.

“Liquid…,” somehow noticing his difficulty, you unconsciously said the next word. The baby pouted for a moment before he tried to copy you and continue the rest of the passage. You were so dumbfounded, you didn’t realize when the miracle had ended until Hojo patted your back.

“I haven’t described your responsibility yet you’ve done it so well. I was right to choose you.”

There wasn’t a word to describe how you felt right then. Years of assisting research under Hojo’s mentorship had put you up against some of the strangest conditions. But this, by far, was the strangest of strange. You swore not once the thought ever crossed your mind, that you’d be a nanny when you signed up to Shinra’s exalted Science & Research Department, still green and a living proverb of an ‘empty cup ready to be filled’. You guessed there would always be things left to surprise you, huh….

“First of all, I have to remind you that what happens in my lab; my research, your work, and anything pertaining to my son, is of utmost confidentiality. You are to assist me in monitoring the growth and development of this child. To make sure he turns into the utmost prodigy, will be your sole purpose under my wing,” the professor was kind enough to explain only what you needed to hear, as you doubted you’d be able to process much right now. Not after this shocking turn of events. “You, Nomen, are thus now a member of my innermost circle of team. Pack your belongings and move to the tower. You are to stay near my son at all times.”

Your eyes opened wider than the Gold Saucer. Whether you wanted to thank Hojo for suddenly exalting your status and career prospect or sue him for dumping all this responsibility like cold water without consulting you first, you weren’t quite sure. You’d be justified if you sue him for labor extortion. But all was good still. You were the one who sold your soul to the devil when you requested Hojo a mentorship all those years ago after all.

Such was the prologue to your newest chapter in life. It was brusque and unceremonious to a fault. The oath of confidentiality forced you to keep mute. Nobody was to know about anything, not your shock, nor your bafflement upon how to properly approach the change. Your mentor was the only other person who knew and sadly was better posed as an academic than a colleague. He’d try to analyze the workings of your mind before you even finished telling a thing. Maybe, you consoled yourself, maybe some other human being would come into the picture later. Although you haven’t seen any, you were sure there must be more people wandering these labs besides just the professor and you.

At the beginning of the next day, this particular chapter had progressed quite dramatically. You found Shinra personnel moving to and fro your rickety abode with boxes and boxes of your belongings. Mainly consisted of books and clothes, then a small number of trivial objects like your favorite chocobowl with its moogle spoon. There were a couple of low-rank guards supervising the whole process, to which their purpose was quite ambiguous to you, but as they didn’t try to piss anyone off like Markus P., you supposed it was fine. Some nosy neighbors peeped with curiosity, either wanting to know with whom Shinra had business with or wondering if you were up to some shady deals with them. You tried your best to ignore them.

To be honest, the whole affair of moving was inconsequential in a greater sense. You have never felt any particular attachment to your home. There wasn’t much to incite emotional fixation, except, perhaps the memory of peace after a hard day’s work, after shower, buried beneath the layers in your bed. But it was just one between too many discontents accumulated throughout years – for instance, the heater could do with some maintenance. Winters were always arctic. You were gladder to finally break free from an old routine. Taking care of a Promethean scientist’s infant certainly opened the door to new and exciting opportunities.

The professor had prepared an empty room prior your arrival. It was deep down the basement of Shinra Tower, right next to his son’s. Whatever plan Hojo had for you to partake in, he surely thought it out well. Accommodation was taken care of and its basic facilities already provided. The new lodging had a bedroom, a living room, one spare room you planned to turn into a study, private bathroom and a kitchen. Though not by much, the space was larger than your previous home, and most importantly, the air conditioner worked out perfect. The only downside was an absence of windows. Bereft walls gave quite the forlorn impression without any chance to glimpse beyond them and into the sky. This would take some time getting used to, but you would manage. Slum residents beneath the plates had it way worse.

When the last of your boxes had been transported down, you learned two things at once. One, your hypothesis was proven true. There were other people besides you and the professor roaming these lowest levels. Janitors and technicians, mainly the latter, had been tirelessly helping you. And two, Sephiroth actually had another proper, professionally acclaimed babysitter named Eredith. You immediately approached to introduce yourself after chancing upon her with the infant. She had offered her name in return before excusing herself with the boy in her arms. It wasn’t the warmest of welcome. You didn’t mind one bit. Simply knowing that she existed to fill that role had lessened the burden you previously thought was much bigger. As they went down the aisles, the baby in her arms turned to stare at you with his jade irises. You absently waved a hand, which, to your delight and astonishment, was replied with a grabby-hand.

The rest of the day was spent unboxing. You had only a handful of things to be unpacked, except of course, the books. Half were deliberately left untouched for another day of labor. The muscles in your arm already screamed with exhaustion before you could even finish arranging the unpacked ones inside the shelves. That left you with two boxes abandoned in the corner of your to-be study. Everything else was already in place by night. You took a long bath afterward and only after you were sure pretty much everything had been settled, you allowed yourself to relax.

*******************************************************************************************

You made a humble portion of toast for breakfast to start the day. Hojo didn’t require you until sometime around 10 in the morning. He had told you to prepare a list of basic science textbooks, preferably illustrated, for his son to begin reading. So you made use of the free time to continue unboxing. From this collection alone, you could submit more than 50 titles to the professor. The existence of multiple bookshelves, each one bigger than what you previously had, displayed the diversity of your collection perfectly. The books were gathered into sections of congruous topics. There were plenty to choose, you had a habit of buying whatever writings caught your attention, though when you finally thought about it, nursery rhymes and clean energy looked astoundingly disparate next to one another.

Just before 10, Hojo took you on a tour while explaining the nature of your job. Beginning from the entrance where you first arrived, to the winding halls and the rooms he deemed necessary for your work. He had programmed an almost unlimited access for you. Only one area remained off-limit for some reason. Despite your curiosity, you decided against probing further unless the man himself allowed you in. Sometimes not knowing was actually easier. The ones you were allowed to enter was interesting enough. You even thought to propose borrowing the bio lab for your own research. Maybe later after having familiarized yourself better, you’d ask the professor.

Sephiroth was waddling around his room when you entered with Hojo sometime near noon. Eredith watched attentively from a distance with his bowl of lunch half eaten. The infant had been engrossed by a stuffed chocobo that he ignored everyone else completely. The professor glanced at his son once, dismissing the babysitter with a wave of his hand.

“Pardon me, sir, but Sephiroth hasn’t finished his lunch.” Eredith tried to explain.

“Your time is up, Edith. Just put the bowl somewhere, you are no longer needed.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t leave right away. She gave you a look that could almost be interpreted as a plea. Either she was asking for your help to reason with your mentor or actually hoping you’d continue feeding the baby, you could only stood in silence. The woman received a harsher repetition of the command before she dejectedly put the bowl down on a table. She bowed to Hojo and excused herself. It was the silent frustration on her face that suddenly moved you. Maneuvering with three heavy volumes in your cradle, you called out to her as she was about to close the door.

“I’ll continue feeding him, don’t worry.”

She paused to look at you as if you had grown a wing. Her smile was subtle yet genuine as can be when it appeared. “Thank you,” she said with relief, then left.

“Troublesome woman, that one,” you heard Hojo mutter in her absence. “Sephiroth this, Sephiroth that. Always making excuses for her own incompetence.”

You’d been here barely a day. Everyone but Hojo were still strangers to you. There was no way your input on the matter would be credible, so you opted to make none. You simply headed to the table where the last half of Sephiroth’s lunch was, putting the books you brought right next to it.

“Come here, Nomen.” Your mentor gave you a clipboard. He showed the papers attached to it. There was a table containing multiple statements which had to be filled and sometimes rated from scale one to ten. “My son is unique. He is far beyond his age, he knows how to process more and more complex stimulus everyday as his adaptability runs high compared to most, mediocre infants.” You had never heard your mentor spoke with that level of pride before. “But alas,” he casted his eyes at the sight of Sephiroth not six feet away, playing with the same stuffed animal, “A child is still a child.”

Hojo closed the distance between him and his son. His figure towered over the boy. “He lacks the ability to focus on what matters.” Sephiroth didn’t even heed the other’s presence, still too happily hugging the chocobo when Hojo took it from his tiny hands. For a second there was this stifling, immovable tension going on between them. A battle of willpower between a father and his son. Hojo kept the toy away from him, staring the infant down with intense scrutiny. “Bring the book here.” You snapped out of your trance, scurrying to get the book for the man. He exchanged the book with it. In lack of a better thought of what to do, you just held it like an idiot.

The child looked really upset. His mouth curved downward, his hands made tiny fists where they previously held the stuffed animal, and his eyes…. You thought he was about to cry, but looking closer, those jade irises actually held an entirely different emotion. Never have you ever saw a baby held such anger in silence. Children are supposedly prone to tears and tantrums. Not with him. He, for the second time, looked uncannily beyond his age. It was honestly ironic because mere moments ago he looked exactly how any infant would with the toy you currently had.

“Playtime’s over, son,” Hojo shoved the book closer. He opened its first chapter. “You have so much potential. I didn’t go through the trouble to create you with failure in mind, so don’t waste your time.”

That immovable tension increase tenfold. You shifted in your spot, wondering why the mere scene of a parent scolding his child seemed to bother you. But then again, seeing as the parent was your mentor and his child had the tendency to be creepily uncanny each time you saw him, this couldn’t be considered normal at all, and you didn’t have a child anyway, you wouldn’t know.

“Make sure you don’t miss anything on that list.” He said to you. Sephiroth was still glaring at him from the floor. “All the tool you will require is in there,” he said, pointing at an overhead cabinet. “If you have questions, message me.”

“Should I call Eredith back when I’m finished?”

Hojo snorted. “Just leave after you’re done. This child gets too spoiled with her.”

Like countless times before, you shut your mouth even though you disagreed. That child was independent enough. Hojo just had illogical standards most times.

“I will leave you to it, then. Report to me later tonight.” Unexpectedly, he began to go. You hastily asked the man in panic. “Wha- You’re not staying, professor?”

Said professor sighed with his distinct flair. “I am occupied and will be for some time. The President require me. That’s why I must entrust some things to you, Nomen. I believe you can handle it well. Now, I shall leave you to it.”

Just like Eredith previously did, he was gone, leaving you and his less than pleased infant alone. You peered at him nervously. He was hunched over the book that looked too big for his tiny figure. The child still looked upset.

“Um….” There was that list in your one hand and his toy in the other. You tried to weigh the value of each. As you inspected what was on the list, you instantly thought it was both intriguing and ridiculous.

PROJECT-S

Report: 07-10-1983

J-01.S1.16817.00599.000.6

Subject Name: Sephiroth

D.O.B.: 05-05-1981

Age: 2 year 5 month

Physical Development

Cephal

Circumference:

Shape:

Facio

Length:

Width:

Iris color:

Teeth condition:

Brachium

Length:

Circumference:

Flexibility:

Strength:

(….)

The whole first page of the document was all about the boy’s physical growth. There were even 10 pages in total, things were quite normal up to the point where Hojo actually wanted you to rate the child’s understanding of certain vocabularies like ‘cathode’ and ‘anode’. You didn’t mean to underestimate Sephiroth’s ability as he had proven to be quite the anomaly just after three brief meetings, you simply found it hard to believe that a two-year-old had to put up with this level of standard. You shook your head incredulously.

Looking at him now, it kind of answered some of the mystery his uncanny behavior omitted. If Hojo had done something to make ‘his son’ biologically enhanced, he was bound to be different in some ways.

“Sephiroth?” He gave you a scrunched nose and nothing else. The child fumbled with the hem of his shirt under your constant gaze, as if hesitating with whatever he decided to do next. You were about to struck a conversation when his tiny hands landed on the book.

He began to read.

“In e be..begin’in o’ e book-”

“Um…Sephiroth?”

“-a in…indodooction o ele..men-”

“Hey,” you put a hand to cover the page gently. “Seph, stop for a second, yeah?”

He turned to look at you with the most flustered expression a baby could ever muster.

“I haven’t told you my name, right? My name’s Nomen.”

There was silence after your awkward attempt at introduction. He still didn’t say a word, just stared at you with the same expression. You started to wonder if he actually get what you said. The child got tired of looking at you after a few seconds and dived back into the book, but you were persistent yourself.

You plopped the stuffed animal in front of his line of vision.

This time when he looked at you, not only was he flustered, but his eyes also round with surprise. He was visibly teetering between holding himself back or just accept the offering. Almost a minute passed with him freezing up. To your surprise he pushed the animal back to you. His face looked so conflicted it made you feel bad.

You quickly put the toy back on top of the book. “Didn’t you want to play?”

Sephiroth now fumbled with his fingers. His pout was back. “Tis a test….”

“No! I’m not testing you, kid. Oh, by the Goddess.” Your lips turned to a smile. Without even giving it a second thought, you patted the boy’s head. He then froze again. It was unclear whether he felt offended by the touch. Do kids even feel offended? Alas, you began pulling your hand away, but he suddenly grabbed your wrist with tiny hands and put it back on his hair, looking at you with an annoyed expression.

He liked it.

Just like you would with a cat, you petted his head. He leaned into your touch with the same pissed off face, but his body was relaxed. You took the chance to shove his chocobo at him. Fortunately, he immediately accepted. The two of you stayed that way for a while. It felt comfortable. Your heart was warmed up in the face of this unexpected softness.

“I promised Eredith you’ll finish lunch, sooo…before we start everything, let’s eat first, okay?”

His jade irises peered from below your palm. He looked unsure.

“You can keep the chocobo. I won’t take it away. I promise!”

After he nodded, you immediately took the bowl temporarily abandoned on the table. He was nothing but cooperative and you were relieved for it. Sephiroth munched his food with the toy never leaving his hands. You utilized the interval between each spoon to start measuring the boy’s physique. He was quite the slow eater, taking all the time in the world to chew. By when he finally finished lunch, you had managed to fill the first page of the document.

Hours went by unnoticed as the examination process was carried on. He time and time again amazed you with the ability to maintain almost unwavering focus. He actually always wanted to play, sometimes allowing himself to take a toy lying around when your attention was elsewhere. But once you subjected him to another test, he rallied all of himself to it. It was mesmerizing to watch.

Somewhere along the way, Eredith actually came knocking at the door. She brought biscuits and a bottle of milk for the infant’s afternoon meal. The woman didn’t say much to you, she just politely asked to feed Sephiroth again and brought the empty bowl away. Nothing much happened after that. You allowed the boy to munch on his snack while you asked him questions or told him to perform some task.

At some point you came across the question of whether Sephiroth understood some terms written on the paper – the cathode and anode one. You sighed exasperatedly. The child was currently drawing something resembling his favorite stuffed animal, if you weren’t mistaken. You leaned over him, asking just for sure, “Is that your chocobo?”

“Uh-huh.”

You nodded appreciatively. His skill was decent enough for his drawing to be understood. That indicated a capability to understand and replicate the existence of objects around him. You quickly took a note.

“Um…kid?”

“Hm?”

“Can you read these two words for me?” You showed the nouns for him to spell. He studied them momentarily and tried. “Ca’ffode an’ an….”

“Anode.”

“…aode.”

“That’s right,” you gave him a smile and another pat on the head. “Do you know what they mean?”

He shook his head hesitantly.

“Alright….” You thought to yourself the best way of explaining it to him. “Do you know battery?”

“Un…yea.”

“Cathode is the part of a battery that has the [+] symbol, while anode has [-].”

Sephiroth stared at you silently. He didn’t seem to get what you mean, so you looked around. Amidst the toy lying around was a fake gun, colored in bright colors appealing to children. You took it and opened the battery case.

“Here, look, there’s a [+] sign here and a [-] sign. This one is the cathode and this one is anode. The battery has power, it runs to the gun from here to here. Without one of these two, the power is stuck in one side, just like a road that’s blocked.”

“They…’re like ‘oors?”

You smiled fondly, “Yes, yes! They’re like doors. If they’re not set in properly, the power from the battery won’t flow to the gun, just like one can’t pass through a door if it’s not opened.”

The boy was astute. You never had to explain things twice as long as you gave him a good example. Filling the rest of the document became nothing but a breeze. Before you knew it, you had completed the day’s report. Sephiroth also looked bored, the chocobo was back in his cradle as he laid on the floor, his tiny fingers fumbled with its feathery butt. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips. This was the first time you interacted with him and you could already see various shades of his personality. At times, his calm demeanor and self-restraint made you feel like there was someone much older trapped inside that tiny body, then there were also times like these, when he behaved innocently like every other child in the Planet did. He was highly intriguing at such a young age and you dared to bet he would continue to be so when he grows up.

Having nothing else to do left but gawk at the tiny fluff caressing a chocobo butt, you took another brief moment to appreciate it before preparing to leave. Your task was over technically, but you couldn’t help feeling like there was more you could do. Then an idea struck your mind.

“Seph, stay here, okay? I’m gonna get something for you.”

You hurried to your room, heading straight to the bookshelves. At the children’s section was a compilation of nursery rhymes and tales. You scanned the titles with keen eyes, finding the one you were looking for right away, then quickly headed back to Sephiroth’s. The boy was still on his back when you returned. You approached him with an enthusiastic smile plastered on your face.

“Look what I’ve got.”

The boy looked at you half-heartedly. He was definitely done for the day. Then he saw the book you had brought. He quickly sat up to take it.

Below the title – Pickle in a Fickle! – was a picture of one golden chocobo, just like his toy, staring at two gysahl greens completely bamboozled. “Chochobo!” Sephiroth pointed at the character.

“Yes, the same as yours. His name is Pickle.”

“’ickle…,” the boy copied. He wasted no time opening it, eyes seemingly glittering with wonder to see illustrated pages instead of black and white passages. You waited patiently for him to start reading. But the moment he saw some passages, he pouted.

You blinked in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“’m tired weadin’.”

Ah…. That made sense. He’d been forced to spell hundreds of words in a day. Some people didn’t even bother to read. The young boy had accomplished nothing short of a feat. You supposed he was justified to call it a day.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

His giddiness was back instantaneously, “Yea! Wead it!”

So began your habit of bringing children’s books to him. He spent morning ‘till sundown doing his best with the examination and you rewarded him with new tale almost every day. He was always tired by the end that you had to read to him. The young boy listened with rapt attention, sometimes sitting beside you while playing with Pickle – he named his chocobo after you narrated the story, some other time getting into your lap to see the pages as you read.

Eredith started to give you smiles that grew bigger each time you saw her, though you two still hadn’t talked much aside from some pleasantries and formalities. She was always there when you came in the morning, then proceeded to make herself scarce all day long, only coming in once or twice to deliver foods and drinks. By sundown, you’d be bidding little Seph a goodbye. Eredith was already by the door when you exited. You nodded your head politely and let her be to do her job.

By night, Hojo would call you to his office and ask for report. He’d inspect the document you filled every single day, taking notes of certain aspects that he deemed significant. The professor was overall pleased with his son’s progress, seemingly unaware of the new habit you had helped him build. If your mentor knew anything about you adding non-academic books – nonsense jabberwockies, he’d said – to his son’s curriculum, he had certainly done nothing to stop it.

Sephiroth had become much more open to you after a month of constant meeting. He would happily stand by the door every day at 10 o’clock, the time you were supposed to get in. He kept urging you to hurry with the tests so he gets to hear another story. You gladly did as he asked, it was a win-win situation for all anyway. The effects of your diligence was showing and it affected everyone. Hojo rarely spoke harshly to his son nor Eredith, he gave you a raise, and most importantly, approved your proposal to borrow the bio lab for the sake of your own research. He didn’t question your intentions much, simply asked you to not let it hinder your main responsibility with Sephiroth. He only allowed you to use them at night when you were done reporting. Without hesitation you agreed.

Life became much easier than ever before. For once things were actually going the right way. You couldn’t be more grateful, to the professor, to fate, and to the fluff of silver and jade who was the reason of it all. By the time you went to bed, the only thing that came to your mind was which story you should bring tomorrow.

#ff7 #ffvii #ffviiremake #ffvii remake #ff7 remake #archive of our own #sephiroth x reader #reader insert #hojo #professor hojo #sephiroth is a baby #baby sephiroth #young sephiroth #young hojo #young president shinra #everyone is young #fanfiction #my fics #e-aramis

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charity-angel · 5 years

Text

At the risk of tempting the universe/PTB to throw anything more at me, a brief summary of my weekend (with added background info that I bought my first house 2 months ago):

Saturday morning, arse o’clock: text from my mother saying she is sending my dad over and are there any jobs that need doing?

Yes, quite a few. Chief of which is I want to trace whatever fault means that half1 the spotlights in my kitchen aren’t working.2

Slightly later Saturday, more reasonable time: Dad arrives. Decides that since weather is nice, he's going to repair my back gate. Fair enough - it wasn't on my list, but it will mean I can actually open it whenever I need to rather than wrestling with it.

While helping him: Spot something that annoys me, and I have purchased the means to fix but not got around to actually doing it. The security light comes on no matter what time of day it is. It is currently broad daylight. Decide to amend this. Venture into basement, turn electricity off. Arm self with screwdrivers. Prepare to install switch rather than popping fuse out of wall all the time3.

Bit of swearing later: Fuse panel is off wall, but there is something going on outside. Venture out to find a guy out cold in the street running behind the terrace, with two teenage girls speaking to the 999 operator. As I kneel beside him to try and assess, he starts to come round - enough to say he doesn't want an ambulance. I try to get girls to not relay this to the operator, but they do and it's cancelled. He is CLEARLY still out of it. They hang up, go on their way, and he promptly passes out again.

Remind self of how to put someone into the recovery position. Lament that last time I did this it was a conscious, skinny PGCE student in her early twenties, and this is a grown-ass man who is not surreptitiously helping with the rolling over. I also can't get his hand under his head, so I hold his head up myself instead, while my dad finally decides I've been a while and rings 999 back4.

Takes them a while to get there. I think the call timer is over 20 mins. My back is in spasms, my left leg is going numb and pins & needles-y. The guy has vomited three times (thank fuck I rolled him). Paramedics manage to bring him round a bit - enough to get him to confess he's on methodone.

Ow, fucking ow: Have to go back to doing the electrical work, since the power is off and my dad now needs to charge the drill. Set about attaching the cables to the right bits. Discover that the cabling is too short to reach one of the terminals on the new switch. Fuck. Re-install fuse plate. Turn power back on. Thank whoever is listening that I don't seem to have screwed anything up.

Saturday, 2:45: Lunch. I have frozen bread, and a shit-load of eggs. Scrambled eggs on toast it is.

Maybe 3:15?: Dad sets about re-seating curtain pole in the spare room, with decent rawlplugs so that it will take the weight of the curtain my mum is making for it.

Not long later: That's done with minimal fuss5. Dad muses that could do with putting the rail back on the stairs6.

Couple of minutes later: Persuade him that could actually do with lifting the floor since I'd quite like to be able to see in the kitchen after nightfall, whereas the handrail is a minor inconvenience. We begin.

At this point, it is worth noting that I had tried this myself on Thursday evening only to discover the floor appears to be chipboard rather than floorboards. Also it is worth noting that the carpet was laid and then the skirting boards put down over it.

Half an hour later?: Free enough of the carpet to realise that the bed needs to be moved. And by moved, I mean effectively dismantled.

Another hour?: Bed semi-dismantled and on its side7, room totally rearranged. More skirting boards unscrewed, silicon sealant peeled from the walls, skirtings removed8, carpet screws removed, carpet rolled up as much as possible. We manage to prise one of the bits of chipboard up, only to realise that: a) the original floorboards are still mostly there underneath (although mostly not under this particular bit), and b) the majority of the fucking things have not only been screwed down over the floorboards, but also GLUED. I shit you not. Also that some of the boards extend underneath the plasterboard9 wall

We decide this is a bigger job than us and have to at least put the flooring back down and move things we had moved from there into my room back so I can at least get into bed. We decide not to do anything else as it will only need moving again.

Around 6pm: My poor dad heads home. I discover I have a stray text from my mum about half an hour earlier asking if he's still with me.

Not long later: Run bath. Pour self bowl of tesco's coco pops in lieu of meal I haven't got the spoons to cook.10

Ominous message from mother: She is coming over tomorrow to hang the curtain, and set the spare room right again.

Sunday, about 9am: Ow. Owowowowow. Break out the painkillers. Fuck. Browse AO3 for Rose/Ten fics since I have just binged their season and I have feels, okay?

11:30: Text from mother: she is heading over around 1: do I want anything picking up at the temperance bar since she is going?11

Around 12: Decide should get dressed. Painkillers doing their job. Get clean jeans since she is dragging me out for curtain hoops. I might not drive, but I at least know where I'm going.12

12:15: spot a big, ominous wet patch above my bedroom door that is just about to start dripping. FUCK!

Shove water cup under the impending drip, grab towel and slightly larger container, replace cup. Grab bigger container and head for loft access hatch.

Realise loft access is behind all this shit we moved around in the spare room yesterday. Double fuck. Set about moving it elsewhere so I can get in.

12:30:Ring Dad and ask if he can bring over his big set of stepladders as I suspect I probably could get myself into the attic space13, but would break my neck coming back down. Also I need a torch that is not my phone. He laments that Mum has taken the big car. I call her instead, get her to head home and stock up on essentials (ladders, torch, Dad). I decide to change into yesterday's scruffy jeans since this isn't likely to be a clean job.

About 1-1:15: They arrive, and my dad manoeuvres himself into the attic. This is impressive and just a lot of a dangerous move or two involved. It takes a second person (read: me), which means I have no chance of getting up there myself.

Issue is with the chimney stack and can't actually get a bucket under it. But by the light of my phone14 he can see multiple other issues. Although he does move a slate back into place so I can't see daylight between it and its next-door neighbour. Bless him.

2:15: decide to get some lunch and the curtain hoops. Head into town. Can't park15 Mum decides she isn't hungry, drops us at Costa (it's open, at least) and goes to get the hoops herself.

3-ish: Get back. Sort spare room so it is habitable. Because there is still a drip from my bedroom doorframe, so guess where I'm suddenly sleeping tonight. Hang curtain16.

4-ish: Decide to actually put the handrail back, so we can feel we've at least achieved something useful. This turns out to be a bigger job than anticipated because the fucking plaster keeps falling apart and the rawlplugs won't hold properly. And the ones that will, we don't have screws the right size for. I mean...

5:30-ish: Rail is up. They leave. I run bath as everything is ouch.

7-ish: Can no longer ignore fact that I can hear dripping in the bathroom. Get out while bath is still full to try and work out where the fuck it is coming from. Take side panel off bath17. Not obvious. The outlet pipe has drippy bits all along it. Can't get a container under it. Yay.

Shove microfibre cloth under just to try and contain dripping. Suspect the joint in the pipe where new plumbing has been connected to older is the issue, but seems to be from both bloody ends of the joint piece.

7:45-ish: Drain bath, turn shower on so can wash hair. Little later than anticipated - won't dry properly now18.

tl;dr: I hate my house and everything about it.

1. The half that are on the useful side of the kitchen. You know, where the sink and hob are. The ones that help me do things like cook and wash up after dark.

2. Spotlights embedded into ceilings are clearly one of Crowley's inventions.

3. I am not a qualified electrician, but I have studied electronics at school, been taught on the side by my engineer dad, and I know my limits. Do not do this yourself if you aren't absolutely sure of what you're looking at.

4. Can't do it myself as my battery is dead and, guess what - I've turned the electricity off so I can't charge it. And my landline is cordless, so that needs power too.

5. other than Dad not realising that my ceilings are a little lower than his and going 1 step too high on the ladder. Muppet.

6. I removed this about 2 days after I moved in because of the 4 brackets supposedly securing it to the wall, only 2 actually were. I was more liable to break my neck using it than not. It didn't take me long to realise that while removing it was a 1 woman job, putting it back required more hands. 4 more, as it transpires.

7. Dad manages to hit his head on one of the protruding legs of the bed. I swear...

8. Honestly. They were screwed to the wall and then silicon sealed along the top (and joining edges). The carpet was screwed to the floor under the boards.

9. Drywall, for anyone of an American disposition.

10. Ignore suspicious dripping sound. This turns out to be something of a mistake.

11. Fucking yes, I am almost out of all my cordials. Curse not living near it any more

12. Mostly. One-way systems are a touch tricky when you don't have to obey them. As are bus-only routes.

13. On later reflection, this is incredibly doubtful since I lack the upper body strength to haul myself several feet straight up.

14. Because they brought a curtain and cushions as well as the big stepladder, but not a torch.

15. Also not something I have to think about often.

16. Discover Mum and I have been talking cross-purposes as to which side of the window it is going on. Fortunately this is not a massive issue.

17. Inventory of the under-bath: 2 bags grout, 1 tub of paint, 1 jigsaw piece, 1 part of an old loo roll holder, about 50cm of 1cm diameter dowel, 1 electrical cable that is quite possibly live given that an attempt has been made to insulate it inside a plastic bag. What is not there is the wooden frame that should support the sides of the plastic bath.

18. There are many advantages to the care and maintenance of curly hair. Not being able to blow-dry it is NOT one of them. Not having to, otoh, is.

#random shit #the rl of charity

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fallintosanity · 5 years

Text

four dudes on a camping trip with very limited funds, sharing tents, campers, and hotel rooms, is gonna lead to some Awkward(tm) situations

those situations are a lot funnier ten years later when you’re telling the story to someone else

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16

By the time they got to the little metal shed, Prompto was sweating under his borrowed wool mantle, and he was pretty sure he was starting to get a sunburn. Or heatstroke. His head ached from the heat and his throat was painfully dry, and he reached for the door of the shed, hoping to get inside and away from the relentless sun.

But Future Prompto beat him to it, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him away. “Hang on,” he said, then banged hard on the metal wall beside the door. The sound rang across the desert and Prompto flinched, but his future self leaned in closer, his eyes unfocusing as he listened for something inside. Finally Future Prompto nodded, mostly to himself, and shoved open the door. “C’mon.”

“What was that about?” Prompto asked as he followed his adult self into the shed. The interior was dark after the unforgiving glare of the desert sun; the only light came from the sunlight leaking around the edges of the door and through a single dirt-crusted skylight in the middle of the ceiling. Squinting, he could just make out a hand pump in one corner and a narrow pipe on the wall behind it, capped with a calcium-encrusted showerhead. The floor was hard concrete, slanted unevenly inward to a rusted drain in the center.

“Voretooths,” Future Prompto said. He pointed up toward the ceiling, to uneven gaps where the metal walls didn’t quite connect with the slanted roof. “I’ve never been sure if those holes are supposed to be for ventilation or if it’s just bad construction, but voretooths can sometimes wiggle through ‘em. They can smell the water in here. But once they’re in, they’re too dumb to get back out. Learned that the hard way the first time I opened the door and got jumped.”

He grinned, as though getting jumped by freaking wild animals was amusing. Prompto stared at him. His future self’s grin widened and he thumped Prompto lightly on the shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Really.”

Prompto glared at him. “Getting mauled by voretooths isn’t bad?”

Future Prompto made fingerguns and mimed shooting something in the face, then blew imaginary smoke from his fingertips. “Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Prompto was still trying to come up with a response to that which wasn’t sputtering indignation or screaming horror - really? Get used to being attacked by monsters? - when his future self squatted beside the hand pump and gave it a cursory once-over. “Good to go,” he pronounced. “I’ll take first shower, unless you want it. First has better water pressure, second’s usually cooler ‘cause the water’s coming up from deeper.”

“Sure,” Prompto said. Cooler water sounded great. He’d been hoping for some relief from the heat inside the shed, but while they were out of the direct sunlight, it somehow felt even hotter inside. The air was heavy and still, difficult to draw into his lungs, and sweat was pooling in all the hollows of his bones. At least outside there’d been a light breeze to draw the heat away from his skin.

Future Prompto started working the pump, throwing his whole body into the first few motions until water began spurting from the faucet and the handle started to move on its own as the water pressure took over. When the stream had steadied into a constant flow, Future Prompto fiddled with a couple of turn handles on the side, and the flow diverted from the pump faucet up to the showerhead on the wall, spraying the center of the shed with water. Prompto hopped back out of range, while his future self stripped off his Kingsglaive jacket, gloves, and vest, plus the black undershirt beneath. Without bothering to remove his pants or boots, Future Prompto leaned forward into the spray, eyes closed against the water.

Prompto took the moment to study his adult self. Lean muscle rippled through his shoulders and arms, under skin even more sickly pale than that of his face. Scars marked his torso: a thin line along the top of his right shoulder; four jagged parallel lines that were obviously and horrifyingly claw marks curving around his left hip to vanish beneath the waistband of his pants; and a single round scar, roughly the size of a grape, just under his left shoulder blade. Without the gloves and jacket, his own barcode tattoo was clearly visible on his wrist, the black ink unfading, as vivid as it had been for as long as Prompto could remember.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Future Prompto remarked as he straightened out of the spray, shaking his head and sending water flying around the shed, “I missed the sun like fuck these last ten years, but boy did I forget how hot it gets in Leide in the daylight.” He turned to face Prompto, absently snagging his vest from where he’d draped it over the pump and using it to wipe his face dry.

Given how scarred his back was, Prompto had half-expected to see more scars on his chest and stomach, but to his surprise there was only one: a small round rough patch on his left pec, directly opposite the grape-sized scar on his back, right over his…

Prompto blinked, his stomach plummeting.

Right over his future self’s heart.

The little round scar on his back wasn’t the size of a grape. It was the size of a bullet.

“That’s…” he whispered.

Noticing the direction of his gaze, Future Prompto glanced down at his own chest and flinched, his expression darkening. His left hand rose to wrap around his right wrist, over the barcode. “That’s how I learned never to turn my back on anyone,” he said softly. “Even people I thought were my friends.”

He’d said earlier that everyone knew about the barcode, what it meant, but he hadn’t said someone had—Prompto’s stomach roiled and he leaned forward, curling his arms around himself as everything from the last twenty-four hours hit him in a sudden awful rush.

Yesterday he’d been nothing more than the weird kid at school with a passion for photography, a tattoo he couldn’t explain, and the friendship of the Crown Prince. Now he’d been kidnapped by daemons, rescued, and swept outside the safety of the Wall by his future self. He’d learned he was an inhuman freak, a lab experiment meant to be turned into a daemon and harvested to power MTs. Such an empty little thing, Izunia had said last night. Prompto wasn’t a person, but an enemy weapon, something to be exterminated with a bullet to the heart. Someone had tried on his future self. Someone supposedly his friend. I’m surprised you care. There are so many more where it came from.

The panic attack Prompto had managed to stave off last night roared back in full force and he staggered, would have fallen except his adult self caught him and held him up. He buried his face against Future Prompto’s shoulder, shaking, wanting to scream except he couldn’t get enough air. “I can’t—I’m not—I—” he gasped, and the words snapped something inside him and he wailed, “I want to go home!”

His adult self didn’t answer, but the arms wrapped around him tightened. He didn’t need his future self to tell him he couldn’t go home, not anymore. Even if Prompto returned to his house, it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.

They stood there for several minutes, until Prompto’s sobs eased and he was able to stand on his own again. He scrubbed an arm over his face, acutely aware of how much of a mess he was and feeling all the worse for it. Noctis would never break down like this. Ignis and Gladio would probably laugh at Prompto if they saw him right now. He’d always been worthless and this just proved it.

Future Prompto, though, just nudged him toward the still-running shower. “Water’s safe to drink, if you want,” he said gently.

Prompto hiccupped, nodded. Cupped his hands under the spray and splashed his face with water, then filled his palms for a drink. The water was cold on his skin, soothing to his parched throat, and he stuck his head directly into the spray and drank until he felt slightly less like a disaster.

When he came up for air, his adult self said, “It sucks. Not gonna pretend otherwise. But… there’s still a few good people out there. And Noctis needs you.”

Prompto shuddered. “I’m not anyone,” he whispered. I’m not even human, apparently, and he didn’t have to say it; saw the thought reflected in his adult self’s eyes. “Why me?”

Future Prompto gave a soft, strange little laugh, turning away to stare up out through the dirty skylight. “He told me once he doesn’t make time for any old loser. I guess if the Crown Prince - the King - says you’re good enough, you are. No matter what anyone else thinks.”

Prompto opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what to say to that. His adult self looked down again, a wry smile tugging at his mouth, and jerked his chin at the shower. “Better take that shower before the well runs dry,” he said.

“...right,” Prompto whispered. He shivered again, not from cold - it was still baking hot in the little shed - but from all the emotions pounding beneath his skin. Pull yourself together, he thought. “Yeah, okay.”

Blue crystals sparkled in Future Prompto’s hand, forming into a bar of soap he tossed to Prompto. “I’ll dig up some clothes, too, when you're done.”

“Thanks,” Prompto managed. He started to tug the wool mantle from his shoulders, then stopped, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. Logically, there was no reason to be embarrassed to strip down in front of his adult self - there was literally nothing about his body Future Prompto hadn't already seen. But while Prompto wasn't fat anymore, he wasn't much happier with his knobby knees and bony elbows, and still had no desire to be naked in front of anyone. He looked back at his adult self - but Future Prompto had already turned around, humming under his breath and bobbing his head as he pulled on his black undershirt. Prompto almost laughed. Of course his future self would know he was uncomfortable.

Well, Prompto could at least try not to make a bigger inconvenience of himself than he already had. He stripped off the mantle, his borrowed boots, and then his pajama pants, draping them over the pipes as Future Prompto had done earlier, and stepped into the water. The cold felt good on his overheated skin, washing away the tears on his face and easing the puffiness of his eyes. The soap smelled harsh and utilitarian, but worked just fine, and Prompto scrubbed off the dirt and blood from last night. The bruises on his torso were already a spectacular riot of purple, black, and blue; he could clearly see the imprint of the hand of the daemon that had carried him.

He didn't want to know if there was a bruise in the shape of Ardyn Izunia’s hand on his throat.

The water pressure had faded to a trickle by the time he finished. He eyed the pump, trying to guess how to turn it off properly, but his future self saved him. “I got that,” he said. “Gotta refill the water bottles anyway, or Iggy’ll kick my ass.” He crouched beside the pump, fiddling with the dials again until the water came out of the faucet instead of the showerhead, and began filling Kingsglaive-issue bottles he pulled from the armory.

While he did that, Prompto stepped off to the side and tried to scrape the remaining water from his body with his hands. Without a towel, it didn't work well, and eventually he gave up and just shook himself, then squeezed the water out of his hair. For a couple of seconds he almost felt cool despite the shed’s oppressive heat, as the bone-dry desert air evaporated the last of the moisture from his skin.

“Here,” Future Prompto said, and Prompto turned to see him holding out a bundle of tan and red cloth, though he was still looking away. “They’ll be a little big, but workable. The underwear’s clean, I promise,” he added. “Trust me, you don't want to go commando in those pants in this desert. I have no idea how Gladio stands it.”

Prompto nearly dropped the clothes into the water pooled on the floor. “You—Ugh!” he sputtered. “That’s more than I ever wanted to know about Gladio. Why do you know that?!”

“We lived in each other's pockets for a few months after the Crown City fell,” his future self said with a shrug. “You learn a lot about each other doing that.”

Prompto yanked on the clothes as fast as he could, trying very hard not to think about the fact that it was someone else's underwear. Was it really someone else if that someone was him in the future? “You guys know about this thing called ‘privacy’, don’t you?” he asked.

His adult self laughed. “Oh, we know. You learn real fucking quick to knock before entering the tent or hotel room if you aren't one hundred percent positive where everyone else is. Even if you think you are one hundred percent positive.”

It took a second for Prompto to realize what he meant. “Titan’s balls, dude!” he swore. “That’s so wrong!”

Future Prompto waggled his eyebrows. “Not Titan’s balls.”

“Ew!” Prompto buried his face in his hands. “That is more than I want to know about any of them.”

“Get used to it,” Future Prompto said loftily. “You make friends with the Crown Prince and his retainers, you get to learn all about the royal… assets.”

“My future self hates me,” Prompto announced dramatically, hauling his borrowed boots back on - though the protest was somewhat weakened by the fact that Future Prompto had included socks with the bundle of clothes so Prompto wasn’t barefoot inside the combat boots anymore. “You’re trying to kill me with embarrassment.”

“C’mon,” Future Prompto protested. “I can give you all kinds of dirt on the guys. Did you know Ignis shaves his—”

Prompto clapped his hands over his ears. “No, I don’t, and I don’t want to!”

“You sure? It’s good blackmail material next time you want to get Iggy to go to Kenny Crow’s instead of making stew for the hundredth time—”

“I'm leaving now,” Prompto announced. He scooped up his pajama pants and the borrowed mantle and stomped out the door without waiting for a response. “You're disgusting.” The brilliant sunlight blinded him and he flinched back before catching his balance.

Future Prompto followed, eyes sparkling, until the sun hit his face and he actually stumbled against the doorframe. “Ow. Sunlight. Right.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and blinked a few times, then set out toward the haven. “Okay, here’s one that’s safer for your tender virgin ears—”

“Ugh!”

“Did you know Gladio can sing?” Future Prompto said. “And I don’t just mean carry a tune - guy has pipes. If he hadn’t decided to be Noct’s Shield he could’ve been a headliner at the Altissia Opera House.”

“Seriously?” Prompto asked in surprise. He didn’t know Gladio all that well yet, not nearly as well as his future self clearly did. Gladio had started accompanying Noct everywhere last year, as part of taking on full-time Shield duties when he turned twenty, but stayed in the background and didn’t talk much around Prompto. Prompto’d thought it was because Gladio disapproved of the Crown Prince’s friendship with a nobody.

“Seriously,” Future Prompto confirmed. “Get a little beer in him and he’ll break your heart with the best rendition of ‘Every Day Gone By’ from Beloved you’ve ever heard. A few years back, he was visiting Hammerhead when this group of hunters passed through. One of ‘em was an ex-opera singer, and someone talked her and Gladio into doing some fancy piece from this two hundred-year-old opera. My Altissian’s not good enough to understand the lyrics, but they sounded fucking incredible.”

“...Okay, that’s pretty cool actually,” Prompto admitted.

“Told ya.” His adult self grinned. “There was this other time, shit, way back in Insomnia. Probably would’ve been this summer for you. Me ‘n Noct were out at the arcade, and Gladio was tagging along ‘cause, y’know, Shield, and…” He kept talking, telling stories about first Gladio and then Ignis and Noctis as they made their way across the desert, and by the time they reached the haven, Prompto was laughing. The horrors of his origin and what had happened to his future self still sat like iron weights at the back of his thoughts, but he could face the others now without risking another breakdown.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #chocobros #sanity's time travel fic #fanfiction

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i-ate-nt-dead · 5 years

Text

Sand Music - A Discworld Fic

Submitted by Ean Morgan.

Just a short story I wrote based off the events in Sir Terry Pratchett’s “Soul Music”. The Klatchian Foreign Legion, etc. belong to PTerry, “A Horse With No Name” belongs to Dewey Bunnell/the band America, the other characters are mine. The instrument is a washtub bass. Suitable for everyone. Footnotes at the end.

Somewhere in the Klatchian Desert…

Private Medium always struggled with this part. He liked music, at least, he thought he did, but he could never remember far enough into anything to really get a tune going. Most nights he still worked at the harmonica because it seemed appropriate, for some reason, to have a harmonica playing at night in the lonely desert, even if it was just the same few notes over and over.

Tonight, though, he felt different.

He wanted music, real music. And a harmonica just…wasn’t right. Not for what he was feeling. Sure, it was great for the old standby ‘Going Into The Klatchian Foreign Legion To Forget Everything, Don’t Mourn Me’ (which never had the same tune twice) but it lacked….something.

Now he was staring at his creation, trying to get the nerve to try it. He wasn’t really sure how he made it or why but this didn’t bother him because he was used to forgetting things.

It had started with him sitting on the metal washtub1 drumming his heels. It had made a small 'bonk, bonk’ sound and when he’d gotten up, the metal had flexed outward, free of his weight, with a 'fwumb’ noise. And somehow, all of that had led to him standing here, holding a notched spearbutt on the metal edge, tied to one of Private Hang Dry’s bootlaces which was nailed to the washtub.

It looked pointless. Something, though, something made him ease back on the spear haft like it was the lever of some complicated siege weapon and tentatively pluck the string.

It made a very satisfying 'bwomp’ noise. He pulled back harder and tried again. “Bwamp,” went the string. He could feel his brain struggling to remember this, to put it together. And for some reason, he could. The tighter the string, the higher the note, he reasoned.

“Bwomm, bwom, bwompp, bwomp, bwamp, bwam!” sang the string as he dragged it up something like a scale. He looked around. Hang Dry, who had forgotten Medium had borrowed his bootlace, was sitting on the floor, boot in hand, staring at him. Sand trickled out of the forgotten boot. Detatchable Collar and Made Under The Eye of Om were handing the Sergeant2 the daily paperwork3, but they were staring at him as well. No one seemed inclined to stop him, though.

He stared at the dirty walls, then closed his eyes and thought, for some reason, of a stranger he couldn’t quite remember and an endless desert of black sand…. His hands moved.

After a series of soft twangs, accompanied by the cymbal-like hiss of sand falling out of Hang Dry’s bootlace onto the metal, Medium began to sing in a not terribly pure voice.

“He came through the desert on a horse with no name…”

“It had a name.”

“What?” Medium’s eyes popped open. Corporal Wash With Care was up on the wall, staring out at the desert. The moonlight reflected in his eyes as he turned to look at Medium.

“The horse, it had a name.”

Medium was irritated. “How do you know what horse I’m singing about?”

“All horses have a name,” said Om, but he sounded doubtful of this. “Stands to reason.”

“What, like us?” groused Collar, popping his.

“Alright, gents,” said the Sergeant but without any real feeling. Wash went back to staring over the wall. He was looking at the fresh graves just over the next dune.

“What was its name, then?” Medium asked once the Sergeant had gone back to shuffling his one piece of paper around the desk in an important sort of way. He was expecting to hear, 'I don’t know.’

“It…started with a B. The…” He hesitated before calling him a man because the word didn’t seem right. “The person who was here. For awhile.” His brow furrowed. “Maybe he told me. A white horse. Started with a B.” His voice trailed away.

Anywhere else this would not have been a remotely sufficient answer. But for the Klatchian Foreign Legion, this was practically an oral history. There wasn’t much room for complaint about names from men who took theirs from clothing labels.4

Medium began plucking at his makeshift instrument again.

“He came through the desert on a horse that started with B…” He paused a moment for contemplation. “The black desert’s like a not very wet sea…” He looked around self-consciously. Hang Dry nodded encouragingly.

“In the Klatchian Foreign Legion you can’t remember your name but there’s lots of angry D'regs here to give you some pain.” He launched into some vaguely musical 'la la la’s and several others joined in on the basis that no one can complain if they don’t know how it goes either. The string bounced and vibrated.

Medium concentrated, his hands moving of their own accord. There was a black desert and a white horse and a man in black…

“On the first part of the journey, I think I’d just lost my life…” There was a voice like something carved in stone and all around him was…

“There was sand and….sand and rocks and things,” this didn’t sound very musical even to him, but he plowed on, “there was sand and hills and…things.” His eyes popped open. He didn’t want to think about or remember the things he had just seen hurrying over the sand, things with too many bits attached to them. He fumbled for several seconds, just letting the music happen without words.

Even Wash seemed to be listening. Medium thought he heard a toe tapping.

“The heat was hot,” he gabbled, “and the ground was dry and the air was full of arrows.” Some part of him knew this shouldn’t be considered music, deep down, but it stuck to you somehow and it was all true, after all, and men were listening and nodding their heads. Medium didn’t know the word 'catchy’ and would have forgotten it even if he had but that’s precisely what it was. He launched into the part he’d already sang, since repeating things was what he was good at.

“He came through the desert on a horse that started with B, the black desert’s like a not very wet sea, in the Klatchian Foreign Legion you can’t remember your name but there’s lots of angry D'regs here to give you some pain.”

“La, la, la…” sang Wash, like a man half asleep.

“La, laa, la, la, la,” echoed Hang Dry, standing up, boot in hand.

For a few minutes there was only the sound of the men in the barracks 'la'ing along at various intervals and keys. If Medium could have described it, he would have said it felt like a Moment, with a capital M. Even the Sergeant was singing quietly, staring a hole through his desk.

As the music twanged under his fingertips, Medium felt that there was more there, waiting. More of the song, maybe more songs beyond that. The black desert in his mind was endless and there was music there, somewhere. A white horse, a black rider. A deep loneliness, a dead space, a void of love. In that Moment, his fingers hovered on the string and he felt a vast ocean of empty notes open before him, blowing like the dancing patterns of sand on the barracks floor. He could tumble into it, slide down the cascading sand into the surf of sound.

Twing!

Medium stopped playing. His eyes opened and he stared at the still quivering string as if he hadn’t seen it before. His gaze roamed up over the many pairs of eyes watching him.

“Sarge?” he quavered.

“What is it, Private?”

“What am I doing, Sarge?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” replied the Sergeant, who was used to this question, but often didn’t know the answer.

“There was music,” mumbled Medium, his fingers curling around the string. “And, er….then the Universe went 'twing’.”

“Hmm,” said the Sergeant. For all he knew, the Universe regularly went 'twing’. “Well, er, best you not worry about it too much,” he decided, in the firm tones of a man who fully expects to forget this conversation in its entirety. “Look at Private, er…”

“Ha…lf Dry?” said Hang Dry uncertainly when he realized the Sergeant was gesturing at him.

“Half Dry, yes, good man, look at Half Dry here, he’s emptying his boots of sand, good gesture, that man, why don’t you do that, you’ve got watch soon, I expect, when you can fill them up with more sand.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Medium sat down next to Hang Dry and began unlacing his boots. The laces felt strange under his fingers and he felt a momentary desire to strum them. Next to him, Hang Dry was staring mournfully at his unlaced boot, trying to remember what was missing.

An hour later, when Air Dry came in and said, “Oy, what’s this thing under my hammock?” no one had any idea.

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

1There was never enough water to wash with, so mostly it was used to store things people had forgotten what they were until someone remembered.

2Sergeants never have names anyway, so he’d never bothered to try to learn his from his clothing. For ease of reference, the other two were usually called Collar and Om, since no one could remember who Om was and only a handful of them remembered how to button on a collar.

3This was a single piece of paper with blurry orders on it that the sergeant would look at, go, “Hmm,” profoundly a few times and then tuck away carefully for the next night.

4This necessarily meant that 'Dry’ was something of a surname. Line Dry had been killed in the recent fighting, while Air Dry was currently standing watch.

#discworld #terry pratchett #fanfic #klatchian foreign legion #soul music #submission #fanfiction #writing #desert #a horse with no name #DEATH #Binky #d'regs #sand music #user submission #discworld blog #daily discworld #music

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carmenlire · 5 years

Text

White Blank Page Ch. 3

Edit courtesy of the lovely @kindaresilient!!

read chapter one

read chapter two

read on ao3

Magnus smiles as the door above him chimes cheerfully. The display is mostly the same, though he’s intrigued as he sees a sign advertising a midnight story hour at the bookstore in a few days, in celebration of Halloween.

It seems like the year’s gone by much too fast, Magnus reflects. Before he knows it, the snow will be falling and he’ll be trying to fit in his Christmas shopping into his bursting schedule.

This time around, there are several people milling about Lightwood Books, though no one spares him a second glance. Magnus doesn’t immediately see Alec but now that he knows to look for it, he can detect Lightwood’s background in the casual elegance and quality of the decor.

Magnus had met Maryse and Robert a few years ago before their divorce at a charity gala at the Four Seasons in Midtown. They’d only spoke for a few minutes but it had been like pulling teeth, Magnus overwhelmingly aware of what the couple thought of him.

New money, he’d hard Robert sneer to Maryse as they’d turned and walked to catch up with other friends.

That had been enough for Magnus. He’d poured his blood, sweat, and countless tears into his company and he didn’t need bigoted assholes condescending to him.

When he’d heard a few weeks later that the Lightwoods gave money to anti-LGBT groups among other equally conservative causes that caused him to gnash his teeth, Magnus had scoffed as he’d edited the story, unsurprised. They seemed like people who’d look down on anyone who didn’t fit their arbitrary, far-too-narrow mold.

It doesn’t look like their eldest son took after them though. Thank God, Magnus thinks.

Alec had been nothing but warm and welcoming the last time Magnus was here and he hopes to see the man again. Though really, he doesn’t know Alec’s schedule in the least and he might just be wasting his time on a fool's errrand.

Wandering through the aisles, Magnus picks up a book on botany for Ragnor as he makes his way upstairs. Looking down at his watch, Magnus makes a note that he has around an hour to kill before he needs to go back to his apartment and change for dinner with Camille.

Looking down, he doesn’t see the person he runs into until it’s too late. He’d clipped them on the shoulder and as he lifts his head to apologize, Magnus can’t help the instant grin that comes over his face.

“Alexander,” he greets warmly. “Fancy running into you here.”

He has a brief moment to worry that perhaps Alec didn’t remember him. It had been a few weeks, after all, and Alec was sure to see countless customers in his shop.

Before he can worry too much, however, Alec is smiling down at him, continuing down a few steps until they’re the same height.

“Hey, Magnus. I do work here so not so unusual, I’m afraid.”

Alec’s voice is dry but Magnus is deeply interested in the flush that starts to crawl into his cheeks.

“And how are you this fine autumnal afternoon?”

Laughing a little, Alec readjusts the box in his arms, settling it on his hip. His biceps might bulge a little but Magnus does not stare.

“I was just restocking and straightening up the children’s area. We had a busy morning so the place was a bit of a disaster.”

“And now,” Magnus asks, shifting a little closer.

Alec raises a brow, considering. “Well now I suppose I could take a break. If that was what you were hinting at?”

Laughing, Magnus shakes his head a little, unrepentant. “You can’t blame me if I want to spend a few minutes with the proprietor of this lovely bookstore. Maybe I want to pick your brain for the next bestseller.”

“Well, then if it’s alright with you, let’s head upstairs to the cafe and we can talk recommendations.”

Alec turns to go back up and Magnus isn’t complaining. No, he’s absolutely thrilled to follow Alec. Not only will he get to spend some time flirting with his favorite bookworm but he’s treated to a delectable view of Alec’s ass.

It’s a win-win as far as he’s concerned.

Settling them down at a table in front of a window, Magnus takes a few seconds to look outside as Alec sets his box down on the table. The busy Manhattan street is positively teeming with people. It’s a little after three and there’s the usual mix of tourists, businessmen, and teens that always seem to be in a hurry. Magnus feels removed from everyone else and it's not an unwelcome feeling even if it does rarely happen.

“Are you in the mood for anything or do you want me to surprise you?”

Magnus looks up at that. Alec is standing behind his chair, not yet having taken a seat. He thinks for a minute before shaking his head.

“Surprise me, though I’d prefer anything you have be made with soy milk or some other alternative.”

Alec nods once before smiling and turning toward the barista working the coffee counter.

Magnus watches as Alec approaches the counter and orders. The barista grins at him and the two seem to engage in a round of playful bickering before the blonde turns to the espresso machine. He looks more suited to playing beer pong in a dilapidated frat house than making cappuccino foam art but Magnus just finds that it adds to the charm of the shop.

Taking out his phone, Magnus ignores the speculative look he sees the barista throw his way and instead focuses on the dozen emails that have accumulated since he arrived, taking a minute to look through them. When he sees Alec walking toward him, two mugs in hand, he resolutely shuts his phone off and shoves it in his coat pocket.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got you a triple white chocolate mocha. Don’t worry, it’s all dairy-free.”

Magnus smiles and just knows that it’s too open and happy for such a simple thing.

Accepting the drink, Magnus blows over the top before taking a sip, humming at the subtle sweetness that doesn’t take over the bitter coffee. “Thank you, Alexander. This is really quite good.”

Settling down across from him, Alec wraps his hand around his giant white mug. He looks relieved that Magnus likes the drink and distantly Magnus knows that he’d have lied and said that it was the best damned thing he’d ever had if Alec would continue looking at him like that.

“I know people usually have very definite opinions on coffee. Some want it to taste like they’re drinking straight from the espresso machine and others need at least a cup of milk and twice as much sugar to make it palatable. I’m glad I guessed right.”

Alec sounds pleased and his words are calm. There’s an undercurrent of that damned warmth that Magnus wants to reach out and touch.

It feels like time slows when he’s in this shop, when he’s with Alec. This is only the second time that he’s been here, but Magnus thinks that it’s his new favorite place. He can almost, almost feel his stress slipping through his fingers and as the tension eases from his shoulders, he takes another drink and studies Alec with a content expression.

It’s quiet for a few minutes and Magnus is surprised that it’s not uneasy or expectant. Instead, it feels natural and Magnus can’t remember the last time he was content to just sit still and enjoy someone’s company, to enjoy his own.

He’s always running around like a dervish. From the time he wakes until he collapses into bed, Magnus is working. He’s always being pulled in a dozen different directions but he wonders what it would be like if he just gave it all up, right this moment. Stopped everything and stayed here, watching as the fall sunshine paints Alec in gold and as the air smells like toasted marshmallow and coffee and ink.

Magnus almost hates to ruin the silence but he can’t help himself from asking, “So, Mr. Bookstore Owner. Tell me about the next big book.”

Alec chuckles as he takes a lingering sip of his own coffee. From what Magnus can see, it looks like Alec likes his light and sweet.

“It depends on what you’re into. I try to only give recommendations that I think my customers will really enjoy. So, what do you like to read?”

Humming as he thinks, Magnus narrows his eyes at Alec. Alec waits patiently with a raised brow and Magnus can’t resist the challenge.

“I like romance,” he says slowly. “My work deals with the news and when I stop and slow down enough to read for pleasure, I want to lose myself in something light that ends happy. I don’t like a lot of angst and I’d be perfectly fine if the story had no conflict whatsoever.”

A lot of people can’t believe that Magnus Bane likes romance. He loves it in all its forms and many subgenres and while he also likes other genres as well-- he can’t deny the appeal of YA or a good thriller-- Magnus has enjoyed romances since he was in high school and looking for something to do at home.

He’d ended up finding one of his mother’s romances and hadn’t looked back since.

Alec stares into nothing for a minute, thinking, before his gaze snaps back to Magnus. “Would you mind if it wasn’t straight?”

Intrigued, Magnus raises a brow. He definitely would not have thought Alec would ask something like that, not given who his parents were.

Not to mention, Magnus loves LGBT fiction. Unfortunately, he bites back a sigh as he figures that he’s probably read whatever romance Alec is about to suggest. In Magnus’s opinion, there weren't very many authors who wrote LGBT romance well and he’d read most of their books several times already if they did.

“Considering I’m bi, I’d hope to hell I don’t have a problem with that. Lead the way, darling.”

Magnus throws out his response and he can’t help the angle of his chin. It’s not defensive but combative. He just gave Alec an opening and in Magnus’s opinion, homophobic people can never stop their instinctive distaste for those who aren’t straight.

Plus, Magnus doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body and if he’s feeling Alec out-- letting him know that there’s one less potential barrier should he feel something-- then it’s two birds with one stone.

Magnus has always prided himself on being efficient.

Alec just laughs and shakes his head a little. Magnus prays to God that he’s not imagining the interest in Alec’s eyes and the way his gaze drops down to his mouth for a fleeting second.

“In that case,” Alec says, “I want to recommend Higher than the Big Trees. It’s a m/m romance that takes place in the city. There’s no angst whatsoever and it’s a classic romance between a professor and a celebrity.”

“That sounds perfect and I haven’t read it yet. Do you have it in stock?”

Magnus settles back in his seat, crossing his legs as he reaches for his coffee. He’s glad when Alec nods.

“Of course I do,” he says dryly. “Not only are they my favorite author but I can barely keep it on the shelf.”

“How haven’t I heard of this book if it’s so popular?”

Shrugging, Alec just says, “I’ve been suggesting it to everyone who likes romance. It’s mostly word of mouth sales, really. They’re a new author and that’s their first book. I have high hopes for their next one, though. I hear there’s a journalist involved.”

Magnus smiles at Alec’s enthusiasm and can’t deny that he’s looking forward to this book and potentially discovering another writer.

Not to mention, he thinks dryly, that if they were going to write about journalism than he had to read it-- if only to catalog the many mistakes they were undoubtedly going to make about his career.

The two of them talk for awhile longer and when the blonde barista comes around to collect their now empty mugs, Magnus grins a little as he sees the silent conversation he has with Alec.

They must be close, maybe best friends, Magnus wonders and laughs a little as he sees Alec send the barista a deadpan look that could rival Raphael’s when he feels particularly put upon.

The blonde leaves and Alec turns to look at Magnus only to see that he’s already being studied.

“Sorry about that,” Alec offers sheepishly. “Jace is my brother and still hasn’t learned how to behave in public.”

Magnus waves that away. “Don’t worry about it, darling. I’m well familiar with family that doesn’t know when to stop. Now, I believe that we were just talking about favorite children’s books and the perfection that is Percy Jackson--”

Whatever Magnus was going to say stops as he feels his phone start vibrating. Not many people have access to his personal cell number and he grimaces in apology as he catches Alec’s confused look.

When he takes the phone out, Alec’s face relaxes in understanding and he waves Magnus on.

Seeing that it’s Simon, Magnus rolls his eyes a little as he answers.

“My dear little assistant, the building must be falling down or someone had better have just lost a limb. Which is it?”

“Magnus, where are you? You have dinner at Chartreuse BonBon in thirty minutes and your driver just called the office to say you’re not answering. Where are you,” Simo repeats and Magnus’s eyes widen as he wrenches his sleeve up to look at his watch.

“Shit,” he hisses. “I’m out, Simon. What does the traffic look like?”

Simon doesn’t answer for a moment and Magnus hears muttering going on in the background. Finally, he replies, “For a Thursday evening, it looks like there’s just the standard after work traffic. Why?”

Furiously thinking, Magnus immediately decides that he’ll just have to go straight to the restaurant from the bookstore. He doesn’t have time to go home or even to the office and change into something a little more formal, a little more crisp.

Appearances might be everything to Camille but Magnus still looks fresh, no matter that he’s been on the go twelve hours. Luckily, he’d chosen one of his more austere suits this morning and the burgundy shade was a perfect power play.

“Okay, I’m going to head there straight from where I’m at. Tell Elias that I’ll just need picked up from the restaurant at the end of the evening and I’ll get an Uber there. Thankfully, I’m still in Manhattan so I should get there right on time. Thanks for the call, dear.”

Magnus hangs up and looks at Alec who’s staring at him with something that seems like wistfulness in his eyes. “I take it you’re running late for something?”

Moving his chair back, Magnus shoves his phone in his pocket and stands, Alec following.

“Unfortunately, I lost track of time and I have a dinner meeting that I can’t be late for. I’m sorry, Alexander but I’m afraid that I’ll need a rain check for our YA debate.”

“No problem,” Alec says easily as he looks over his shoulder. “I understand how important meetings can be. I didn’t know you were such a big shot, though,” he teases as they start heading down the stairs, Magnus calling his ride. Unfortunately, he’s so focused on the phone that he can’t just stare at Alec’s ass again.

Magnus laughs a little. “I do okay,” he mutters, trying desperately not to tell Alec just who he is. It’s nice to have someone who treats him like a regular person, like Magnus instead of turning into a fawning mess when they realize they’re talking to Magnus Bane, the CEO of Bane Enterprises and the most famous man in the news industry.

“Just okay,” Alec repeats skeptically. “Whatever you say.”

Magnus looks up at that and as they start walking to the front door, he can’t help but feel like Alec’s just humoring him.

Deciding not to think about that, though, and the potential consequences, Magnus turns to face Alec as he takes a step back. “I’m sorry to run out, darling, but I really do need to leave.”

“It’s fine, Magnus,” Alec says softly. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

Studying Alec for a minute, Magnus takes another step back, reaching a hand out behind him to the door knob.

“Something tells me it’ll be sooner than sometime before I come back.” He throws one last smile Alec’s way before he’s turning and opening the door, rushing out into the fall chill just as his car pulls up.

He’s halfway to the restaurant when he remembers that he never did get that book Alec recommended.

As he watches New York fly by thanks to a particularly scrappy driver, Magnus wonders what it is about Alec that seems to pull him in.

Stepping out of the Uber just a few minutes later, Magnus sees that he has five minutes before Camille is set to arrive.

As he smooths down his suit and shoots his cuffs, Magnus walks toward the doorman who opens the door smoothly and unobtrusively as he approaches.

He’s escorted to his table and immediately given a wine list, which he peruses absently as the waiter fills his water glass.

Murmuring his thanks, Magnus isn’t paying attention to what he’s reading as his thoughts seem left in the bookstore.

With a sigh, he shakes his head a little and reaches for the water to clear his throat and his head. He’ll need his wits about him if he’s about to go a few rounds with Camille and as he starts to review everything he knows about Bellecourt and its struggling, he smiles.

Anyone who knows him knows that it’s the look of a shark circling its prey and Magnus fully expects to come out the winner of their little tête-à-tête by the end of the night.

He stands as he sees Camille’s lithe figure striding toward him on her signature Louboutin pumps and as they lean in for a European greeting that has Magnus rolling his eyes, he can’t help but think that he’d prefer vastly different company for dinner.

Company that looks an awful lot like Alexander.

#white blank page #my writing #malec fic

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stevenmuses · 5 years

Text

An Unspoken Eulogy from a Grandson and Funeral Summary

The past five days have been a whirlwind. The afternoon of Wednesday, November 7 we received the news. Ba Ngoai had passed away earlier in the day with my mom by her side - causing a massive ripple throughout our family. Many weeks ago, we had received the notification that Ba Ngoai’s condition had turned for the worse - and in the back of all of our minds, we knew her time was nearing its end.

La Thi Tran was born in 1928 in Nam Dinh in North Vietnam. In her younger years, she moved first to Hanoi, and later, to Saigon. She fostered 5 daughters and 2 sons, caring deeply for her family of 9. Like many Vietnamese families at the time, she ran a storefront with mostly dry goods and food. During the Vietnam War, her husband lost his legs - leaving her to be the sole provider of the family. In these conditions, all of the children helped her run the store, hustling and selling what they could to help the family make ends meet. With the living conditions becoming poorer in Vietnam with the rise of communism, several of her children fled Vietnam on a small fishing boat, escaping to a refugee camp in Malaysia. After spending time in the refugee camp, eventually immigrating and settling in Edmonton, Canada. After her children had settled, she and her husband were sponsored to rejoin her children in Edmonton. Her husband passed away in 1996, more than 20 years before her eventual passing in 2018 in Calgary, Canada. In her years, she raised 5 daughters and 2 sons, 15 grandchildren, and even a great grandchild. It’s crazy to think that without her, not a single one of us would be here now.

In the later years of her life, Ba Ngoai spent her time the George Boyack assisted living facility. Rushing to the nursing home after hearing the news - I saw Di Hanh and my mom hovered around my grandma’s lifeless body, choking back tears. Nine years after enduring a severe, crippling stroke, my grandma’s struggle was finally over. La Thi Tran passed away on November 7, 2018 at the age of 90.

I never got to know Ba Ngoai as a person - not really anyways. The language barrier always kept us apart in communication, and later, the stroke made it even more difficult. Like many of us in the second generation, I grew up with Vietnamese in my brain and on the tip of my tongue - but that faded away steadily and surely as time went on.

While I was never able to get to know Ba Ngoai as a person, I definitely knew Ba Ngoai as a mother and grandmother. I was told that Ba Ngoai had always taken care of me when I was younger - that my parents used to drop me off at Ba Ngoai’s house and she would watch over us. Unfortunately, none of those memories ever stuck in my mind - I was just too young. But I know what she stood for - I think we all did. She stood for her family. She loved her children and grandchildren dearly. Even though she was growing old, she was at every family event she could make, supporting her children and grandchildren, even during the worst of times. Even when she was wracked by her stroke, I still remember her trying to give us whatever money she had in little red li xi envelopes.

One recent story that I wanted to share was just a month or so ago - when I visited her after hearing that her condition worsened. She was shaking in her bed, saying things to herself that no one could understand any longer. She hadn’t been eating very much recently - she was incredibly thin. She had a permanent look that seemed like it was already fixated on the world beyond. She had become indecipherable and clearly in a great deal of pain. When I approached her bed, my dad said to her in Vietnamese, “Do you recognize him? It’s Steven!” I held her hand - and I was surprised by how incredible ironclad her grip was. Her face lit up when she looked at my face and she gave a minuscule nod, mumbling to herself in indistinct Vietnamese. While we couldn’t understand most of what she said, there were two words that we all could decipher - the clearest two words that we had heard her speak in many months. “...map qua!” She had called me chubby! She fought through her pain, recognized who I was and compared me to how she remembered me in the past. Through all the pain and the suffering, she was still fighting to be a mother and grandmother. That’s a memory that I won’t ever forget of Ba Ngoai.

Upon her passing, family members made their way home from across the world to join each other in the mourning of the matriarch of the Hoang family - from as far away as Saudi Arabia and Taiwan. For the first time in what must have been 10 years or more, the family was back together, reunited to celebrate the life of a dear mother, grandmother, and great grandmother.

Day 0 (The Day of Passing) - Wednesday, November 7

The nursing home is an incredibly depressing place - filled with exhausted nurses, the stench of poor quality food and unchanged adult diapers, and silent, addled seniors, waiting for the inevitable next step. In that environment- it felt so surreal. I just felt unemotional - but philosophical about the whole thing. Sitting on a couch in the nursing home common area with my uncle and dad, watching the other seniors being force-fed food by the nurses, I couldn’t help but think about age, mortality, and what the point of it all even was. All of these seniors led full, eventful lives - only to be left waiting for death in that environment. That was the case for Ba Ngoai.

Or was it?

Cau Tuan returned from Vietnam just a day earlier - which she knew. She was so upset when she heard that he was going on a long trip to Vietnam - perhaps she had the sense that she was close as well? But - she held on for him until he could return.

My mom came to visit and feed her on Wednesday. After days with little eating, this day, Ba Ngoai ate some wonton soup, Ensure, and even some ice cream! My mom had a sixth sense that day - she had felt that Ba Ngoai didn’t have much longer to live. Calling my dad, she had planned to cancel the vacation that she was going to take the following week, just in case.

She returned to the room with Ba Ngoai’s favourite nurse at the home (my mom said that Ba Ngoai loved that woman so much - that she made her laugh so much during her time at the nursing home) - and I think they both knew that the time was near. A few minutes later, Ba Ngoai quietly passed away, with my mom and her favourite nurse at her bedside.

After the funeral, it was planned that each of the families would contribute money for Ba Ngoai’s funeral arrangements and burial. At one of their meetings to discuss money, it was revealed that Ba Ngoai gave money to Cau Phat to hold for her, secretly, that none of the other siblings even knew about. Even from beyond the grave, she was still taking care of her children.

I had written the first paragraph about Day 0 a couple of days ago, when I felt like reflecting on what the end of life meant for all of us. Upon talking to my mom about Ba Ngoai’s last hours, one thing became so abundantly clear - it wasn’t her that was waiting for death, death was waiting for her. She was still taking care of her family in any way that she could, even while bedridden, until her last day.

Day 1 (Casketing, Prayer Day 1) - Sunday, November 11

The funeral of Ba Ngoai took place over three days at the Mountain View Memorial Gardens & Funeral Home in east Calgary. In the days prior to Sunday, people had begun to return to Calgary. Rachel, Patricia, Albert, and Cristina had returned from their work and schooling in Toronto. Di Mai and Chu Chau flew in from Saudi Arabia and stayed with our family. Kacey, Jen, Vince and Cau Tai’s family drove down from Edmonton. Cau Phat returned from Phoenix. Everyone was trying to play their part in organizing the funeral - ordering the food for the reception, talking to the Chua Bat Nha, organizing with the funeral home, ordering flowers, putting together programs and memorial boards, writing and practicing eulogies and poems, and other innumerable but equally essential tasks.

Entering the funeral home for the first time, we were stunned by beautiful photo and story boards and breathtaking flowers. In the chapel, there were an astonishing array of flowers, a beautifully crafted wooden casket, two incense altars (one for Buddha and one for Ba Ngoai), and the body of Ba Ngoai, wrapped in a beautiful red and yellow Buddhist funeral blanket. Everyone took turns paying their respects to Ba Ngoai, with tears in their eyes. One of the most powerful images I saw that day was Cau Tuan on his knees at Ba Ngoai’s body, head down, saying words that only Ba Ngoai’s could hear.

Many people connected to our family came to the prayer - coworkers and family friends alike. Some of these people I hadn’t seen in 10-15 years - but many of them came up to me to tell me how much I’ve grown. These little interactions really made me feel a sense of warm, community and continuity - even though I may not even recognize these people.

Monks from the temple Chua Bat Nha led us in a melancholic prayer. The children (immediate descendants of Ba Ngoai along with in-laws) stood in front of the chapel seats, while the grandchildren stood behind them within the rows of the chapel’s seating. All family members were given white headbands to wear.

Somber in tone, the prayer was led by the three monks from the temple. Other Buddhist members of the temple joined in the prayers. Together, their voices felt purifying and cleansing - as if they were coaxing Ba Ngoai’s spirit through to the afterlife. We continued to stand for the prayer for an entire hour, while the adults were constantly standing and bowing down to the ground. One of the children even momentarily passed out and fell during the prayer due to exhaustion, smacking his jaw on the bench in front of him.

After the prayer, we gathered in the reception hall to eat banh mi and desserts, mingling with the friends and family that had come to pay their respects.

In the evening, we were made aware of a vote that was occurring the following night. The first generation was trying to decide between:

(a) Burying Ba Ngoai’s ashes immediately in the Edmonton cemetery next to Ong Ngoai, whom she has expressed intense longing for.

(b) Wait 49 days (7 weeks) as per Buddhist beliefs, allowing for the spirit/consciousness to transition to the afterlife. Store Ba Ngoai’s ashes in an urn, (illegally) held in the Buddhist temple for the 49 days, and then buried with Ong Ngoai after.

The vote was contentious and was split between both options.

Day 2 (Prayer Day 2) - Monday, November 12

The prayers continued again into Day 2. We arrived at 5pm, burned incense and visited again with Ba Ngoai. The hour of prayers began at 6pm. Once again, the monks from the temple Chua Bat Nha led us in prayer, with the direct descendants in the front and the grandchildren behind.

Soon after the prayers began, Jen and I went to the airport to pick up my brother, who had cut his vacation short to return home. Upon returning to the funeral home, we met with our parents, who had tears in their eyes, and together we paid tribute to Ba Ngoai with incense and prayers as a family.

Immediately after, we reconvened with everyone else in the reception hall and ate dumplings, spring rolls, banh mi, and more dessert.

Even though initially the vote for what to do with Ba Ngoai’s urn was initially split - the vote was almost unanimous after discussion - Ba Ngoai was to go into Chua for 49 days, before being buried with Ong Ngoai.

Day 3 (Funeral Ceremony, Cremation) - Tuesday, November 13

Early Tuesday morning, we returned to the funeral home for the final time. We prayed for the final time. At 9:30AM, we began the “official” funeral ceremony, with myself and my Dad as the English and Vietnamese hosts, respectively. We began with our final Buddhist prayer sessions. The vibe felt distinctly different than the two previous days - it felt like everyone was somber and tense about the day ahead, knowing that by noon, this whole funeral process would be over.

After the prayer session, we proceeded into speeches. With tears in their eyes and wavering voices, Cau Phat, Cau Tuan, and Bac Duy all provided their own speeches - all saying how much they loved and how thankful they were for Ba Ngoai.

After, Albert, Nathan and myself went up to the podium to share a few words from a grandchild perspective. Albert spoke in both English and Vietnamese, sharing about how he got to know who Ba Ngoai was as a person from the quality and tightness of his parents and our family. Nathan delivered a heartfelt poem “It’s Only Been a Few Minutes,” and I shared a recent story about Ba Ngoai in the nursing home.

And then that was it.

The funeral procession. We walked out of there, single file, into our cars. Then, we drove to the crematorium in our cars, single file. The images and videos speak for themselves.

youtube

What an incredibly sad and moving experience. The melodic and repetitive prayers felt like they were boring their way right into my soul - and you could tell that it did that for everyone. Christian, Catholic, Buddhist, Atheist or whatever we were - I think that during that time, we all believed together it was helping Ba Ngoai’s spirit move on. There, in the funeral home and in the crematorium, it really had felt like we all had come together as a family to celebrate Ba Ngoai. I think that’s truly what family is - people tied together by common experiences and relationships that are there for each other, regardless of the last time they saw each other, or where they live. I don’t think anyone needed to say anything - but I think we all understood each other, united in our grief.

You know - it was the end of a marvelous and long life for Ba Ngoai, filled with incredible ups and downs, separations and reunions, health and sickness. Her passing is not only a cause for grief - but a cause for celebration. Without her, none of us would be here, living comfortable and wholesome lives filled with love, family, and fun.

Thank you - from all of us.

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ghostswhowontwearpants · 6 years

Text

Sand Music - A Short Discworld Fic

Somewhere in the Klatchian Desert...

Tonight, though, he felt different.

He wanted music, real music. And a harmonica just...wasn't right. Not for what he was feeling. Sure, it was great for the old standby 'Going Into The Klatchian Foreign Legion To Forget Everything, Don't Mourn Me' (which never had the same tune twice) but it lacked....something.

Now he was staring at his creation, trying to get the nerve to try it. He wasn't really sure how he made it or why but this didn't bother him because he was used to forgetting things.

It had started with him sitting on the metal washtub1 drumming his heels. It had made a small 'bonk, bonk' sound and when he'd gotten up, the metal had flexed outward, free of his weight, with a 'fwumb' noise. And somehow, all of that had led to him standing here, holding a notched spearbutt on the metal edge, tied to one of Private Hang Dry's bootlaces which was nailed to the washtub.

It looked pointless. Something, though, something made him ease back on the spear haft like it was the lever of some complicated siege weapon and tentatively pluck the string.

It made a very satisfying 'bwomp' noise. He pulled back harder and tried again. “Bwamp,” went the string. He could feel his brain struggling to remember this, to put it together. And for some reason, he could. The tighter the string, the higher the note, he reasoned.

He stared at the dirty walls, then closed his eyes and thought, for some reason, of a stranger he couldn't quite remember and an endless desert of black sand.... His hands moved.

After a series of soft twangs, accompanied by the cymbal-like hiss of sand falling out of Hang Dry's bootlace onto the metal, Medium began to sing in a not terribly pure voice.

“He came through the desert on a horse with no name...”

“It had a name.”

“What?” Medium's eyes popped open. Corporal Wash With Care was up on the wall, staring out at the desert. The moonlight reflected in his eyes as he turned to look at Medium.

“The horse, it had a name.”

Medium was irritated. “How do you know what horse I'm singing about?”

“All horses have a name,” said Om, but he sounded doubtful of this. “Stands to reason.”

“What, like us?” groused Collar, popping his.

“Alright, gents,” said the Sergeant but without any real feeling. Wash went back to staring over the wall. He was looking at the fresh graves just over the next dune.

“What was its name, then?” Medium asked once the Sergeant had gone back to shuffling his one piece of paper around the desk in an important sort of way. He was expecting to hear, 'I don't know.'

“It...started with a B. The...” He hesitated before calling him a man because the word didn't seem right. “The person who was here. For awhile.” His brow furrowed. “Maybe he told me. A white horse. Started with a B.” His voice trailed away.

Anywhere else this would not have been a remotely sufficient answer. But for the Klatchian Foreign Legion, this was practically an oral history. There wasn't much room for complaint about names from men who took theirs from clothing labels.4

Medium began plucking at his makeshift instrument again.

“He came through the desert on a horse that started with B...” He paused a moment for contemplation. “The black desert's like a not very wet sea...” He looked around self-consciously. Hang Dry nodded encouragingly.

“In the Klatchian Foreign Legion you can't remember your name but there's lots of angry D'regs here to give you some pain.” He launched into some vaguely musical 'la la la's and several others joined in on the basis that no one can complain if they don't know how it goes either. The string bounced and vibrated.

Medium concentrated, his hands moving of their own accord. There was a black desert and a white horse and a man in black...

“On the first part of the journey, I think I'd just lost my life...” There was a voice like something carved in stone and all around him was...

“There was sand and....sand and rocks and things,” this didn't sound very musical even to him, but he plowed on, “there was sand and hills and...things.” His eyes popped open. He didn't want to think about or remember the things he had just seen hurrying over the sand, things with too many bits attached to them. He fumbled for several seconds, just letting the music happen without words.

Even Wash seemed to be listening. Medium thought he heard a toe tapping.

“The heat was hot,” he gabbled, “and the ground was dry and the air was full of arrows.” Some part of him knew this shouldn't be considered music, deep down, but it stuck to you somehow and it was all true, after all, and men were listening and nodding their heads. Medium didn't know the word 'catchy' and would have forgotten it even if he had but that's precisely what it was. He launched into the part he'd already sang, since repeating things was what he was good at.

“He came through the desert on a horse that started with B, the black desert's like a not very wet sea, in the Klatchian Foreign Legion you can't remember your name but there's lots of angry D'regs here to give you some pain.”

“La, la, la...” sang Wash, like a man half asleep.

“La, laa, la, la, la,” echoed Hang Dry, standing up, boot in hand.

Twing!

Medium stopped playing. His eyes opened and he stared at the still quivering string as if he hadn't seen it before. His gaze roamed up over the many pairs of eyes watching him.

“Sarge?” he quavered.

“What is it, Private?”

“What am I doing, Sarge?”

“What do you think you're doing?” replied the Sergeant, who was used to this question, but often didn't know the answer.

“There was music,” mumbled Medium, his fingers curling around the string. “And, er....then the Universe went 'twing'.”

“Hmm,” said the Sergeant. For all he knew, the Universe regularly went 'twing'. “Well, er, best you not worry about it too much,” he decided, in the firm tones of a man who fully expects to forget this conversation in its entirety. “Look at Private, er...”

“Ha...lf Dry?” said Hang Dry uncertainly when he realized the Sergeant was gesturing at him.

“Half Dry, yes, good man, look at Half Dry here, he's emptying his boots of sand, good gesture, that man, why don't you do that, you've got watch soon, I expect, when you can fill them up with more sand.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

An hour later, when Air Dry came in and said, “Oy, what's this thing under my hammock?” no one had any idea.

1There was never enough water to wash with, so mostly it was used to store things people had forgotten what they were until someone remembered.

2Sergeants never have names anyway, so he'd never bothered to try to learn his from his clothing. For ease of reference, the other two were usually called Collar and Om, since no one could remember who Om was and only a handful of them remembered how to button on a collar.

3This was a single piece of paper with blurry orders on it that the sergeant would look at, go, “Hmm,” profoundly a few times and then tuck away carefully for the next night.

4This necessarily meant that 'Dry' was something of a surname. Line Dry had been killed in the recent fighting, while Air Dry was currently standing watch.

#discworld #terry pratchett #soul music #fanfiction #short story #original writing #writers on tumblr #mitresquaremurder #morganbonny #klatchian foreign legion #washtub bass #music #klatch #desert #a horse with no name #america #forgetting

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ohlookahiddenblade · 7 years

Text

Little Town [Part 1]

Words: 3292

Summary: Overall - Reader moves to London to escape her ties with her father and the Templar Order. In the process she makes friends with Jacob Frye and comes to the realization the world is a small place. Eventual Jacob x f!Reader.

Warnings: None as of now.

Author’s Note: Oh dear, what is this? I don’t even really know to be honest. I’ve been poking it with a pointy stick all day, but I told myself it was going up. It’s a bit slow at first, but now that intros are done there should be some Frye fun. You’ll probably notice it has some inspiration from Beauty and the Beast, as I’ve been watching it all week. Whoops. Good news - I still have a job and got a promotion of sorts. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Now that I’m stretching my legs (and hopefully not butchering Mr. Frye) I’m hoping to get some requests out. Much love <3

The sun had barely risen above the horizon when you made your way to the station. Faint whispers hovered in clumps of mumbled conversations, none of which you paid any particular attention to. There was nothing worth your attention in this small little corner of the quaint little village you had called home for the last ten years of your life. A variety of people littered the station's boarding area – more than you thought there would be at this time of the morning. The children looked considerably duller than their parents, but you had to admit you would be too if the thrill of adventure hadn't been thrumming through your veins. Adrenaline crept up your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake as the large steam engine came pulling into the station.

A frown tugged at the corner of your lips as a group of women fell silent in the brief moment you walked past, their eyes bearing down on you. Soon all of that would be behind you. The gossiping whispers – the side-eyed looks - all of it would disappear the moment you stepped into London. London was too big of a city to draw much attention to yourself, much unlike here where everyone knew everyone else. Your father's wealthy and powerful reputation had not spared you the mumbled breathless comments of 'odd girl'.

Perhaps that was something to be proud of. You had branched away from family tradition, losing yourself for hours in books, sometimes while wandering the outer lying fields. Escape was always at your fingertips, even when your father was scolding you for straying from your preordained purpose. You were not meant to be a Templar as he so readily declared; you had decided that long ago. Though you agreed that the Order's purpose was certainly ambitious, it wasn't a place you could see yourself staying. There was so much to see and do in the world, and this little place was not going to further that.

Your younger brother had always been a better study anyways.

Hesitating, you looked over your shoulder, swearing you could almost see your father's angry and disappointed face staring back at you. But it wasn't. He wasn't standing in the crowd, his arms crossed sternly over a chest bearing the symbol of the Order. No, there were only ordinary people in an ordinary place.

The steam engine's whistle shrieked unhappily as the brakes squeaked the massive contraption to a stop. The cars were filed neatly behind it, painted a dark green color. It was a nice sophisticated contrast to the jet black engine sitting at the helm. People exited, oblivious to everything going on around them it seemed. Once they were clear, the small group of waiting passengers began to board. No one shoved or jostled another, instead patiently waiting their turn. Even the children remained compliant as their mothers ushered them forward.

Uncertainty had begun to settle like a rock in the pit of your stomach, lodging what felt like pebbles of doubt in your throat. No, now was not the time for soul searching, as if you could somehow convince yourself that this was where you were meant to stay. Steeling yourself, you straightened, adjusted a pack that was sitting slightly heavier on your shoulder, and strode through the mouth of the car. You were going to do this – you were going to go to a place where you could start over, where no one would know your name.

You were going to London.

Tugging the shawl tighter around your shoulders, you tilted your head to let the warmth of the spring sun run along your jaw and cheek. It was a relief from the still frigid air, a small glimpse of hope that summer was coming. Bringing your gaze back down to the cobblestone street, your eye trailed over the people slowly coming out of their homes. Women dressed in fabrics of muted blues, greens, and browns filed down the way, some accompanied by children, empty baskets resting in the crooks of their elbows.

London was slowly coming to life, and it was time for you to hurry to the orphanage. Clutching a weathered book to your chest, you looked both ways before stepping into the street, weaving through the variously decorated stalls. Vendors boasted their wares, some of which you were sure were exaggerated, their tables littered with colorful food and flowers. Turning, you begun to walk towards the bridge when a hand came out to stop you.

Whirling around, you frowned as a finely dressed young man held out a bright yellow daisy to you. He was a familiar face – one you had seen around town every once in a while. Though you had never spoken to him, he gave you the impression that he was mostly harmless. His bright hazel eyes were sparkling with a mischievous mirth, coupled with a charming smirk that made him rather cute. Add in the dash of slicked back brown hair beneath his cap and you would even dare to call him handsome.

You opened your mouth, about to decline the offer as you were sure he was going to try to sell it to you, when he spoke. “A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady. Enjoy your day, miss.”

His voice was smooth as silk, though friendly, and all the anxious tension in your back melted away. You reached out, taking the delicate flower from his fingers. “Thank you, sir,” you said, offering him a small smile before turning back to go on your way.

Yet, as you walked towards the Thames, you felt a chill run up your spine as if you were being watched. Your pace faltered as you glanced over your shoulder. No one immediately stood out as suspicious. Everyone seemed absorbed in their own business, bustling around as more bodies began to fill the streets. A part of you had expected to see the man with bright hazel eyes and charming smile. Instead, no one seemed to realize you even existed, which was a relief in itself.

Laughing softly under your breath at yourself, you shook your head and continued walking, crossing the broad river. You were being absolutely ridiculous; several months had already passed since your arrival in London. If nothing else, your father was a very resourceful man, and if he wanted to find you he would have already. It wasn't as if he didn't know where you had gone, either. At the end of your last dispute you had made it clear that you were leaving for the city – not to mention it was overrun with members of the Order. Perhaps not a good choice for a getaway.

The excitement of your new found freedom still simmered in your blood, and you didn't want to lose that.

Drawing yourself up, you began to cross the wide river, the daisy pressed gently against the leather bound book. The carriages rumbled past, the horses' hooves clapping rhythmically against the stones. Your boots carried the same beat as you made it to the other side, hanging a right onto a small side street that would wind through the clustered homes to the City of London district.

The back alleys were considerably quieter, only the occasional stray dog and line of drying laundry to be seen. It made the rest of the journey only that much more pleasant. You preferred to use your walks to and from the orphanage as time for reflection.

Emerging back into the sunlight lazily draped across the brick buildings, you turned left and then hung a quick right, following the street up to a small cute little building. It was made of the same brick as the rest of the surrounding structures. The only difference was the roof had quite the patch job and the paint on the low fence needed to be touched up. The path leading up to the door was uneven, creating a hazard if one wasn't careful. Still, it filled your belly with warmth as you pressed the gate open. It creaked and groaned in protest under your touch, but quickly fell silent as you allowed it to fall closed behind you.

Even from the fence you could hear several excited squeals inside. Several little red faces peered out from the large window, their quick breaths fogging up the glass. “[Y/N]!” a little girl squealed as she pulled the wooden door open.

She couldn't have been more than seven, and was always eager to be the first to greet you when stopped by. “Sophie,” you greeted pleasantly, wrapping your arms around her gently as she ran to you. “Come, let's go grab the others. We can sit outside during lessons today.”

The girl giggled happily, her bright red curly hair bouncing around her shoulders as she tore back into the building to grab the other children. An older woman with short peppered hair stood in the doorway, leaning against it lightly as she watched the exchange. She didn't seem cross, or even phased by the squealing. “Ms. Penny,” you said lightly, tipping your head.

“Welcome, [Y/N]. I must stop by the market today. I don't supposed you would mind watching the children while I go? Ms. Caroline won't be in until later, and I would prefer to get started early with the cooking,” the older woman asked.

“Of course not, Ms. Penny. We'll be fine, as long as John doesn't start a fight this time,” you joked, your mind briefly flitting to when the young boy had nearly started an all out brawl over a few pieces of candy.

Ms. Penny rolled her eyes, but nodded. “Only heaven knows how I have patience for that child.”

“You're a saint,” you offered with a small smile. “Go on, then. We're going to get started.”

The older woman nodded and expressed her thanks before reentering the small house. Not a moment after her disappearance seven children came filing out. They were a mix of boys and girls between the ages of four and nine. Some had missing teeth, their gap-toothed smiles radiant as they saw you. Others were merely gruff looking, but you could easily see past the indifference.

“Ready?” you asked easily.

“Yes, Ms. [Y/N],” they replied in unison.

Satisfied, you smoothed the skirts of your dress and sat down on the edge of a stone bench, opening the book to the latest chapter. The group crowded around you, each vying for the seats closest to you. Sophie had managed to wiggle into your lap, her fingers tracing the words on the page as you began to read out loud. With the warmth of the sun on your back, you lost yourself in the ink and paper.

“Goodnight, Ms. Penny,” you said, offering her a smile. With a full belly you were more than happy to trudge back to your bed. It was a humble little room out of many in the building, but it was yours. To be honest, you really couldn't wait to get back to continue reading the book you had started the night before.

“Are you sure you'll be alright?” Ms. Penny asked, a hint of worry in her voice as she glanced up at the darkening sky. It had taken on darker tones of blue, casting a shadow down on the city that was only broken by the gas lights dotting the street.

“I'll be fine,” you assured. “It really isn't that far.”

“Goodnight then. We will see you next week.”

Bowing your head, you turned and began to make your way back to the bridge. Your boots clanked lightly against the street, the book at its usual place against your chest. The only difference was the daisy lightly pressed between its pages. The petals held their shape, though the stem drooped slightly from a day's use as a bookmark. Scrunching your nose against the pungent smell of tobacco, you decided to take the main road back to the Thames. The journey would have been quicker by carriage, but the little money you had in your pockets had to be saved for your landlord.

Cocking your head, you noticed several men standing off to the side, chatting quietly. Their bright red jackets made you inwardly cringe. The local gang was well known, though there were rumors going around that a new crew had taken up residence in Whitechapel. It wasn't news you had kept close attention to, but your neighbor had a mouth the size of the borough, so it was impossible not to hear.

Shrugging the uneasiness away with a good roll of your shoulders, you kept your eyes on the road in front of you. An indistinct dark shape ahead of you forced tension back into your spine as you tightened your grip on your book. The man took shape, but seemed to take no notice of you as he silently continued.

In several more paces you had come to the familiar bridge spanning the Thames. It looked different in the moonlight, almost sullen, as the hard edges became lined with shadows. The traffic was just as sparse here as it had been back in the streets, giving you at least a little comfort. Glancing over the wall, you noticed how the light reflected off the surface of the water like glass. It certainly made it more beautiful than it was in the daylight. Your steps slowed until they fully stopped. The small village, while beautiful in its own way, had nothing on the city. Against your better judgment you lingered, admiring the stillness of the boats along the docks.

A sound caught your attention, drawing your gaze to a hunched over man leaning against the wall. He seemed ill, but every alarm bell was ringing in the back of your head, drawing you away from him. Turning, the breath was quickly snatched from your lungs as you collided with something very solid. A hand came out to steady you; the touch that lingered was gentle, though the fingers were calloused.

“Pardon me, miss,” a voice you recognized rang softly.

“I'm so sorry,” you breathed, gasping to regain control of your nerves.

The man from the market earlier in the day stood just a pace from you, his head tilted as he observed you for a moment. It was almost uncomfortable the way he stared, the hairs along the back of your neck standing up. He gave a wave of his hand, his sharp gaze moving from you to the man behind you, and then back.

“Please, allow me to walk you home,” he offered.

You hesitated, looking around. “Oh, it's really fine,” you insisted. “Mr.?”

“Jacob Frye at your service,” he replied, glancing around as well. “Wouldn't do for you to run into any trouble on your way home, now would it?”

He was right as much as you hated to admit it. You were more than capable of taking care of yourself, but the streets of London weren't always forgiving and with it being so late it was taking a bigger chance. Despite your reservations you found yourself nodding. “That would be great. Thank you, Mr. Frye.”

“After you, miss,” he said, flashing you a small grin as he gestured for you to lead the way.

“[Y/N],” you replied, giving him a small smile of your own.

He tipped his hat. “[Y/N],” he repeated, almost as if he was testing to see how it would roll off his tongue.

The two of you walked in relative silence, asking a question here and there about the other but not too much as to be invasive. You had to admit it was kind of nice to have the company, and it felt short lived as you approached the door to the building. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a key, only to have confusion and panic hit you as it failed to open the lock. Heat flushed your cheeks a bright pink that was hidden by the dark as you cleared your throat and tried again.

“Oh, well, this is awkward,” you choked out, glancing around. “This is the right place, I swear. I don't understand why I can't get in.”

Jacob raised a brow and looked at the door, trailing up the side of the building. None of the windows were open, leaving him with the option of breaking one of them out. While normally he may not have thought twice about it, he doubted you wanted shattered glass all over the place. Instead, he cleared his throat softly and looked at you, noting the distress lines creasing your brow.

“If I may?”

You looked at him questioningly, your stomach knotting as you rubbed the skin along your arms. When you remained silent he continued. “I have a place not far from here with an empty room. You are welcome to it, and I'm sure my sister has left some of her things there.”

Alarm tightened the muscles along your neck and shoulders, uneasiness threatening to suffocate you. As you considered your options, you realized they were few and rather pitiful. A room sounded much better than freezing to death in the early spring night air. Again you found yourself nodding in agreement.

“I would appreciate it.”

“Right this way, then.” Jacob seemed pleased with your acceptance as he turned, leading the way towards Whitechapel. It didn't take long to come up on a building set apart from the rest. It was several stories tall with various windows, made squarely from wood. It didn't look weathered – normal might be a word you would use to describe it.

Jacob strolled up to the door without a care, opening the door with ease. Despite his self-assured posture, he seemed to tip-toe across the threshold into the darkened house. You followed suit, being as quiet as you could be as he led you to a room not far past the entry way. “Here we are, then,” he whispered, pushing the bedroom door open.

It was a cozy little room with a simple bed, dresser, and desk with chair. The bed was made up with some linens and a candle sat unlit on the polished wooden desk.

“Everything you need should be here. Some of the lads may be here in the morning, so don't be alarmed if you hear them,” he said simply.

“I... thank you, Mr. Frye. I appreciate it.”

You wanted to ask him the dozens of questions that were buzzing in the back of your mind, but the late hour stilled your tongue. On top of exhaustion, it would be rude to ask your host so many questions. Without another word you slipped into the room before you changed your mind and let the door gently shut.

Jacob's footfalls gradually echoed and died, leaving you alone in the foreign room. Taking a deep breath, you quietly wedged the chair under the door handle. It wouldn't hold against any real assault, but it would at least serve as an alarm and give you the opportunity to get your wits about you. In the dresser you found a pair of casual pants and woven shirt. They were a bit loose, but you wouldn't complain.

Climbing into the bed, you finally allowed yourself to relax, the tension seeping away. You didn't have much time to reflect on what had happened as exhaustion tugged at the corners of your mind. There was so much to do in the morning, and you felt obligated to find out more about your proverbial knight in shining armor. But for now, sleep.

#jacob frye #jacob x reader #jacob frye x reader #ac syndicate

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