#i technically had another refill but i was refused

[everyfandomever]

I swear if the docs dont take my blood after ive been fasting i will be livid

#i have to have an appointment today so i can get my anxiety meds #on my day of birth #soonest day i could do it and its been like a week since i ran out #i technically had another refill but i was refused #had a panic attack after the call to my doctor's office once i realized i had to come in #off my meds #that is genuinely the worse part #though i am starving rn #and i cant sleep so i have like 2 hrs before i have to leave #even tho the appointment is at 8 30 #cause fucking traffic gets bad on the bridge #also gods im dealing with the physical effects of my anxiety rn too #not just the nerves and shaking but also my stomach killing me and my fucking intestines going into over drive #vex spits out random shit #idk yall i just feel like this wont be a good day or a good birthday

[bradshawsbaby]

Hands Off

Pairing: Rooster x Wife!Reader

Author’s Note: I’ve received several general requests for protective/jealous Rooster fics. While I don’t think Rooster is someone who gets jealous, in the sense that he trusts his wife completely, he definitely is super protective. I hope this piece works for all those of you who requested something along these lines!

Warnings: Some language, a creepy pervert acting like a creepy pervert, a small physical altercation.

“Another round over here, hot stuff!”

You did your best to refrain from rolling your eyes, making your way over to the table in the back, where one of the most obnoxious men you’d ever encountered in your life was snickering with his friends. Setting your tray down on the table, you began clearing away their empty glasses, your chin held high as you did everything in your power to ignore their leering glances. You had purposely worn a pair of high-waisted jeans and a T-shirt with The Hard Deck’s logo on it, one that completely shielded your chest from prying eyes. But creeps would be creeps.

“I’ll be right back with a fresh round for you guys,” you told them in as neutral a voice as possible, managing to sidestep the hand that was coming perilously close to your behind.

“Thanks, cutie,” the jerk in the pink polo shirt said with a wink and a lascivious grin.

Skin crawling, you lifted up your tray and quickly moved away from them. If Penny wasn’t such a good friend, you would’ve walked out of The Hard Deck right that minute.

Though you technically hadn’t been on payroll at Penny’s bar since before you and Rooster were even engaged, you still volunteered to help out from time to time on the nights when The Hard Deck got really busy. You always refused to take any money from Penny, but she insisted that you keep your tips. It was a little agreement that the two of you had come to.

“Are those guys giving you a problem?” Penny asked as she refilled their drinks. She shot a look over at their table, where they were guffawing obnoxiously, probably at some stupid joke.

You glanced over your shoulder and followed her gaze. This time, you did roll your eyes. “No more so than your standard, run-of-the-mill loser,” you told her, carefully arranging the mugs of beer on your tray.

“Y/N,” Penny sighed, shaking her head. “I can ask them to leave. Or tell them they’re going to have to buy a round if they don’t cut it out. You’re doing me a favor. I don’t want you—”

“It’s fine, Penny,” you cut her off, smiling. “Really. Not worth making a scene over. You don’t need any more stress.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Penny replied, still looking skeptical. She shot another glance at the table in the back, then smiled conspiratorially. “Rooster and the others will be here soon anyway, huh? I’m sure they won’t want to mess with them.”

“Definitely not,” you laughed in agreement, hefting the full tray of beers over to their table. “Here you go, gentlemen,” you said politely, setting their drinks down in front of them. They were the farthest thing from gentlemen in your mind, but you’d learned to be polite to even the rudest of customers from your full-time waitressing days.

“Why don’t you join us, hot stuff?” Pink Polo smirked, brushing his hand against the back of yours, which made you stiffen immediately. Evidently the wedding band sitting very snugly on your finger wasn’t sending a clear enough message.

“Can’t,” you told him curtly, snatching your empty tray back up. “There’s a lot of other customers who need me. Plus, my husband will be here any minute,” you added pointedly.

“Husband, huh? You got a husband stupid enough to let his pretty little wife prance around this bar all night?” he shot back, leaning back in his seat smugly.

You bit your tongue to keep from firing back at him, not wanting to cause any trouble for Penny. But his words, paired with that smug look on his face, had infuriated you. Swallowing back your anger, you pasted a false smile on your face. “No, but I do have a husband who respects and trusts me enough to let me help out a friend,” you told him, spinning away without a second glance. The sound of their laughter echoing behind you made your blood boil.

Dropping your tray on the bar, you closed your eyes and took a couple deep breaths. There was no point in letting a pack of losers like that ruin your night. Just as you were getting ready to turn and go check on some of the other customers, you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind and a familiar cheek press against yours.

“There’s my best girl,” Rooster whispered in your ear, grinning as he captured your lips in a quick kiss of greeting.

You laughed, instantly feeling better once you were in his arms. “Well hello,” you grinned, turning so that you could wrap your arms around him. He had swapped his flight suit for a pair of jeans and one of the Hawaiian shirts that you knew had belonged to his dad. Handsome, as always, was your husband.

“How’s the night going? No one giving you any problems, I trust?” Rooster asked, raising an eyebrow. You could tell he was only half-joking.

“None,” you fibbed, pressing a reassuring kiss to his lips. There was no point in telling him about the creeps from the back. It would just upset him, and for what? He deserved some time to unwind after work. Those jerks weren’t worth a fight. 

Over Rooster’s shoulder, you spotted your other friends already congregating near the pool table. You waved to Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, and Hangman, who all waved back and shouted their greetings to you. Mav, too, had arrived with the rest of the team and was already helping Penny behind the bar.

“Why don’t you go have some fun with everyone and I’ll bring you guys some drinks, okay?” you suggested, resting a hand on his chest as he stole another kiss from your lips.

“Come sit with us, baby,” Rooster begged, resting his hands on your hips and giving you his best puppy-dog look.

You smiled at that, swatting at him playfully. “I will when I can. But I’m here to work tonight,” you said, shooing him away.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, Mrs. Bradshaw,” Rooster winked, making his way over to play a few rounds of pool.

For the next hour or so, things went just fine. The Hard Deck started to get more crowded, just as you all had expected it to, and you were running orders back and forth all over the bar. Pink Polo and his friends continued to get more and more intoxicated, their comments becoming increasingly lewd and perverted.

“Maybe I could show your husband how a real man handles his woman,” Pink Polo whispered with a smile that sent a shiver down your spine.

Hurrying away from him, trying to push his comments out of your mind, you found yourself running straight into your husband’s arms.

“What’s wrong?” Rooster asked, taking one look at your face and knowing something was up. He touched a gentle hand to your cheek, his eyes meeting yours.

“Nothing, just getting a little flustered with all these orders. I’m out of practice,” you told him with a smile, deflecting as best you could.

Rooster didn’t seem to buy what you were saying completely, but he didn’t push the point. “Let me help you then.”

“You don’t have to, babe. You’ve already been working all day. Go have fun,” you told him, giving him an appreciative kiss before sending him back on his way to the pool table.

“Oh, hot stuff!” came Pink Polo’s irritating voice.

Sighing and wondering when the hell he was going to leave, you turned to find your least favorite customer waving his empty glass in the air and smirking at you.

“Another round, babycakes,” he told you, teasingly holding the glass out of your reach when you went to take it from him. “Oops, sorry,” he chuckled, finally handing it to you. 

As you turned to leave, however, he suddenly reached out and smacked your ass. Hard. Despite the music blaring, the sound of it seemed to reverberate throughout the whole bar.

“And make it fast, sweets,” he winked.

Before you could even blink, before your brain could even fully register what had just happened, your husband was already tearing across the bar, the rest of your friends shouting loudly as they followed behind him.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?!” Rooster demanded, roughly grabbing Pink Polo by the front of his shirt and hauling him out of his seat.

Your husband was the kindest, gentlest, most loving person you knew. But he was also fiercely protective of those he loved and completely unafraid to get physical when he needed to. You could tell from the rage blaring in his eyes at that moment that he felt he needed to. No one was going to disrespect you like that and get away with it, not if Rooster had anything to say about it.

Pink Polo’s friends stood up and moved as if to lunge at Rooster, but quickly backed down the second they saw Coyote, Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy taking up the rear, ready to back Rooster’s play. Bob, knowing he was the least intimidating looking of all of them, hung behind the rest, still wanting to offer his support if needed.

Penny and Phoenix grabbed your arm to pull you back, Mav making his way over to keep an eye on things as well.

“Huh? What the fuck did you say?” Rooster repeated, shaking the creep by the front of his shirt. “You think you’re gonna put your fucking hands on a woman like that and get away with it? Let’s see how you like it when I put my fucking hands on you,” Rooster shouted, raising a fist as Pink Polo attempted to scramble out of his hold, his useless friends just staring, slack-jawed.

“Baby, no!” you cried out suddenly, covering your face with your hands in panic. “It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it,” you told him, knowing your husband would go to any length to defend you.

Rooster looked back at you, recognizing the concern on your face. Normally, he wouldn’t have backed down in a situation like this, but when he saw how much stress it was causing you, he slowly lowered his fist.

“You’re lucky my wife’s a better person than I am,” Rooster told Pink Polo through gritted teeth, letting go of his shirt and shoving him away. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m going to settle my tab,” Pink Polo sneered, reaching for his wallet.

“You know,” Penny said, stepping forward in that instant and raising a hand. “One of the rules of my bar is that if you disrespect a lady, you buy a round. But I’ll do you a favor. You can just get the fuck out of here and never come back,” she told him coldly, prompting a chorus of cheers from the crowd.

“Fine,” Pink Polo frowned, glaring at Rooster and then at you. “God, such a big fucking deal over one stupid slut.”

Not even you were able to stop Rooster this time as he slammed his fist directly into Pink Polo’s nose, knocking him to the ground.

“I think you broke my fucking nose!” he cried out, blood spurting out and staining his lovely pink polo shirt.

“Aw, what a shame,” Hangman sighed, bending down to pick him up with Coyote’s and Payback’s assistance. “Penny, my dear?” he asked, looking over at her with a knowing grin.

Smirking, Penny gave a nod to signal exactly what they should do with him. As the rest of the crowd booed and tossed their drinks at him, Pink Polo and his friends were tossed soundly out onto the sand.

“Wish we could say it’s been a pleasure,” Payback smirked, slamming the door shut behind them once he, Hangman, and Coyote were back inside.

Once Pink Polo and his posse were taken care of, everyone surrounded you, checking if you were alright and asking if there was anything they could do. But you only had eyes for the man standing before you, his bruised knuckles and slightly skewed Hawaiian shirt the only indications that he’d been in any sort of scuffle at all.

Stepping over to him, you wasted no time in wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. “You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered, holding him close.

“Yes, I did,” Rooster whispered back, stroking your back gently as he pressed you close to his chest. “Nobody’s ever going to disrespect you like that, baby. Nobody.” He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, then pulled back to look at you. “Are you alright?”

“I should be asking you that,” you replied, lifting his bruised hand to your lips and pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles.

“Ah, I’ve had worse,” Rooster grinned, reaching up to cup your cheek with his battered hand. “Totally worth it to defend you, Mrs. Bradshaw.”

“God, I love you,” you told him, wrapping your arms around him and kissing him soundly, right there in the middle of The Hard Deck.

“Ugh, you guys are gross,” Hangman joked, rolling his eyes as everyone else laughed and turned away to give you both some privacy.

“Thanks for protecting me, baby,” you whispered, snuggling against his chest.

“Always, honey,” Rooster murmured, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist for the rest of the night.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #x reader #x female reader #miles teller #top gun #top gun: maverick

[causeitsagame]

Fic: Chaperone

Another promptfic, but a much lighter one this time. (How could it not be?) The prompt: "....hello. it's me. So Fuyuhiko hates the smell and taste of alcohol, probably rarely drinks? Little asshole mafia man taking care of a drunk friend (of your choice)? Or maybe flipside, accidentally getting drunk himself? Island party night? Idk sounds lighter than my last prompt lol -xoxo hajihiko" I read that, flashed back to how he behaved during episode 2 of DR3, and went "sure, I can work with that."

Content warning: lots and lots of alcohol and associated behaviors. Also, Teruteru.

Additional warning for Teruteru fans(?): this is a story that treats him as a general content warning.

-----

"No thanks, I'll pass."

Teruteru's shoulders sagged at the refusal of his offered drink. "But it's a custom blend! I even made my own palm wine!"

Fuyuhiko gestured to the simple juice he'd chosen, rather than the 'party punch' that the rest of the room had in hand. "I'm good with this." He saw the protest coming. "I don't like feeling my head get all fuzzy."

"You're missing out on a truly triumphant creation," Teruteru sighed, but did walk on to refill a grateful Nekomaru's glass.

Shrugging, Fuyuhiko walked to the doors along one wall of the breezy event hall. The deck beyond was blissfully quiet in comparison to the raucous interior. He'd joined this event like he never would have, before, but he could feel the itch of over-socialization pulling tight around the base of his skull.

They'd all lucked out more than they had any right to, he thought as he watched the waves roll peacefully in. At the start of the party, those waves had been perfect azure under a cloudless sky. By now, the ocean had begun a slow descent into magenta and wine, and birds were letting out their last soft calls for the evening. These islands might technically serve as a sort of prison, but much of the world would pay top dollar for this kind of "punishment."

The sight was relaxing enough that he stayed out longer than he probably should. Fuyuhiko was anti-social when necessary or by accident, now, as opposed to having it be his default state of existence. It wasn't that he meant to ignore everyone else, but it was pleasant out here, staring out over a darkening ocean. And pretty. (He wouldn't have used that word before, either.)

Eventually, feeling his capacity for socialization having recharged, Fuyuhiko turned to walk back inside.

They were acting like a bunch of goddamn drunk morons.

"The hell?" Fuyuhiko asked, blinking as he made a slow survey across the room. He hadn't been out there that long, really. Not long enough to be seeing this.

Not everyone was wasted off their ass. For one, Peko had needed his encouragement to have even one drink, with the reminder that she no longer had 'official duties.' She sat in an armchair and focused too hard on where her hands rested on her knees, but still largely seemed to have control of herself.

Someone like Ibuki, though? She was hollering louder than even she typically did, and was—

"Fuck!" Fuyuhiko yelped, and darted across the room to pull the hem of Ibuki's shirt back down when she began to lift it over her head. Pouting, she reached for his and would have done the same, if only her hands could figure out how to close properly around its material.

Pushing away from Ibuki as his face flared crimson, Fuyuhiko spun around and looked for a reasonable face. Well, 'reasonable' wasn't the right word, but 'compliant' would have to be good enough. "Don't let her undress," he ordered Mikan.

Maybe Mikan wasn't the right pick, after all. She was fanning herself with one of the old hotel brochures and had unbuttoned her shirt as far down as was possibly decent. Hell. All of them had suffered through many dark flashbacks, but until now, they'd managed to avoid recalling that humiliating day in their old classroom where their food was drugged. "S-stop her?" Mikan wondered. Ibuki's bustline drew Mikan's attention like a magnet. "But if Ibuki wants to, it… it might be rude if I try to stop…"

"Don't let her fucking do it, or you'll answer to me!" Fuyuhiko snapped. That seemed to work, at least for now, and he spun around to try to solve this problem at its root.

There he was.

"What's in the drinks?" Fuyuhiko demanded of Teruteru, who looked futilely for an exit as he was backed into a corner. "D'ya find some stuff to slip into people's food, again?"

"It's just a palm wine punch, like I promised!" Teruteru protested. "With a perfectly irrestistable blend of fruit juices!"

Fuyuhiko gripped him by his neck scarf. "And?"

Teruteru hesitated. "I also. Ah. Finally managed to distill the wine. Like I'd been hoping to figure out. It'll be another option when we entertain ourselves!"

"Uh huh. And what's the ABV of palm wine?" His clan hadn't slipped a huge amount of foreign drinks past customs, but it had been enough to give him a rough familiarity with the alcohol by volume of various liquor.

Teruteru's gaze slid off to the side as he feigned uncertainty. "Ah, er, well, I believe about five percent?"

Fuyuhiko's eye narrowed. Okay, comparable to beer, but this wasn't beer-fueled behavior. Not this quickly. "And after it's distilled?"

Teruteru's attention wandered even further afield, toward the exit door he'd clearly rather be walking through. "About… fifty."

Fuyuhiko's grip around Teruteru's ridiculous scarf tightened. "So everyone was drinking ten fucking times as much as they thought they were, 'cause you told them it was palm wine."

"In—in fairness, I said it included palm wine. I didn't say that was the only alcohol."

"Shut the fuck up! Fucking hell." Groaning, Fuyuhiko looked around to again locate a visibly unsettled Peko. She also liked to maintain control of herself, and would certainly not appreciate losing far more of it than expected. "Hey, can you come here?"

She did, though she needed to put some effort into walking straight. A quick explanation later, anger flashed through Peko's red eyes in a way that had Teruteru looking even more ready to bolt for safety. "You took advantage of us," Peko muttered. Her words were precise, but they didn't come quickly. "I have said before: when a group lives together, propriety must be maintained. And for anyone who would ruin—"

"No taking advantage!" Teruteru promised, and held up his hands. "Nothing like that! I was only trying to bring life to the party."

Fuyuhiko didn't trust that for one single second. He'd heard Hajime mutter something that implied some pretty goddamn dark behavior on the chef's part, if—thankfully—only an attempt. "I'm gonna get people to their rooms before anything worse happens. Can you watch him?"

"Gladly." Peko loomed more over her target, even as her eyes couldn't quite focus.

Fuyuhiko ignored Teruteru's pathetic whimpers and looked around the room, sighing. People had already returned to their cups; the blend was, unfortunately, probably as delicious as everything else Teruteru made. Well. He'd better start with the people who'd be the hardest to get out of here if they went much further down this road.

"Come on," Fuyuhiko ordered Nekomaru, and grabbed the man by the wrist. "Put down your drink. We're going."

"Going?" bellowed Nekomaru.

Fuyuhiko shook his head, blinking. Nekomaru could be unbelievably loud when he wanted to be. A drunk Nekomaru appeared to reach those volumes unintentionally, with every single word. "Teruteru gave you the wrong drink. Come on, you need to go sleep it off."

"The wrong drink?" Nekomaru echoed, nearly loud enough to bring down the rafters. "But I feel great!" The words weren't just loud, but sloppy and slurred, like they were already tumbling down a slope that his body would soon follow.

By the bottom of the latest glass he held, Nekomaru probably would tip over, and then good fucking luck to anyone who'd try to haul him out of here. Do I actually need to bother, for Nekomaru? Fuyuhiko asked himself, only to grimace as he looked back at Teruteru. No one was safe around that little pervert. Fucking! Hell!

"You, uh…" Fuyuhiko cast his attention around the room. "You want to set a good example, right? For the team?" Okay, good, 'team' was the magic word. Nekomaru was nodding and looking for a coaster (a damn coaster!) to set his glass upon.

"Stop drinking!" Fuyuhiko shouted at Hajime as he steered Nekomaru out the door. The last thing they needed was someone with enhanced strength acting like a liquor-brainfogged dumbass.

"I've got a fast metabolism," Hajime promised, clearly certain that he could gauge his own drunkenness better than any outsider. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on people."

Whatever. That sounded good enough for now.

"This is very responsible of you!" Nekomaru cheerfully shouted as Fuyuhiko steered him toward his cottage. The hotel they'd settled on in the real world also had cottages like Mirai, though they were accessed from long walkways that ran out over the water. Herding everyone down that relatively narrow path already looked like a hellish task, Fuyuhiko realized as they approached it.

"That's me," Fuyuhiko grumbled, and pushed the massive man when Nekomaru drew to an abrupt stop for some reason that presumably made sense to his alcohol-soaked brain. "Keep walking."

Obligingly, Nekomaru set back into motion. "I really admire you, Fuyuhiko!"

"Hey, super, thanks." He jabbed Nekomaru in the back. "You're slowing down again."

Nekomaru tried to speed his pace, only to nearly stumble over his own feet.

"Nope, never mind," Fuyuhiko sighed, and relented into grabbing the (much) larger man by his wrist and steering him like a farmer guiding a team of oxen. "Just follow me."

Like that, he was able to get Nekomaru to his cottage. The man promised to sleep it off, and seemed surprised at how tired he felt after being confronted with the amount of liquor in the drinks he'd kept downing. The door closed and clicked into place, and Fuyuhiko exhaled. Okay. Biggest target down. That hadn't been too bad. Who was the next priority?

"Let's go," he soon ordered the Imposter.

"I was hoping for a pleasant buzz." Wobbling to a standing position, the Imposter unsteadily admitted, "I seem to have developed a little more than that."

"Yeah, we'll yell at Teruteru tomorrow." Fuyuhiko pointed to the door.

The plan was working. He'd get everyone closed into their cottages, nothing would happen out of bounds while everyone was drunk, and they could all bond as a group by punting that little asshole chef like a football. Great. Super. The Imposter's door was open, they were walking safely inside, and—

Fuyuhiko's hand reached out and snagged Ryota by his shirt collar before he could follow the Imposter. "No." He hadn't even noticed the guy tagging along behind them.

"It's okay," Ryota said with a disturbingly relaxed grin. He sounded to be wrapped in a warm, cozy alcohol haze, and as he looked toward the Imposter, his eyes were dilated beyond what alcohol or evening darkness would explain. "I'll stay with—"

"Nope!" Fuyuhiko ordered, reached in to grab the doorknob, and slammed the Imposter's door shut before Ryota could follow them inside. "Your own place!"

"But—"

"I don't care what the fuck you do, but do it sober," Fuyuhiko snapped as he spun Ryota around and pushed him in the opposite direction, toward his own cottage. Why the fuck did people like alcohol so much? It made you feel like shit, and if you did anything on it, you wouldn't even be able to remember it properly the next day.

Okay! Next person.

"A malevolent brew appears to have been slipped past my guard," Gundham slurred.

How are you still coming up with that bullshit to spout off? Fuyuhiko wondered as he steered Gundham down the walkway. Fortunately, the man gave him no trouble other than that, and they soon stood in front of his cottage door.

"I commend you for striking a clear path through this potion-fogged night." Gundham clasped Fuyuhiko by the arm and stared at him with unsteady intensity. "I am in your debt, son of the dragon."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll collect on that real soon," Fuyuhiko said impatiently. "Look, I gotta—"

With great solemnity, Gundham reached for something on a table next to his door, then leaned back to Fuyuhiko. "The unspeakable might of the dragon," he whispered with alcohol-slurred sincerity, and placed a gecko on Fuyuhiko's shoulder. "Yours to command."

Fuyuhiko blinked at Gundham and said nothing.

"We shall discuss the training of magical creatures upon the morn!" Gundham laughed, though his typically ridiculous cackle didn't have the same wild abandon as usual, and closed the door to his cottage.

"I'm gonna murder that fucking cook," Fuyuhiko spat as he made it back to sand and grass, and set the lizard down onto the ground. It scurried to safety as he stormed back into the event hall and yelled, "C'mere, Akane!"

That had been a mistake; it sounded like a challenge, and she decided halfway to her cottage that she wanted to wrestle. With her sober, he wouldn't stand a chance. With her drunk, she held back even less than usual. "Get in your room and stay there!" Fuyuhiko snapped as he dusted himself off.

"You're a sore loser!" Akane laughed, but she did close her door.

There were still so many fucking people to corral, Fuyuhiko miserably realized as he made another circuit into the event hall. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. The usually ignorable pressure of his eyepatch was suddenly giving him a headache. "Peko, can you just… slap the shit out of him, or something?"

Peko looked at Fuyuhiko, then back to Teruteru. A moment later, a heavy smack sounded through the event hall.

Gasping, Teruteru clutched a hand to his reddening cheek. "Peko!" he whined. "I thought you weren't taking orders, any more!"

"I'm not." She shook the hand that'd struck him. "It was still a good suggestion."

"Do it again!" yelled Hiyoko from across the room, like some rowdy sports fan.

"Do not do it again!" Teruteru yelped.

Well, by this point, Fuyuhiko had handled the biggest problems. He might as well go with whoever was convenient. "C'mon, Saionji," he sighed, and walked over to grab her.

"I don't have to go with you!" she sneered as he tried to pull her toward the door.

His gaze flattened. "You wanna deal with me, or with Teruteru?"

Hiyoko opened her mouth, considered the question, and closed it. "Party's over," she agreed with comparatively sober precision, and gestured Fuyuhiko away. The punch probably hadn't been sugary enough for her to fully indulge herself. "I'll walk myself home. I don't want some man walking right up to my front door. Even if he is smaller than me."

Fuyuhiko was too annoyed at the world to be baited by her in particular. "You're exactly four doors down from me, but whatever." Sighing as she walked away, his attention landed elsewhere, and Fuyuhiko stormed over to the couch and snatched away Hajime's glass. "What did I say?"

Blinking, Hajime looked at his empty hands, and seemed to need a few seconds to process why they no longer held anything. "I told you," he promised Fuyuhiko in a voice more slurred than the last time he'd offered assurance. "I can handle myself. Fast metabolism." At least, that was what he tried to say; it came out more like 'fasht metabulbism.'

By now, Fuyuhiko definitely had a headache. "Don't let him drink any more," he ordered Nagito.

Nagito stared at Fuyuhiko with a glassy, awed expression. "You care so much about everyone, now," he whispered. Tears pooled.

Fuyuhiko blinked back at him, then turned to the other person on the couch. "Don't let either of them drink any more," he ordered Mahiru.

Mahiru stared back with clear comprehension, but she also wore a heavy, hollow-eyed expression. "I think I had too much."

"If you're gonna throw up, do it on Nagito. Goddamn it, Ibuki, put your fucking shirt back on!"

Ibuki cackled and swung her shirt above her head like a spinning helicopter's blade. To the side, Mikan stared at Ibuki with a wide-eyed grin.

This is not working, Fuyuhiko thought, and rubbed his temples.

Peko seemed to have control of herself, but she needed to keep watch on Teruteru. It was like one of those logic problems: how do you get the apples, goats, and foxes across the river without anything being eaten? But in this case, he had to figure out how to get everyone locked inside their cottage without someone ending up groped, hurt, or drowned when they pitched off the walkway. He couldn't send most people off on their own, but neither could he send Peko away from Teruteru, nor keep leaving this event hall while things continued to develop behind Peko's back.

Okay. Okay! He'd been training to lead a clan of thirty thousand men; he could deal with a group of friends who'd gotten drunk off their asses. Mahiru seemed sober enough to lead someone else to their cottage, and then she could probably vomit over the side of the walkway to get that out of her system. Fuyuhiko considered that, then snapped his fingers. Such a moment might send a jolt of adrenaline through their resident nurse. "Mahiru, can you get Mikan back to her cottage before she… uh…"

Mahiru eyed Mikan's hand as it slowly extended toward Ibuki's bare stomach. "Uh. Yeah, sure. But I still kind of want to—" She swallowed visibly, struggling to force down her nausea.

"Throw up if it helps, but wait until you're outside." Okay! Two more problems down, Fuyuhiko assured himself as Mahiru made her unsteady way toward Mikan and pointed her toward the door. "Nagito, do you think you can get Ibuki back to her place? And get her damn shirt back on, too."

Nagito blinked up at Fuyuhiko. Without a word, he stood, embraced Fuyuhiko, and rested his head against Fuyuhiko's like a pillow. "You've grown so much," he eventually whispered. Emotion choked his voice as he continued, "The light of hope you bring to us all… is…"

Rigid, Fuyuhiko stood there and did not make any move to hug Nagito back. He hated his life. He hated it. He fucking hated it. "Never mind," he sighed. "You're drunker than I thought. Let's go. And set down that fucking glass."

"I'm not holding anything," Hajime lied, and took another drink.

"I could always see a light shining deep inside you," Nagito slurred as Fuyuhiko led him toward the cottages. He kept trying to wander off to look at whatever sight caught his eye, and so Fuyuhiko had to grip his hand like leading a schoolchild through a crowd.

"Don't ever talk about what's 'deep inside me.' And—HEY! Get your ass back inside your cottage!"

Ryota looked up guiltily and yanked his hand away from the Imposter's doorknob.

"Inside! Right the fuck now!" Fuyuhiko bellowed, and waited until the man had followed orders. "Lock the door!" He nodded at the sound of that click, then loudly finished, "Pass the key through the window!"

It was soon slipped through the open shutters, and Fuyuhiko considered the length of the walkway as he pocketed Ryota's key. He should probably do that with some other people (Mikan), too. "Okay, Nagito, let's go."

By now, tears had actually started to spill. "You're amazing," Nagito cried.

Muttering, Fuyuhiko shoved Nagito down the walkway and into his cottage. It was far easier than it'd been with Nekomaru, but by now, his patience had worn much thinner. At least Nagito was only a door down from Mikan, so it was easy enough to make that detour and secure her key, too.

Almost there, Fuyuhiko told himself. Almost. Fucking. There. All that was left was Ibuki, Hajime, and…

He drew to a stop on the walkway. Fuck! He'd even flashed back to that old classroom day with the chemicals, and he'd never prioritized tracking down Kazuichi and Sonia? Fuck! Fuck! Fucking goddamn hell!

At a run, he set off back for the event hall and started trying to find the overlooked duo. With each passing second, unease twisted further into real worry. Where were they? Where the fuck were they? They weren't anywhere inside the main event hall, and they weren't out on the deck, nor in the kitchen.

He finally caught sight of a pink head of hair just outside of the bathrooms, and thankfully, Kazuichi was alone. "Something's wrong," he tried to whisper right against Fuyuhiko's ear, but it came out a little louder than normal volume. He smelled like a distillery.

Fuyuhiko blinked and shook his head. At least the two of them weren't together, like he'd worried Kazuichi's liquor-drenched brain would steer him toward. "Wrong?"

"She keeps saying weird things." Kazuichi's lower lip wobbled. "I can't figure out how to help. I can't do anything right. Ever. Can I?"

"Hold that thought," Fuyuhiko told him. Pathetic, weepy Kazuichi was something he could deal with in due time; Sonia's condition sounded more concerning. He rapped his knuckles against the door. "Sonia? You in there?"

Nothing. Fuyuhiko pressed his ear against the door, then covered his other ear when Kazuichi wouldn't stop whimpering about what a useless, no-good coward he was. Inside the bathroom, soft, gasping cries were barely audible; at least Sonia was still conscious and hadn't succumbed to alcohol poisoning. (Seriously, he hated the stuff.) "I'm coming in," Fuyuhiko said, and prayed that the door wouldn't be locked.

Thank fuck, Fuyuhiko thought with relief as the bathroom door swung open. He closed it securely behind him, not wanting to push his luck around this drunk duo, and knelt on the bathroom floor. By now, he was beyond caring about how dirty it probably was.

Loud drunk. Horny drunk. Confused drunk. Happy drunk. Emotional drunk. Sick drunk. Combative drunk. Sad drunk. He'd had to deal with all of those, so far, and Sonia had apparently carved out yet another kind of drunk for Fuyuhiko to deal with: paranoid. "They're going to get photos of me like this," she fretted from her crouched position in the corner. "It will ruin my coronation."

Oh fuckin' boy. "Yeah, uh, you don't need to worry about that," Fuyuhiko muttered. How, exactly, would he explain to someone drunk off her ass that her beloved homeland was now nothing but ashes?

"But I've let down my entire kingdom," Sonia insisted. None of the words came out like they should. Sticky trails of half-dried tears coated her cheeks. "And the buzzar. Buzzers. Buztards."

"Buzzards," Fuyuhiko supplied.

"With cameras would love nothing more than to capture me like this!" Years ago, in her old life, she'd be right; the former darling of Novoselic had an oddly stained outfit, with hair that was alternately frizzy and untamed or smeared with something that Fuyuhiko didn't want to identify. It was a sight designed for the gossip industry, and she clearly didn't remember that industry getting ground under the heel of the apocalypse.

Fuyuhiko sighed. They weren't supposed to joke about things like this, but fuck it, she wouldn't remember this by tomorrow. "Hey, Sonia. All those paparazzi?"

She looked up, flinching at the word. "Yes?"

He drew a finger across his throat. "All gone. My clan took care of them for you. Call it some diplomatic outreach."

It was unsettling that she took that as a positive, but he was beyond caring. They could all dig into some much-needed therapy tomorrow. "Yeah, happy coronation, congratulations," he agreed as Sonia's face crumpled into fresh tears and her tongue stumbled over a waterfall of thank-yous. "Let's go."

"What did you do?" Kazuichi demanded as Fuyuhiko led a still-crying Sonia out of the bathroom.

"Convinced her that she wasn't about to end up on the front page of a gossip rag. Shut the hell up. It's more than you managed." That was more than he should have said, Fuyuhiko instantly knew as Kazuichi's eyes filled with fresh tears and his lower lip trembled. Drawing upon every last scrap of patience left in his fragile reserves, Fuyuhiko took a deep breath. "Come on, Kazuichi."

Okay. One last plan to make. "Peko," Fuyuhiko said with rapidly growing exhaustion. "Can you watch Sonia for a second, too? I'll be right back."

Nodding, Peko gestured Sonia into her field of vision. Teruteru tried to check on her with what seemed like genuine concern, but one sharp move from Peko sent him scurrying back to a corner.

"Kazuichi. Ibuki. C'mon." Fuyuhiko grabbed both of their wrists and led them to the door, ignoring Ibuki's giggles and Kazuichi's continued pathetic noises. At least Ibuki still had a bra on.

"I tried to help," Kazuichi promised as he and Ibuki stumbled along after Fuyuhiko. "But you're right. I can't do anything. Hey. Hey. Hey. Fuyuhiko. Am I your best friend?"

"No! Shut up!"

"I knew it," Kazuichi mourned. "I bet I'm not Hajime's best friend, either. Sonia definitely hates me."

Ibuki began singing scales.

"Does Gundham hate me? I think Gundham hates me. I don't hate Gundham. I used to but now I don't."

"Be each other's best friends," Fuyuhiko seethed as he led them onward, futilely trying to block out Ibuki's singing as it rattled around his skull. "I don't care."

The singing abruptly stopped. "Besties? Me and Kaz?" Ibuki said, and giggled with clear delight over the idea. "Yeah! We can do each other's hair!"

Kazuichi nearly tripped, but got his feet back under him before he fell. "Wait, really? …Can I get streaks? Your streaks are cool."

"Great! Looking forward to the results," Fuyuhiko said as they reached the first cottage and he slammed open its door. "Inside."

Ibuki obediently went in, but immediately walked back out with a pair of scissors in hand. With a delighted grin, she snip-snip-snipped their blades against the air and approached Kazuichi.

"Tomorrow," Fuyuhiko corrected Ibuki, spun her back around, and closed the door once she was inside. "C'mon, Kazuichi."

"Do you really hate me?" Kazuichi wondered once they were alone. Unfortunately, his cottage was at the opposite end of the line from Ibuki's.

"I don't hate you," Fuyuhiko sighed as he led Kazuichi past the line of cottages. From one, Nekomaru's snoring pushed through his shutters like a sounding foghorn.

Kazuichi wiggled out of Fuyuhiko's grip on his arm and instead clutched the smaller man by his shoulders. It was an awkward way to walk, especially on such a narrow path, but it seemed too near to their destination to make an issue of it. Fuyuhiko resigned himself to being held as Kazuichi sing-songed, "You are my best friend, huh?"

"All I said was that I don't hate you. But you're changing my goddamn mind."

Kazuichi sniffled. When Fuyuhiko looked over, his tears were now only from joy. "I love you, too."

"Just get inside your cottage." After a moment, Fuyuhiko sighed more deeply than ever. "Don't hug me."

Kazuichi's grip on him tightened.

"I mean it. Get off. Now."

More than a minute later, Fuyuhiko whooshed out a determined breath and stalked back toward the event hall. Almost done. "Here's the plan," he said the instant he was inside. "Peko, I don't trust Sonia not to do something stupid. Can you stay with her tonight?"

Peko nodded, and Sonia burst into fresh tears at the reassurance that she'd have a bodyguard's protection.

"And as for this asshole: you cause one single problem more," Fuyuhiko snapped at Teruteru, "and tomorrow, we all take a hike up to the top of the volcano."

Teruteru went paper-white. "That is in incredibly poor taste."

Fuyuhiko's answer was a wordless snarl.

Rounding on Hajime, Fuyuhiko gritted his teeth as he saw an empty glass dangling from his loose grip. "Hajime," he began in a barely-controlled voice as he walked over. "Did you have another drink?"

Hajime looked up at him blearily. "'M good at. Tracking." He appeared to think hard about the next addition to the explanation he'd indicated before, that he was uniquely suited to monitor his own metabolism. "Good at. Tracking."

Too tired to protest, Fuyuhiko just let him stumble slowly through it. Very, very slowly.

"Good at tracking. Talents," Hajime added emphatically, like that explained it all. "Tal. Ents."

Fuyuhiko pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hey. Supergenius. How drunk was that brain of yours when it decided everything was under control?"

Hajime stared back at him, red eye and green eye equally fogged. He needed a long, silent moment to work through Fuyuhiko's question, but eventually realized, "Ohhh."

"Yeah, 'ohhh,'" Fuyuhiko sighed, and tried to figure out how best to haul Hajime up off the couch. "No!" he instantly snapped when Teruteru approached to offer help, and pointed toward the door with his free hand. "You! Go!"

Grumbling, Teruteru followed Sonia and Peko into the night.

Damn, he could have asked Peko for help. At least Sonia could walk on her own. "Come on," Fuyuhiko muttered, and tried to haul Hajime to his feet. "Can you stand?"

"I can stand," Hajime promised, right before he nearly fell over.

Great. "My place is closer," Fuyuhiko sighed as he inched an unsteady Hajime toward the door. "You'd better not throw up on anything."

"S-sorry," Hajime managed once they'd made it down the few broad steps outside the door, slowly and carefully. "'M not supposed to do this."

"No," Fuyuhiko said shortly, strung drumskin-tight with the night's annoyances. "You're not."

"Yeah." Hajime's already apologetic mood cratered further with each step. "'M supposed to be in charge. Right?"

"In charge? Heh." That finally earned a smile, if a very small and tired one. "Says who? I'm not gonna listen to you."

Hajime's clouded gaze grew increasingly distant, and even more despondent. "That's what they made. What they put together. In a lab. Right?"

Oh.

Fuyuhiko stayed quiet for a while, and adjusted his grip when Hajime's unsteady weight angled against him wrong. "Don't worry about it. You're just a guy like anyone, and you pulled a dumbass move like they did. You're not the only one. Trust me."

"Really?" The question was tremulous, vulnerable.

"Really," Fuyuhiko promised him with a sigh, and leaned over to open his door. He gestured toward a loveseat and began, "You can take—"

Before Fuyuhiko could finish, Hajime collapsed gratefully onto his bed and closed his eyes.

Of course.

Too depleted to even complain, Fuyuhiko shut his door, locked it, and took the loveseat for himself.

He knew he'd been right to steer clear of parties for most of his life. They were more trouble than they were worth, especially when trouble-makers entered the mix. Or when alcohol did, or trouble-makers deliberately supplied that alcohol to everyone.

Before exhaustion could take him, he ran through everyone in his mind and checked off their conditions. Aside from the hangovers from hell that were certainly coming, every last person on the island was safe in their cottage, protected from themselves and others. No one would do anything they'd regret, no one would decide to challenge themselves to a midnight swim a mile offshore.

Alright. Good. They'd better appreciate this, because it was the last party he'd ever risk attending.

For if there was one thing that Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu clearly was, it was anti-social.

#my fic #if only kiyotaka had been there to lend a hand

[metaphorical-goblin]

Narumitsu + Coffee

He set the cup down, styrofoam and squeaky, all too hard on the already-stained coffee table. Edgeworth twitched again, tightening his fingers around the case file until his knuckles whitened.

His hair, frayed and frazzled. Eyes sunken, and yet, in the same beat, wild and panicked.

His tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips as Phoenix’s gaze caught his own, and Miles wriggled out of the stare just as quickly, casting his eyes aside to the ring on the table, carefully carved by a sweating glass weeks prior.

“You should get some sleep,” the defense attorney finally announced. It almost hurt to break the silence, this tenderly crafted thing they had been skating around all evening.

And yet. A sling, an arrow, sending the wall crashing down. A tension of Oobleck, that ruddy cornstarch-water blend they made back in third grade that was a living contradiction in itself.

Too much tension, a quick and decisive attack, and the concoction would thicken up, absorb the blow like rubber. But gentle pressure, soft, blanketing pressure…

“You can take my bed,” he added, already lifting his recently-abandoned coffee cup to his lips and taking a swig of the lukewarm liquid. “I’ll probably just… sleep on the couch tonight.”

Miles’ eyes shifted again. “I… can’t. Not yet. We haven’t even figured out who the real criminal is, yet.”

His sword hit the metaphorical wall, and Phoenix slumped down into the couch once again, case file in one hand and coffee cup in the other. His headache made its presence known once again with the motion. He bit down the urge to hiss through the pain. Miles crossed and uncrossed his legs thrice over in the silence before finally settling, bringing his own file closer with an angry squint.

“You ever think about getting glasses?”

“You’re changing the subject,” the prosecutor retorted.

“And you’re still reviewing files.”

He buried his nose into his own papers, if only to avoid Miles’ stern gaze, already feeling it bore into his side as he took another drag from his cup.

“I really wish you wouldn’t drink coffee this late.”

Phoenix shrugged. “It’s only… what, 10:30? I’ve got a lot to review, you know that. I don’t have—“

“It’s two.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“Two. Well, two-thirteen. Technically.”

Bleary-eyed, the man tore his focus away from his file and directed it to the clock that was shaped like a sunrise on his wall.

Miles was right.

Probably.

Phoenix couldn’t see clearly enough to confirm, anyway.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“We have court in… eight hours.”

The prosecutor nodded.

Phoenix drained another cup (how many was that? He had lost count) and slapped his knees. “So at least three more hours of work before i really have to go to bed.”

Miles twitched, again. Slid his file to the table. “Wright—“

“But you should probably go ahead and go. Beauty rest, and all that.”

A breath passed between them as the clock ticked, ticked, ticked away.

“It’s… late,” Miles finally murmured. Something about the evening required a reverence of this variety, he believed.

Phoenix swallowed and refused to meet those eyes that threatened to fold him in half and tuck him away in his breast pocket, close to his beating heart that would surely lull him to sleep within a moment.

“I have a lot of work to do, Miles,” he whispered.

His hand hesitated, hovering just on the outskirts of cloth and skin and bone (and perhaps something deeper, something they could have shared in another universe). Miles quickly withdrew, almost afraid of burning himself.

Another beat. Another shot through Phoenix’s aching skull. Another refill on his coffee should be in order.

And just one more review of this evidence.

It had to be good evidence.

It had to be good evidence.

And then, fire and ice all at once, kissing against his wrist like manacles of silk, was Miles’ hand, real this time.

“Phoenix, you…”

He didn’t have the words, naturally. They were hard to find in this sanctuary of almost-silence.

But perhaps that gripped harder than words would have, his fingers lightly curled around his pulse point and his eyes that refused to break him down, still staring intently at the file clutched tight in his hand.

That awed silence.

Phoenix let it envelope him as he fell back against the couch, Miles’ grip never faltering. His thumb moved in tight circles against his skin, rubbing over freckles and old scars.

He hummed, a deep and punched sound, gesturing to his lap, the pillow he had just placed there.

The most tempting siren Phoenix had ever heard of. His head sunk down into that pillow like a stone thrown into the ocean, and Miles’ fingers curled up into the ripple of waves of his hair, spiked and drooping and dulled.

He kept circling, tracing those feather-light touches all across his scalp, humming a short note every other tick of that never-stopping analog.

Phoenix hadn’t reviewed all the evidence yet. He didn’t know where it all came from. He didn’t know if it was reputable.

(But he had. Thrice over, already. And had it approved by detectives and prosecutors alike.)

(And yet.)

Caffeine and terror clenched his heart, and his fists clenched in time as he dry-swallowed a sob.

Miles didn’t need to know.

If the prosecutor felt him jolt, he at least had the decency not to say anything. Instead, he leaned down, grazing his temple with a kiss, and brought up his other hand to thumb over a dampened cheek, massage an earlobe between thumb and forefinger.

Phoenix steadied his breathing in time with Miles’ careful touches, his broken half-song dragging him deeper and deeper into a hypnotic slumber.

Murmurs of love and pride met his ear (and perhaps they left Phoenix’s lips, as well. He couldn’t be certain, at the moment), and the defense attorney’s eyes slid shut.

(Definitely looking for more prompts like this. I’d like to practice writing more imagery and a little less reliance on dialogue, and these shorter pieces are a great start for that!)

#ace attorney #miles edgeworth #phoenix wright #narumitsu #fanfic #wrightworth #coffee #post 7yg #technically #but not by much

[damagedintellect]

OnePiece x Y/N Valentine Exchange 2023!

💌 Katakuri x OC [Sayuri] for byjessicalotufo 💌  

A/N: Happy Valentine’s day! I couldn’t pass up doing another @onepiece-blorboexchange  especially not when OC’s were added! @byjessicalotufo​, I hope I did Sayuri and Katakuri justice. It was my first time writing for Katakuri so fingers crossed that you like it!

Summary: Sayuri thought it would be another boring night entertaining the Big Mom pirates until she set her eyes on him.

Tropes: Canon, kissing in the rain

💌 Word count: 975 💌 

The cold night air had the subtle hint of rain wafting into the room. It wasn’t raining yet, you could still faintly see the moon peeking behind the clouds but it would probably rain in a few hours at most. You were playing your flute by the open door. The day had been relatively quiet for you but you knew that would only last for so long. Honored guests were supposed to be arriving soon which is why you were practicing your set. You were told to not make a scene today, like the last time. You huff at the thought. Everyone knows you were a dangerous woman. It was their fault for getting on your bad side. People shouldn’t seek out a Dom when they really just want to tame a brat. They were just lucky you didn’t have access to your sword or else they would have been a deadman.

“Sayuri, help bring the sake to the other hall. Big Mom’s son’s are being ushered there now.”

You sigh, fixing your kimono so that it draped itself nicely off your shoulders and closed the door. You had met a few of Big Mom’s son’s the last time they visited, none of them caught your eye. It seemed like it would be another boring night. As you brought over another round of sake to the room, sure enough most of the guests you were familiar with. You made your rounds refilling drinks and bringing out food when Black Maria nodded at you to play your flute. This let you get a better look at the quests in the room and had you realize you missed one. In the corner of the room sat an extremely tall, large, muscular man dressed in a charcoal gray robe accented with a deep magenta sash and vertical stripes of the same hue. He was handsome beyond belief. You couldn’t wait to bring him to his knees before your eyes. First you needed to get his attention. You shifted the song you were playing to something a little more technically difficult to see if that would do the trick. It usually does. You were always exceptionally good at getting what you want.

You got most of the guests to stop their current conversation to look your way. Once his eyes met yours, you could feel the blush rise to your cheeks. He was perfect, you wanted him. Confidently you shoot him a wink. You continued playing the song but it seemed this mysterious stranger had no interest as they looked away pulling the scarf around their neck to cover more of their face. That won’t do. You’d have to turn the flirting up a notch it seemed. You graciously took your bow as the next entertainer switched off with you. Grabbing another tray of sake and your personal favorite, a tray of mochi donuts you make your way to your new muse.

“I hope you enjoyed my song, I dedicated it to you. I’m Sayuri. I don't think we’ve met.”

The handsome devil looked you in the eyes nodding slightly before shifting his view to the tray you were holding. His eyes glanced back up to you as he gestured to the empty space next to him. 

“Katakuri”

You smile in delight, testing out how his name feels on your lips “Pleasure to meet you, Katakuri.” 

The night flew by as you served. For some reason he refused to take off his scarf but you didn’t mind. He wasn’t much of a talker, only chiming in occasionally, for the most part he just let you talk as he listened. Every now and again you would notice him glance at the tray of donuts. You had eaten a fair bit of them but seeing him eye them all night you left a few just in case he wanted to grab one but he never did. It baffled you as to why he wouldn’t until he asked “Is there somewhere a little more private we could go?”

It halted your train of thought rushing in some new less than innocent fantasies. Smiling wide as you gracefully stand to usher the way “Of course!”

Each member of Black Maria’s group had a designated room for activities. Yours had the best view of the courtyard and was tucked away in a nice secluded corner. It started to rain not too long ago making the view of the courtyard even more stunning in your opinion. You took a seat by the edge of the small garden looking back up at Katakuri only now realizing he took what was left of the donuts with him. He seemed perplexed, peering at the other rooms across the way before taking his seat next to you. He gazed at your eyes for a moment using his observation haki to gauge your reaction before slowly reaching to unravel his scarf. Despite it being dark you could still see the faint shade of blush tinting his cheeks as you marveled at him with big loving eyes.

Katakuri finally reached for a donut and you couldn’t help but stare in awe. You wanted to kiss him even more than you did a minute ago. The question hung off your lips as he seemed to get more red as each minute passed. He cleared his throat to regain his composure “You’re not off put?” He already knew the answer but he wanted to hear you say the words yourself.

“Not at all. You’re hot I want to kis-” he didn’t let you finish the sentence before he leaned forward to close the distance. The soft pitter patter of rain dampening the surprised moan you made at the contact. The sweet lingering taste of the donuts made you smile as you moved to straddle his lap. You were going to have fun tonight!

#one piece Valentines exchange #one piece x OC #Katakuri x OC

[feeling-grubby]

Lore dump prompting right back @ u

:( sorry for taking a while to answer this. Been really low on energy lately. I hope it's alright I am answering now. ):

(: I'll catch you up on some lore that I have implemented on the blog that has been overlooked for this lore dump. As I want to try and keep feature plans under wraps. :)

:( some lore that has gotten overlooked is from two short stories I written. At least I think it was overlooked. It's Just Business is a short story focused on Tikvah. In it talks about her first technical client. Giving you a little look into her life before being a mechanic. It is revealed that she built an olive blood a protistic arm out of obligation for following orders, and later when that same olive died, she was able to salvage the arm and buy her freedom. She wasn't ever a slave. she was a servant for a high blood working off her debt. There is more to it than that, but that something more is part of future plans. Just don't tell Tikvah I told you. She will kill you if you know of her past. :) (: speaking of Tikvah I may be introducing some side character trolls to the blog soon connected to her and possibly making another main character troll for the blog connected to her mysterious past. Again, there is more that, but I really can't say right now. :) (: the second short story is called Metal, Flesh, and Blood. The main point of it is to show that Hollie is taking more risk in her line of work. Managing to get hurt more than ever. I can't tell you much of the event that happened to her to get her so injured, but I will say it is worked related but not in the way you would assume. It also shows how Tikvah subversions to her usual character traits. in the previous short story, you see how she works using logic and often ignores her emotions. She is analytical and puts emotions dead last. That doesn't mean she can't have emotions or can't care about people, but it is ultimately hidden in a weird way. The two have known each other for sweeps as Tikvah refuses to cash in on the favor Hollie owns her, and I really wanted to try to show how the two characters are individually, but also what their dynamic is. There is also way more I can talk about there, but I do want to try and keep things open ended. :)

:( in an ask you can see that Hollie is still distraught about the injuries she had received, and it is still haunting her. ):

(: and in this post this kind of reveals an answer to an ask that I couldn't really give with it being answered by Tikvah. As it would have been out of character to answer it directly. ): (: outside of those two characters some really light and funny lore that kind of has been said on the blog is that my local non-binary troll who is a possum reincarnated [: not literally :] has so far only befriended people finding them refilling through their trash. Literally has happened three times now. and you know what that's the only way other people's trolls can befriend her now. is finding them in their garbage. :)

(: thank you for the ask. I really appreciated this. :)

#Traice talks #hollie #tikvah

[clarawatson]

It Only Takes a Taste

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x [Fem]!Reader (GN pronouns, fem coded stuff, but I’m not sure where this is going as a larger work so we’ll say Fem!reader to be safe) Summary: You work at a diner. Aaron Hotchner falls in love with you. We’re not kidding around trying to make us all sound like profilers, just accept the diner life, we love it here. W/C: 1498 Warnings: none yet!  A/N:  First chapter of that diner!au i was talking about here! AO3 ps. I forgot to tag people, so: @willowrose99 & @genevievedarcygranger my beloveds. If you want to get added to the tag list jump in my inbox and i’ll try to remember to add tags every time i post. Where am I in this series?  01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

~

When you first meet him it’s 5am and raining. You’re switching over shifts for your friend, Rita, because she’s been doing night shifts at the diner. This late into her pregnancy she shouldn’t be working, not technically, but she needs the money and she’s got insomnia because of the baby, so she works nights now. There’s always someone working with her, be it Joe (who’s got far too much muscle for a chef) or Lola (who can beat anyone to a pulp with a pie tray). In the early hours of the morning a bunch of tatt’ed bikies come and sit and talk about their extracurricular activities (definitely not legal) because one time there was an armed hold up and the police didn’t turn up until two hours after it had happened. People don’t like holding up a diner full of men who eat their own motorbikes for breakfast.

But when he comes in, he’s not any of them. He’s not even one of Lola’s nightly hook-ups (she needs the money, you don’t ask). He’s too well dressed in a grey suit (or is it black? Maybe it’s black), trying desperately to shove his I.D. badge in his pocket. He has a look about him that says ‘I’m part of one of the alphabet soup agencies’. A smile on his face, dead in the eyes, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He fumbles with his wallet as he squints to read the menu behind the counter. The rain’s stopped dripping from his hair, instead he’s got droplets like his woken with the morning dew upon him.

“Hi love,” Rita coos as she hangs her apron up. She has a look about her that says she’ll eat this man for her breakfast. It’s an effort not to curse those pregnancy hormones some days.

“Go home,” you tell her, swatting her arm. “Put your feet up, rest, sleep while the baby does or some shit.” Rita sticks her bottom lip out and pouts, but she’s making grabby hands for her purse, which is stored where the tea towels used to be. Far too high to reach even when one’s not pregnant. You grab it down for her, ignoring the showering of thank-yous.

The new guy (who is getting more and more handsome by the second) is still looking at the menu. He doesn’t look like he’s going to stop looking and order any time soon.

“Are you sure you’re fine to take the metro in this weather?” you check. She’s rubbing her swollen belly and looking longingly at the booths that haven’t had anyone sit in them for hours now. 

“Wait forty-five minutes and I’ll take you!” Joe yells. He’s slaving over something in the kitchen even though it looks like no one’s ordered in hours. “Wife gave me the car ‘cause of the storm!”

“Forty-five,” you repeat and point her towards the seat that she’s been eyeing off. Rita sighs, nods, then goes out to the seat. “What can I get you?” Usually when addressing the customer you’d add something gentle like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’ or ‘dear’ because the customers like it and they come back because they think you’re treating them like a long lost friend.

He bats his dark eyelashes and rubs at his forehead.

“I don’t know.” He sounds tired, balancing on the very edge of exhaustion. He might just fall off into a pit of sleep that he won’t wake up from. Been there, done that. “Do you guys do coffee?”

You laugh and point to the brewed pot beside you. There’s one for each table, free refills with a pie purchase. It’s written in decorative lettering right above you on the blackboard.

“We can put it in a take-away cup. It’s before six so it’s free anyway,” you offer. The last bits a lie, but Joe doesn’t care about a cup or two of coffee going missing. He’ll catch it up later when he flirts with all of the mom’s coming through after school drop off. The new guy nods and pulls out a ten dollar note and shoves it in the tip jar. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he nods anyway. He’s like a broken bobblehead.

“I know.” He goes to the sweets display and searches through it like he’s looking for something specific. Maybe he is. You’ve not seen him in the diner before, and neither has Rita, but maybe he’s one of Lola’s regulars. Maybe you’d judged him wrong. 

“Anything caught your eye?” you ask, leaning over the counter as if you could see it from his angle too. Maybe you do it to show off just that little bit of cleavage. He notices, then looks like he’s done entirely the wrong thing as he licks his lips and blinks like a school boy.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, and Rita giggles. You point at her and give her a stern look, but she just puts her hand over her mouth and lies down on the seat. She’s still silently giggling because her belly keeps bobbing above the table. 

“I just…” he has that exhausted look on his face again.

“Long day at work?” The answer is always yes for the people who work at the alphabet agencies. He nods. “Take a seat, grab some coffee, take a minute. It’s only just gone five, you’ve got time.” 

He nods. He looks like he’s gotten his words all mixed up and they’re just sitting in his mouth, refusing to leave. Tongue tied doesn’t exactly encapsulate what looks like is going on inside his head. He sits at one of the chairs in front on the counter, and takes the coffee cup gratefully as you pass it to him.

He’s definitely an alphabet soup man. He sits in this weird stance like he’s countering his weight against a gun. His shoulders are hunched forward as if he spends hours a day doing paperwork. He’s got a nervous twitch in his hands like sitting still is only going to bring the next case.

You think about making a joke about turning on the cellphone jammer, but last time Joe made that joke the whole place ended up swarming with cops. Absolute disaster. No one’s going to do that one again. 

“Cherry, berry or apple?” you ask, grabbing a plate.

“Sorry?”

“Cherry, berry or apple?” Rita repeats from her booth. “For the pie, sweetheart.”

“Uh, I didn’t—“

“Eat it,” Rita growled. You pull a face at her even though she can’t see you. The guy smiles.

“Apple, please.” Well mannered. Sweet. He looks elated as you slide the apple pie to him and hand him the canned cream.

“Not as good as fresh, but it’s better than nothing.” 

He puts a generous amount on his plate. You half think he might like it more than proper cream. Rita leans up just enough to look at him as he digs in, fanning herself playfully before sighing and collapsing back down.

Joe brings out his tray of caramel salted cookies. They’re thick enough to look like cakes with a gooey caramel center, and they usually sell out pretty quickly. The new guy watches them intently.

“How much trouble am I going to get into if I give those to my son?” 

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

You smile. That’s a good age. “How much do you hate his teacher?” 

He considers this with a gentle tilt of his head. “Not a lot. I’ll give it to him after school.” He pulls out his wallet again and Joe looks like he’s just hit the mother lode as he grabs one of the cardboard boxes. 

“If you really want to spoil your kid, y/n here can write really pretty on top.” You glare at Joe. He shrugs. He’s covered in cake batter and cookie dough, and smells like pancake batter. He’s always smelling sickly sweet, and like a well lived in home, despite looking like the living embodiment of Gaston. “She does it for my wife all the time.”

The handsome man’s phone buzzes. He checks it, then shovels the rest of his pie in his mouth like a starved man. 

“I have to go,” he says. He gives Joe another ten and tells him to keep the change. Joe looks like he’s about to break into a song and dance. You pour a fresh cup of coffee into a take-away cup and slide it across the counter to him. He thanks you a thousand times over then goes. With his cookie.

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Rita screeches the moment the door shut with it’s little jingle. “I’ll-show-him-my-cleavage-but-I-won’t-ask-his-name?? No wonder you can’t get a date!”

“I’ll do it next time.” Not that there’s ever a ‘next time’ for these alphabet soup agents. They’re always looking for the next place to go to so they don’t have a ‘regular place’ that can be ambushed. 

But in a perfect world... you’d see him every day.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female!reader #Diner!AU #It Only Takes a Taste

[thatfanficstuff]

Impossible - 23

Pairing Grouping: Eric x Reader x Godric

Warnings: discussion of unwanted pregnancy, killing people, and Nan Flanagan

A/N: The moment has come to discover your origins. Finally.

***

You were behind the bar at Fangtasiataking inventory while Godric sat on a stool keeping you company. Pam and Eric were in the office going over payroll. Both were tasks normally left to others but after the issue with Longshadow, Eric was taking a more hands on approach. You wondered how long it would last.

You were crouched behind the bar counting glasses when the front door opened and shut.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” Godric said.

“I’m actually looking for someone,” a familiar voice answered.

In an instant, you were on your feet. Your father’s attention turned to you and he smiled. You couldn’t help the little squeal that left you as you hopped the counter and threw yourself into his waiting arms. It had been months since you’d seen him last, and you hadn’t parted on the best of terms. And, while you’d made amends since then, it wasn’t the same as one of his hugs. “I missed you,” you said into the shoulder you had your face pressed into.

“I’ve missed you too, angel.”

When you finally released him, you stepped back and looked him over. Not that he would look any different. He was a vampire, after all. “You’re early.” He wasn’t due to arrive until the next day.

He grinned. “Like I said, I missed you.”

You took his hand and turned to find Godric, Pam, and Eric all standing behind you. “Dad, this is Godric, Pam and Eric. Everyone, this is my dad, Roman.”

Eric stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Roman shook his hand but simply hummed in acknowledgment instead of saying anything in return. You nudged him in the ribs with your elbow. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said, amusement in his tone. He’d stayed silent just to irritate you. Jerk.

“Do you have an entourage with you?” you asked.

He looked down at you with a lifted brow.

“If you do, you’re staying at the hotel. Otherwise, you can stay with us,” you explained.

“We also have a loft that you can use as well,” Eric was quick to offer.

“We can discuss my lodgings later. But first, dinner. My treat.”

***

When you arrived at the overpriced restaurant, you’d been shown to a private room so any conversation wouldn’t be overheard. You left Pam at the club but brought Godric with you. Your father kept shooting glances in his direction but had yet to ask outright who he was to you. Idle conversation filled the first half of the meal. As expected, it was your father who turned the focus to more serious topics.

“Nan is displeased over the incident in Dallas. She believes that we set her up,” he said with a glance at you.

“Nan is displeased because she got called out on her shit,” you countered.

Roman frowned. He had tried to make you a proper lady and he so hated be reminded that you were not. Unless he was using it to his advantage, of course. “I’ve explained to you before that she is a necessary evil.”

You sighed and leaned back in your chair. “No. She’s a bitch. I get the PR stuff, but she does you no favors amongst the vampire community. She’s not asserting your authority, she’s giving people another reason to dislike you.”

His eyes shifted to look at the other two men at the table who both nodded in agreement with your words. “I’ll take it under consideration. In the meantime, she has been assured that she doesn’t have to be in your vicinity for the foreseeable future.”

“Thanks, daddy,” you said with a grin.

He smiled as he shook his head. “I am entirely too indulgent where you are concerned. It is pointed out to me frequently.”

You hummed in agreement. “I assume these are the same people that are the first to recommend hiring me when needed.”

“That they are,” he said with a chuckle. His attention turned to Godric. “And who is he exactly?”

“That’s Godric. I already introduced him. Pay attention, Pop.” You were being deliberately obtuse. That wasn’t what he’d meant at all.

“Who is he to you?”

A slow smile slid onto your face. “He’s my boyfriend.”

His gaze flicked to Eric. “And you are okay with your mate claiming another?”

Your mate’s smile mirrored your own as he gave a little shrug. “He is my boyfriend as well, so I fail to see the problem.”

Roman leaned against the back of his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Eric and your daughter were made for each other. It was evident from their first meeting. I would never dream of coming between them. But if they wish to make room for me in their relationship, who am I to refuse them? I am no fool.” They were the first words Godric had spoken all evening. You didn’t know if they made any sort of impact with your father, but they had you grinning from ear to ear.

“You are aware that I am a vampire and you can’t actually give me a heart attack, correct?” Roman asked you.

“I can keep trying.”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know why I would expect anything else.”

“Since we’re covering all the heavy topics, why exactly is it that you can still feel me as strongly as if we’d exchanged blood yesterday when it’s been months? Especially since I’ve fed from both of them?” you asked.

Your father went very still. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Eric crossed his arms over his chest and you knew he was dying to say something. Wisely, he was leaving the interrogation of your father up to you.

“Oh, I think you do. I also think you know the answer,” you said.

He pressed the button on the table that called a waiter. “Fine. But not here. Your place would be best. Somewhere there is no chance of being overheard.”

Well…that was unsettling.

***

Once you arrived home, Eric poured drinks for all of you. You settled in the living room and watched your father as he stood. His fingers nervously tapped the glass in his hand.

“There was a woman. An informant before the Great Revelation. An ally. She proved invaluable. When she was discovered and her usefulness exhausted, I offered to change her rather than kill her. She’d earned it.” He drained his glass. Eric was quick to get to his feet and refill it. “She accepted provided we proceed immediately.”

“You didn’t find that odd?” Godric asked.

“Not really. I figured she must have feared losing her nerve. It happens.” Roman shrugged. “Truth be told, I had a soft spot for the woman. She was beautiful and sweet. Compassionate. I changed her myself.”

You shifted uneasily. You had never met this woman, nor had she been mentioned before tonight. Something told you that you weren’t going to like where this story was headed.

“As I worked with her, taught her how to be a vampire, I noticed a change in her appearance. Her stomach was growing.” He licked his lips. “Upon questioning, I discovered that she wished be turned quickly to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. It should have worked, but miraculously she was still pregnant. The baby was still growing.”

“That is impossible,” Eric breathed.

“Improbable,” Godric corrected with a glance in your direction.

“I was fascinated. I told no one and kept her locked away, afraid she would find a way to end the pregnancy as she’d wished in the first place. When the baby was born, there was an immediate connection between us. Almost like the bond between a sire and his progeny, but different somehow.”

Roman stood with his feet wide and his arms crossed over his chest as he looked down at you. Your heart raced in anticipation of his next words. “I killed the doctor and nurse that delivered the child. And when your mother insisted you were a monster that needed to die, I killed her as well.”

The casual way he told you that you were indeed the child in question and that he’d killed your mother in the same sentence rocked through you. Sent you off kilter. And, while you supposed you should be furious with him for doing it, you weren’t. After all, according to him, she wanted you dead so why should you be angry that it was her instead of you.

“For all intents and purposes, I amyour father. My blood runs through your veins.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you finally found your voice to ask.

“At first, I feared you’d trust the wrong person. Your origins can never be discovered. There are too many that would fall to the temptation to experiment.”

“And later?” you prompted when he didn’t continue on his own.

“I was terrified I would lose you when you discovered the truth.” He ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath. “But I swore that I would tell you everything if you asked. So, I am.”

You stood then and hugged him. He gripped you tightly and sighed in contentment. “You’re not going to lose me, daddy. You saved me.”

When you pulled away, you frowned in irritation. “Though this does mean that we technically still don’t know what I am.”

“Of course we do, my love,” Godric said with a smirk. “You are what you have always been. An impossible thing.”

#eric northman x reader #godric x reader #eric northman fanfiction #true blood fanfiction #godric fanfiction #eric northman x reader x godric #poly fanfiction #series #impossible

[pettyrevenge-base]

IT manager made my life a misery so we auto-insulted him hundreds of times a day.

TL;DR at bottom

This happened a few years ago. And by few I mean a lot. I was student in the mid 80's and I got a job for the summer working for a major electronics company; it was low skill boring grunt work but it was a foot in the door and paid good money.

I worked in the IT department next to a very noisy room filled with very wide dot matrix printers that buzzed and chattered all day long. It was the central printer room for the VAX system that we used back then. One of my jobs was to take the huge fan-fold printout (each stack was about 2x1 feet and about a foot high) and separate it into individual print jobs, lay them out on a table for people to pick up and also to refill the printer with new paper. The noise drove me nuts so I closed the door. The IT manager found out and insisted that the door stay open so that I could hear when a printer was out of paper, the printer gave out a series of beeps when the paper had run out. Lets just call him Dick because a) his name was Richard and b) he really was a Dick. A real petty tyrant.

In a nearby room was Bob. Bob was an an odd guy, he was an absolute hippy, a relic from the 60s. Bob was a slacker, he appeared to do the minimum work necessary to stay employed but he was also a genius, a hobby electronics experimenter, proper old-school coder (COBOL and FORTRAN), radio amateur, he wrote for electronics magazines, designed and built his own computers, radios and hifi gear, he would happily fix any electronics you brought him and refused payment and he was the go-to person for almost anyone in the company with a technical problem. The odder the problem the better he liked it. Senior engineers would come down to Bob with a question and go away with an answer, sometimes he was seconded to a project to consult and on more than one occasion co-authored a technical paper and was named on a patent or two. Most of the time Bob didn't want any recognition or fuss but usually you got to hear through the grapevine that it was his work. He liked his little room and liked to be his own boss.

I liked Bob, he was a genuinely nice guy, he had a lot of power in the company through a lot of favours but he never wielded it. He was always helpful to anyone who asked from MD to summer students like me, in fact he really liked students and often mentored us when we had a problem or just taught us how to work the system.

I told Bob about the noise in passing. Bob went away and designed a remote Out Of Paper system that would indicate a paper outage on a light-board where I sat. He didn't have to but Bob liked a problem to work on. Dick rejected it out of hand. I resigned myself to a summer of noise but Bob just quietly turned to a new solution.

Bob proposed an improvement to the printing system to Dick.  The print header was a line of hash symbols, the print job name, the user name of the person who printed it and another line of hash symbols. Sometimes you could pick up on the Hash symbols sometimes not. It was hit or miss.

Bob had experimented with a mix of text and ASCII block characters and came up with a distinctive 'song' that the printers could make by printing apparent gibberish. Based on his amateur radio experience he theorised that even someone untutored in Morse can recognise a Morse code phrase very quickly and the ear picks up on the phrase even when not actively listening and so someone could pick up on a distinctive tune or rhythm. He ran a test and it worked. Dick could see the benefits and so authorised Bob to code it into the standard print footer.

In production I could hear the end of every print job as the printer changed it's random screeching buzz to the distinctive sounds and I pulled them off the printer as they finished instead of the finished paper stack speeding up the print job process and reducing the wait time for those waiting on the job. Dick was nominated for an innovation award (about £200 bonus) and accepted without acknowledging Bob. Bob didn't care and neither did I, after my ear had tuned in Bob gave me a Morse alphabet and just smiled at me. He had coded symbols for 2 lines at the end of the print that sounded like "FUKDIK" in morse code. It didn't reduce the noise but it made it bearable that every print job was an insult. It also made me happy that there were a few radio amateurs in the company who all know Morse they all knew Bob so I guess he told them. When they came to the print pick up point you could see some of them catch the phrase and smile. Sometimes it the petty revenges that mean the most.

I rejoined the company after I graduated 3 years later. Bob had medically retired after a massive heart attack and died shortly after, Dick had moved on and we were beginning to move to the massive computing power of desktop 386 pcs with local printers instead of the VAX system but I went down to the print room one day to hear "FUKDIK" over and over.

It made me so so happy. I may have shed a little tear at that moment in memory of Bob.

TL;DR

I worked next to a noisy printer room, the manager would not allow me to close the door or use noise reducing measures so a colleague coded an insult to the manager in the sound of the end of print block.

Source: reddit.com/r/pettyrevenge

#pettyrevenge #lol #omg

[missfangirll]

Let my heart be still a moment

Fandom: SCI Mystery Rating: General Relationship: Zhan Yao/Bai Yutong, Zhan Yao & Zhao Jue Tags: Angst with a happy ending, Case fic Words: 3815 Summary: When Bai Yutong is seriously injured on a mission, Zhan Yao has to find the ones responsible, receiving some help along the way.

Read on AO3

For @the-sassiest-trixster​: You requested SCI, “go ham”, so I really hope you like it, despite it being more bonding with Zhao Jue than love story 😅

- - - - -

“It’s a trap,” is the last thought Zhan Yao has before the explosion hits him and throws him against a wall, his legs giving out from the shock and he drops down to his hands and knees. He can’t hear anything past the ringing in his ears, and feels some liquid trickling down his neck, ruptured eardrums, he thinks dimly. His right wrist feels wrong when he tries to support himself to get up, and there is blood in his eye, probably on the whole side of his face. He tries to wipe at it, only to get more in his eyes, and curses silently. Trying to make out his surroundings, he carefully sits up on his knees, still slightly shaky from the impact. The room they just had entered, an unremarkable living room with a worn bottle-green sofa and a low coffee table, looks quite different than mere seconds ago: Now he can see the bomb that was hidden in the sofa, cables and wires sticking out in all directions, shreds of green and white upholstery floating in the air like giant snowflakes. Miraculously, nothing’s on fire, a fact he should be grateful for, he thinks, when he notices the heap of limbs next to him, and freezes.

He can see at first glance that Bai Yutong is heavily injured, having been the first to enter the room and taking the brunt of the explosion. His limbs are twisted in strange angles, his usually pristine white suit has dark stains that are rapidly growing, and what Zhan Yao can see from his face, the part that is not covered in blood, looks wrong. His eyes are closed, and for the first time since they entered the apartment, Zhan Yao is scared. 

Carefully, slowly, he approaches Bai Yutong on hands and knees, while trying to keep his weight from his injured arm. Reaching him, he extends a hand to wipe the blood from the other’s face, then stops mid-movement and takes his hand instead. Holding his breath, he takes the other’s pulse, readjusting his shaking fingers.

Nothing.

No pulse.

Zhan Yao starts shaking uncontrollably, clutching Bai Yutong’s wrist to his chest, his breathing ragged and almost hysterical. 

No. No, no, no.

- - - - -

His consciousness flickers, and he only vaguely recognises their team members, frantically buzzing around them, before everything turns black.

He awakes to a distant beeping sound and a blinding pain behind his right eye. With a groan he tries to sit up, only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his chest.

“Easy there, Professor.”

Opening his eyes doesn’t really help his disorientation, since everything on his right side stays in darkness, while everything on the left is painfully bright. Groaning again, he tries to raise his hand to his face, only to discover it won’t move. Before he can try again with more force, the hand moves to his shoulder.

“Don’t move too much, Professor. You have a shattered shoulder and a shrapnel in your right eye, not to mention the broken wrist, ulna, and cracked ribs.” The voice laughs drily. “You should take it slowly for a while.”

“Yu… Tong,” he manages to croak out, voice hoarse and rattling.

The voice stays silent for a while, then, a shaky inhale. “His injuries… are worse than yours,” it explains, and Zhan Yao feels his heart freeze over. Ignoring the searing pain he turns his head to face the person beside his bed.

Zhao Fu sighs, then removes his hand from the other’s shoulder. In an attempt to look stern, Zhan Yao furrows his brows. Another sigh, then a cup of water appears in his field of vision. Apparently the other doesn’t trust his coordination, because he holds the cup to Zhan Yao’s lips who empties it in three large gulps. The cup is removed, and Zhan Yao makes an impatient noise for the other to continue.

“I won’t lie to you, Professor,” Zhao Fu says finally, “It doesn’t look good. He has multiple broken bones: a fractured skull, both cheekbones are shattered, some broken ribs… But the internal injuries are what concerns the doctors most.” He inhales again, his composure stretched thin over the boiling abyss of fear and worry. “I don’t..” He breaks off, then starts again, his voice raspy, “I don’t know if he… If he….” He trails off, not able to finish that thought, and Zhan Yao turns his head away to hide his tears.

- - - - -

It takes him four days to get out of bed, and five more to leave the hospital for good. All this time, Bai Yutong’s state doesn’t change, and Zhan Yao finds that, after almost a week of sitting by his bedside holding his hand, he has no more tears to cry. His grief has been replaced by a burning anger, and he knows exactly what he is going to do with it.

His first message after leaving the hospital is to the team, calling them to the office this afternoon. The second is to Zhao Jue.

Their relationship to the older man has developed into a strange kind of truce over the last months, and while he still doesn’t trust him, he knows what Zhao Jue is capable of - which is exactly why he asks him to meet.

Walking up the winding stairs to the loft always feels like climbing a lighthouse or an ancient castle, were it not for the strange paintings on the wall that only worsen his headache with their spiralling, whirling patterns.

Zhao Jue seems to be informed about the situation, since he comments neither on the eye-patch Zhan Yao is still wearing over his damaged right eye nor on the sling on his left arm, or his slightly limping gait, for that matter. He just nods in greeting and gestures towards a sofa, resuming to pour tea into two cups, then following Zhan Yao to the seat.

Only after they have finished the tea in silence and Zhao Jue has refilled their cups, he speaks. Clearing his throat, he asks simply, “Who?”

Zhan Yao exhales slowly, thinking what he can safely tell the other who is technically a wanted serial killer without compromising any police secrets, then shrugs inwardly and begins to talk. He tells him about the abduction case that had shocked the whole city into frantic activity, about their only lead being a shady witness, waiting for his own prosecution for human trafficking in a city prison. He had offered to give them information in exchange for a reduced sentence, and his leads had sounded reasonable, nothing indicating he was lying or setting them up. He had given them a name which in turn had led them to the apartment. Now it is obvious it has been a trap from the beginning, but who is behind it all, that Zhan Yao isn’t sure of. The witness didn’t look intelligent or influential enough to pull such a maneuver from a prison cell, which only leaves someone directly involved in the abduction.

Zhao Jue listens to these explanations without a word, only now and then stirring his tea cup with his ring finger. After Zhan Yao finishes, he stays silent for a while, looking thoughtfully at the younger man. Zhan Yao has laid out his cards, he thinks, now he waits for the other to show his hand.

Zhao Jue clears his throat again. “What do you want to do?” His voice sounds soft, gentle, betraying nothing of the steel Zhan Yao knows to lie underneath.

He almost shrugs, then remembers his shoulder and winces slightly, noticing how something like worry crosses over the other’s face, before he resumes his indifferent mask. It’s a good question, however. The next natural step would be to interrogate the witness again, to get him to spill some names, places, anything that could help them pin down the ones behind the bomb. The latter would be another lead to investigate, but it has already been transferred to the department that deals with explosives - and has a real lab, not that there is anything wrong with Gongsun and his experiments, but even his enthusiasm can’t replace a centrifuge. The problem is, though, that interrogating the witness-turned-suspect a second time has been the first thing Zhao Fu did after leaving the hospital, and unfortunately to no avail. The man had simply refused to talk, stating he already had helped them and didn’t know anything about a trap or a bomb. Thus, all their leads have gone cold.

Sighing, Zhan Yao shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. Zhao Jue raises an eyebrow, but stays silent while Zhan Yao continues, “I could try interrogate the witness again, but the chances that he talks to me are--”

“He will talk.”

Zhan Yao startles at the interruption and closes his mouth with a snap, staring at the other.

“He will talk,” Zhao Jue repeats, and it’s with a finality that makes Zhan Yao shiver involuntarily.

- - - - -

He does talk.

It takes twenty minutes until Zhao Jue emerges from the interview room with two names scribbled on a yellow post-it note. The suspect is still sitting at the table, pressing his hands to his ears, rocking back and forth, mouthing silently. Zhan Yao remembers Bai Yutong’s still form in a hospital bed and doesn’t feel sorry.

Zhao Jue wordlessly hands the note to Jiang Ling, then grabs Zhan Yao’s uninjured shoulder and steers him towards his office. Closing the door behind him, Zhao Jue lets go and takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrow in a silent invitation to talk. Zhan Yao bristles, but before he can snap at the other, a call from outside draws their attention back to the case.

“Professor, we found something!”

Without a word, Zhan Yao rushes past the other man who follows him after a second’s hesitation. He isn’t sure if he heard the other sigh, but ignores this detail for now. On the large screen, the two names Zhao Jue got from the suspect are displayed, next to the persons’ photos and information. Chen Shen, the left file reads. Fifty-three, suspected to be involved in the local drug trade, divorced, his daughter studies drama in London. The right side of the screen is almost empty, Zhan Yao notes with a frown. The woman in the blurry photograph looks a bit over forty, wearing a suit jacket and, oddly enough, a tie. Apart from her name, there are no further details. Zhan Yao turns to his team, a question on his lips, when Wang Shao explains, “Her real name is Zhang Qi,” and Zhan Yao whirls around to stare at him. That name is familiar, well-known in all law enforcement, for being the supposed head of a trafficking ring that specialises in little girls. There has never been so much as a rumour to tie her to anything, nothing that could be proven, and police and criminals alike are equally afraid and astonished.

Zhao Fu is the first to break the silence. “If she is involved in our abduction,” he says slowly, massaging the bridge of his nose, “then the girl is likely out of the country by now.” The rest of the team nod in begrudging agreement. 

A chuckle from the door startles all of them, and several chairs turn around swiftly to face the intruder who adds cheekily, “Seems I’ve arrived at the perfect moment.” Stepping into the room, Zhao Zhen reveals three large boxes which he carefully deposits on the nearest desk, grinning widely. “I think you all need some sugar before you decide anything important,” he declares, and Zhan Yao’s heart clenches at the sight of his team, who give him sideway glances, smiling hesitantly. He isn’t the only one who worries, he realises, and forces his face into a smile. “Alright,” he nods, “let’s have some sugar before we continue.” 

The donuts do help, and after a few minutes, Jiang Ling approaches Zhan Yao with wide eyes and powdered sugar on her cheeks. “Professor,” she exclaims, “I just had an idea how to find the evil lady.” Zhan Yao looks expectantly at her, only to receive a headshake. “It would probably take longer to explain it,” she shrugs apologetically, then adds, “I’ll just try it now, if that’s okay,” and Zhan Yao can only nod.

Soundlessly, Zhao Jue steps out of a corner and Zhan Yao startles. He still isn’t used to his right side being blind, and the other moving without a sound doesn’t help. He almost reprimands him, when the older man grips his shoulder once more, this time not to move, but to make him stay and listen. Zhan Yao shuts his mouth with a snap.

“You should go,” Zhao Jue says quietly, and Zhan Yao doesn’t have to ask where. Knowing the others will call him, he just nods, and turns to his team, but before he can form a word, Ma Han makes a shooing motion at him and sighs. “We can deal with this, Professor,” she says, sounding a tiny bit impatient, something Zhan Yao would definitely address if he had any brain capacity left for it. So he just nods again, and is out of the building and in a taxi in less than two minutes.

Bai Yutong’s state hasn’t changed in the two days Zhan Yao didn’t visit him, nor has he moved. Zhan Yao stands in the open door, looking at his mouse, wondering if he has ever seen him this still. Carefully, slowly, he approaches to sit in a plastic chair next to the bed, taking the other’s cool hand in his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

On the way here he thought about what he might tell his mouse, about the case, about the progress, but now that he sits here he finds himself not able to speak. Silently, he caresses Bai Yutong’s hand with his fingertips, then his face, then bends down to lean his forehead against the other’s, closing his eyes. 

I miss you, mouse. Come back to me.

- - - - -

His ringing phone disturbs the quiet and for a moment he feels disoriented, misplaced, before he clumsily fumbles for it and takes the call without looking at the name.

“Let’s have lunch,” Zhao Jue says without introduction, and Zhan Yao is too stunned to protest. “The diner at the corner, opposite the park. Ten minutes,” he says, and hangs up. Zhan Yao stares at his phone screen for a second, before he scrambles to his feet, presses a kiss to Bai Yutong’s cheek, and heads downstairs.

When he arrives at the diner, Zhao Jue is seated in a booth in a dark corner, a steaming cup in front of him. Zhan Yao slides into the seat opposite him, careful of his injured shoulder. He notices that the other has chosen their seats so that Zhan Yao’s left side faces the room, his blind spot towards the wall. 

When the waiter comes to take their order, he mindlessly lists a few things he remembers to have liked, then fiddles with the menu for a while. Zhao Jue gives him a pointed look, but doesn’t comment. When their food arrives, they eat in silence, Zhan Yao trying to savor the taste. 

It is only after another cup of tea that Zhao Jue asks, “How is he?”, and Zhan Yao feels his shoulders slump. 

“Unchanged,” he answers eventually, not able to fend off the image of his mouse’s lifeless face, and shivers.

“And how are you?,” the other asks, and Zhan Yao blinks at him in confusion. Since it has been apparent that his injuries weren’t as bad as Bai Yutong’s, every and all attention had been on the latter, even Zhan Yao’s own, so it takes him a moment to really parse that question. “I will be fine,” he offers after a while, because it is the truth. The doctors were optimistic that he would be able to use his eye again, his shoulder is healing, as well as all the countless other minor injuries and cuts he has sustained. He will be fine, eventually. It’s not important. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Zhao Jue observes, and Zhan Yao freezes, mouth open in an aborted response. “I asked,” the other clarifies with a scrutinizing gaze at Zhan Yao, “how you are. Not how you will be.”

Zhan Yao blinks slowly at him, then closes his mouth. “I..,” he begins, then pauses. How is he? His head hasn’t stopped hurting since the moment he woke up in the hospital bed, his left arm isn’t usable at the moment, which makes getting dressed in the morning a complicated ordeal. But not being able to see is the worst, he realises, no matter how optimistic the doctors are, no matter how much worse Bai Yutong’s injuries are. He sighs and slumps further into his seat, leaning slightly against the wall. “Not that fantastic,” he admits. “I have had a headache for a week and my arm is pretty much useless. But I’ll live,” he tries to make light of it, when Zhao Jue reaches over and presses his thumb to Zhan Yao’s temple, his index finger on his forehead. Before he can protest, the searing pain dulls to a numb throbbing behind his temple, and he shudders in relief. “How..,” he starts, but Zhao Jue just hums, pulling his hand back. 

Before Zhan Yao can respond in any way other than stare at the man opposite him, his phone rings. When he ends the call, Jiang Ling having told him she has news, he finds Zhao Jue has already paid for their meals and waits at the door, silent as always. Hurrying after him, Zhan Yao realises, not for the first time, how little of the other man’s motives he really understands.

Jiang Ling has earned her bonus this time, and beams at Zhan Yao when he tells her that. In fact, her discovery is worth a dozen bonuses. Zhan Yao understands only a third of her enthusiastic explanations, but it’s enough to be deeply impressed by the nerdy woman. She somehow managed to link a delivery of expensive, imported bath oils to an office building in the middle of nowhere, realising nobody would take a bath at their workplace - only certain kinds of workers, Wang Shao helpfully adds, which earns him a slap upside the head from Zhao Fu - and then finding the actual purpose of the building and its owner’s name: Zhang Qi. 

Zhan Yao is delighted to finally have a clue, but his eagerness is dampened by Wang Shao’s question. “And what exactly are we going to do now?”

Of all the people in the room, Zhan Yao wouldn’t have expected Zhao Jue to step forward.

“I might have an idea.”

His idea is, even Ma Han has to grudgingly admit, actually quite reasonable. They have to investigate the office building, that much is certain, but the only one to have a chance to stay undetected - and be fine in case they don’t, but that is a detail no one mentions - is in fact Zhao Jue. So, some hours of preparation later, Zhan Yao, Zhao Fu and Zhao Jue are crammed together in an SCI observation van, the older man in a bright orange pest-control uniform. 

“Remember,” Zhan Yao begins for yet another time, when the freshly-made exterminator directs a grin at him that makes him uneasy. Nodding, he says seriously, “I don’t know who you are and what the SCI is,” as if this is what they have been talking about for an hour. Horrified, Zhan Yao tries to interject, when Zhao Jue grabs his costume props, opens the door and hops down. With a wink to the other two, he marches off towards the office building.

Zhao Fu groans, hiding his face in his hands. “I really hope this wasn’t a mistake. The boss is going to murder us if this goes wrong.”

Zhan Yao nods silently. 

Before they left the SCI, he had taken Zhao Jue aside, determined to get some real answers out of the other, but all he had received was a grin and another question, asked with sparkling eyes and quiet amusement in his voice. 

“Do you trust me?”

Zhan Yao hadn’t had it in him to deny it. 

When it’s all over, Zhan Yao doesn’t ask how Zhao Jue managed to get past fourteen heavily armed guards, doesn’t want to know, but somehow the other did, and he found the abducted girl. Next to twenty-seven others who have gone missing from the whole country during the last months. 

When the storm has calmed, the girls have been brought to the hospital and the guards inside arrested - all of them suspiciously pliant and agreeable, but nobody had asked, and Zhan Yao sure as hell wouldn’t mention it either - Chief Bao holds a press conference, obviously enjoying the spotlight on himself and on his department. Zhan Yao tries to stay in the background. It doesn’t feel right to stand there alone, so he doesn’t at all. 

They can’t exactly tell the media that the one having solved the case is a wanted serial killer who recently escaped prison, so Zhan Yao is for once glad for the Chief’s need for recognition. On the way back, Zhao Jue looks at him with a knowing gaze, but doesn’t say anything, and Zhan Yao tries to focus on something else.

With the older man’s help - and probably more than just a bit of coercion from Chief Bao to make sure the SCI were the ones to interrogate them - the culprits arrested in the office building spill their secrets surprisingly easily. They all name Zhang Qi as the mastermind behind the whole operation, giving even more names and addresses that were used to move the girls around, providing so many details that Bai Chi brings in a whole box of new ledgers to write in after the first afternoon. It’s a day later that one of them admits to building a bomb and hiding it in a sofa in an empty apartment, all of this on Zhang Qi’s orders. 

After Zhang Qi and her inner circle are arrested, Chief Bao invites all of them to dinner, even Zhao Jue and his nephew, who both actually show up, even if one seems significantly more delighted than the other. Zhan Yao observes in silence, meeting Zhao Jue’s gaze over the animated talks and happy atmosphere at the table. He nods in acknowledgement, and the other smiles slightly.

- - - - -  

Bai Yutong wakes a day later, in the late morning, the sun gently caressing his features. The first thing he does is to reach out to Zhan Yao, weaving his hand into the other’s hair and pulling him in. Their foreheads resting against each other, Zhan Yao takes his first deep breath in weeks.

#sci谜案集 #sci mystery #sci #zhan yao #bai yutong #yaoyutong #zhao jue #my writing #angst with a happy ending

[megalony]

Met his match

This is a new Murderer! Ben Hardy imagine that should have a follow-up imagine soon when I can get round to it, I hope you will all enjoy this one feedback is always lovely to have.

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Murderer! Ben masterlist

Summary: Ben is a hitman tracking his latest target, and he is getting ready to kill them but things get tricky when his conscience gets the better of him. And the situation unravels when soulmates are involved.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reaching his calloused hand into his back pocket, Ben pulled out the phone that was vibrating to show someone was calling. Taking a scan of the phone case, he sighed at seeing it was his personal phone which he couldn't be bothered to answer right now.

He'd been in the game for a two years now and had managed to pick up many tricks of the trade. Rule number one was to have seperate phones so if he got caught, he could give the police his normal phone that was just for friends and family. The innocent phone. All the implicating and cryptic messages were on his work phone so he could keep things separate and in order. His normal phone was white and his work phone was black as a teasing reminder of his life like day and night.

Switching the rather annoying item off, Ben slipped it back into his pocket before turning his attention down to the glass resting on the shining polished wooden surface in front of him.

This was a very different experience for Ben considering that for the past three months he had been in hiding.

Laying low wasn't all it was cracked up to be and Ben hated it. He hated having to disappear underground, to go to dingy, disgusting bars for a drink and to make sure no one would find him. He hated having to scan the bars to make sure they were the kind that didn't have CCTV so he could stretch the truth about how long he was there if an alibi was needed. He hated being around the cringy, loud-mouthed people that bustled about and spilt their drinks on one another.

Ben couldn't abide by the hotels and the small B&B's that he had to go to when he was out of town and needed to go unseen.

Laying low was the part of being a hitman that he despised because in order to keep the job he had so graceously decided to take, he had to cover his tracks and give himself alibi's. He had to make sure his face was never in papers or on websites. He had to make sure only the right kind of people knew who he was so he wasn't known to the posh people or the ones in contact with the police so he wouldn't be caught. He had to make sure the people who knew what he did weren't informants for the police or traitors.

But his job was something he found great pride and achievement with, even though he knew he shouldn't. Killing people wasn't the kind of job that someone should be proud to have and yet Ben was. He had pride that he had been doing this for two years and no one had caught him yet. He was proud that people respected him in the underworld and that people paid a high price for the job that he did. People went to the trouble of finding him to get his help, they risked a lot to find him with the knowledge that he could turn them down.

The thrill that it gave him, the planning that he got to put into it and the risks he took made laying low all that much better.

But to finally be out of his hiding and back in the world of the living was something that he enjoyed immensely. Ben enjoyed being able to come to the bars and restaurants that were more appealing to the eye and soul. To be able to act as if he fit in with the higher society when really, despite how he hated to lay low, that was where he belonged.

The thin black button-up shirt he was wearing was rather itchy around the collar and he had to refrain from scratching his neck every ten seconds but he had to act formal since he was technically at work right now.

Turning his head to the left, Ben locked his bored eyes onto the man he had seen wandering around the restaurant for the past hour. He went around hitting on any girl that walked in and every time he had got rejected which wasn't surprising given that this wasn't the most high class place but it certainly wasn't of low standards. The women here were more refined and didn't take to a drunk man wandering the bar asking them if they wanted to go home with him for a 'night-cap'.

The drunk man seemed to get more riled up and annoyed with every rejection he got until he was starting to get aggressive. If the guy would take each rejection with his chin up then Ben would have said good on him for taking it in his stride but the hitman was getting fed up of the idiot's persistence with anyone in sight.

Hunching his shoulders forward, Ben leaned his head down but let his eyes lean around the idiot a few feet at his side, trying to get a look at the poor victim the man was now pestering.

Ben had to refrain himself from growling in sheer annoyance when he realised that the victim this drunk idiot was pestering was Ben's next target. Rubbing his hand over his face, Ben scratched at the corner of his eye with the pad of his thumb as he tried to stay calm and unnoticed.

It was always a surprise to Ben when he found out that his victims were women because eighty percent of the people he was told to snuff out were usually middle aged business men. With the odd exception of a young inexperienced boy who had taken something he shouldn't or who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But killing a woman was never hard for Ben, a hit was a hit and it didn't matter who it was as long as the job was done and Ben got paid at the end of it.

The only times he ever refused to do a job was if he himself deemed the hit unnecessary. Maybe there was a young boy who just didn't need to be killed or a woman who was only wanted dead because her rich husband wanted her out of the way.

Other than things like that, Ben usually didn't care the reason even though he always asked. It was part of his invisible policy that Ben was to be given all the details, the reason and half the payment up front before he went through with a hit.

For the past two weeks Ben had followed his victim, got to know her routine and what she did and he knew that tonight was the one opportunity that he had to get the job over and done with.

Tonight was a night where she was most vulnerable because she was alone, away from home and her family and friends thought she would be away for another week so the timeline for her disappearance would be vague at best. Ben had already disabled her phone signal from afar and he had ensured that he wasn't on any security tapes.

All he had to do was find her after she left the restaurant and he could pounce.

Ben knew the reason why he had to kill this girl.

She had smuggled a lot of money from her father's account and placed it into a lot of other accounts ranging from her own to her father's victims who he had complete control over. What she had done was completely legal since she had access to the account and had unsuspectingly gotten her father to sign the documents allowing the transactions. He had lost out and now his daughter was a threat to his rather secretative dodgy dealings.

She was a threat he wanted rid of and the police couldn't do anything, nor could they get rid of her in the sense that her father wanted.

But Ben could.

He applauded his victim's reasons and what she had managed to do but at the end of the day, she was a hit and Ben had taken the job.

Turning his head to the left, Ben glanced his eyes over at his victim as if making sure that she hadn't disappeared without him knowing.

His victim had her rather long hair folded and pinned to her lower head just at the top of her neck but she had two short strands of hair hanging loose framing both sides of her face. And her vibrant eyes were shining for everyone to see. Her head was tilted to the side and the distant look in her eyes made her seem as if she was in a world of her own. She had one arm resting on the circular wooden table and her other hand circled around the half empty glass of red wine in front of her.

She looked as if she fitted in so well here with her baggy button-up shirt tucked into her high-waisted trousers that skimmed over the top of her ankle boots. Her appearance and her smile and the way she held herself made her fit in so well with the upper class people in the restaurant. But there was just something about her that made Ben feel like she was an outcast. Someone desperately trying to fit in when really, she didn't belong anywhere at all.

Just like him.

The pick up line that the drunken man used on Ben's victim washed over Ben's head just like it did the girl's head because she didn't spare him a glance. She seemed to be used to people trying to gain her attention and she seemed very good at choosing who deserved her attention and who didn't.

When the man didn't persist anymore and left in a huff, Ben felt like doing the exact same thing. He had been in this restaurant for two hours now and had had no interaction or conversation with anyone but the bartender who simply kept refilling Ben's glass the moment Ben pointed at it.

As much as Ben enjoyed being at places like this, it did get boring when he had no one to talk to because talking to people could potentially ruin an alibi if he needed one. They could say the exact time he left, who he had been looking at, what exactly he had told them. Ben would never say anything to incriminate himself or make himself seem untrustworthy but interactions were just as harmful as doing the job he did.

As bad as it was that he sat and talked to no one, it was safer.

"Any good?"

The new voice broke Ben out of his consuming thoughts, much to his relief, but when his head turned to his left he felt a spark of adrenaline bursting through his stomach when he saw who it was talking to him.

"The whiskey here, is it any good?" (Y/n) pointed her finger towards the circular glass of whiskey resting in front of Ben that he was holding with a vice grip in his left hand. It was the only thing she could think of to spark up a conversation with the one person here who seemed to feel like an outcast here the same as she did.

It seemed to take him a while to respond, she could see his eyes studying her as if he didn't exactly know what to make of her or how to take her question.

Ben observed the way that (Y/n) leaned her elbows on the counter with one arm outstretched like she was trying to reach behind the bar and grab one of the bottles. Whilst her other hand was resting against her neck like she was trying to prop her head up. Ben couldn't help but let his eyes wander over her, noticing how her hips were pushing against the bottom of the bar counter and her knees were straight like she was trying to make herself look a bit taller than she really was.

"Better than most places I've been to."

Ben didn't usually talk to his victims.

In theory, Ben could tell his victims anything. He could tell them his bank details, his name and address, his age, his national security number. He could tell them anything and everything about him because his victims always ended up in the same place; a grave. And dead men tell no tales.

But this was different, Ben talked to his victims when he was about to force a bullet into their skulls or make their deaths drag out. He didn't normally jave a chat with them before they knew that he was their personal grim reaper about to steal their life and soul. He never talked to his victims like he was trying to make a new acquaintance or even a friend.

Talking to his victims could often make him feel sorry for them or make him regret killing them. Ben didn't need them haunting him in the dead of night disturbing his sleep or making him think over his life choices and his choice of jobs.

"That's enough for me." (Y/n) didn't even get chance to speak when the bartender approached them both before her new acquaintance pointed to his glass before holding up two fingers indicating he wanted two glasses this time. It always fascinated (Y/n) how people like him were willingly in places like this when they clearly didn't want or need social interaction.

It would clearly be a lot easier and cheaper for him to just buy a bottle of whiskey and take it back to wherever he resided. But then again, if he liked to be around people he wouldn't get that if he lived on his own. Some people like to be surrounded but not interacted with, they liked to people-watch but not be watched themselves. (Y/n) didn't know him or why he was here and she wasn't usually one to judge a book by its cover.

"Thank you." (Y/n) generously took the drink placed in front of her, a curious but appreciative look in her eyes to which the stranger nodded in understanding before downing his drink.

It was her last night after all, the least he could do was buy her a drink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breathe.

The one thought rattling through (Y/n)'s mind was telling her to do something that she normally never had to think about. Such an automatic process that happened thousands of times every day was something that (Y/n) was now having to remind herself to do in case she suddenly forgot or held her breathe for so long that she endangered herself even more by fainting.

Breathing was the only thing that (Y/n) was certain of right now, everything else was an illusion that she couldn't see past and it was frightening to say the least.

But even breathing was becoming hard when (Y/n) could feel her lungs pushing uncomfortably against her ribs ten times faster than usual. Her chest was heaving, her body was aching and none of her muscles were back under her control yet.

(Y/n) didn't even know where she was and the more she thought about what had happened, the worse her head started to ache because she didn't understand it. One moment she had been walking down the street aiming to get back to her hotel, the next moment an arm had secured around her waist and a cloth was smothered to her lips. When she awoke, every part of her was aching and she seemed to be laid on a sofa if she had guessed right. Unsure where she was, what was going to happen or why she was even taken in the first place.

She could tell that none of her limbs were tied up, her kidnapper had relied solely on the medication on the cloth that had knocked her out and the blindfold wrapped around her head to stop her from seeing anything if she woke too early. But (Y/n) couldn't move, her body was still asleep even if her mind was now awake meaning getting away was impossible right now.

"I can tell you're awake."

A small maon escaped (Y/n)'s lips as she tried to get her body to come back under her control, but the moment those words registered in her ears she could feel her blood running cold.

She knew that voice.

"W-whiskey." (Y/n)'s voice shook and her head spun as she felt waves of horror creeping up her spine causing her muscles to shiver. It was the man who had bought her a drink at the bar. The man she had spoken very few words to and shared a drink with before heading back to her table. The man who had left the restaurant way before she herself had done.

What on Earth had she done to him to make him want to kidnap her?

"I'm honoured you remember me, love."

(Y/n) could feel the whiskey man getting closer, she could feel the way he cut through the air ever so slowly like he was slowly piercing the atmosphere with a knife. And when she felt him leering over her a whimper escaped her lips that were numb from whatever had been pressed against them earlier to knock her out. He hadn't looked the most harmless man in the bar but he didn't give off the vibes of a kidnapper. (Y/n) didn't know him, she'd never seen him before in her life, what did he want with her?

When his fingers slowly trailed against her cheek and up to her hair (Y/n) wanted to cower back in fear but the most she could do was shift her shoulders a little.

She could feel his hand slowly brushing the loose strand of hair behind her ear before he slowly grabbed the material covering her eyes, pulling it away to reveal her tired eyes that were blinking rapidly to adjust to the dim light. (Y/n) almost jumped when her vision cleared enough for her to realise that the whiskey man was crouched down on his knees in front of her. A serene yet almost intrigued look on his face as he stared at her with his lips turned up at the corners.

(Y/n) tried to move her uncoordinated limbs and managed to press her right hand down on the sofa before pressing the back of her left hand down against the cushion to try and lift herself up. The whiskey man had laid her down on the sofa as if she had just fallen asleep and he had carried her here- wherever here was. He didn't tie her up or lock her somewhere or even dump her somewhere, he had taken time and care with her. And when (Y/n) tried to manoeuvre herself up, he even leaned and placed his arm under hers with his hand resting on her back to guide her up.

Ben didn't miss the way that (Y/n) flinched when he touched her and he didn't exactly know why he had let her live so long.

He brought her to a hotel that he knew had no security in the reception or in the corridors so he couldn't be seen or caught on camera. He had the room already set up and paid for in advance and simply told the man on reception that his wife had gotten drunk and he was carrying her back. The young man believed him, who wouldn't?

But Ben could have killed her by now.

He could have put a bullet in her or even a knife if he wanted to get creative and he could have left through the fire escape without anyone knowing. No one knew she was in this hotel, it wasn't booked in her name so they wouldn't know who she was and Ben had taken her purse and phone. It would be a mystery and he could have given her some peace by killing her whilst she was asleep. It would have been kinder.

But Ben just couldn't do it.

He brought her in here, laid her down, locked the door and closed the curtains. But when he thought about just killing her and leaving, something stopped him. He had spent at least twenty minutes or so just watching her sleep, wondering what was going through her mind and when she was going to wake up and beg him for mercy.

He didn't have a problem with killing her, there just seemed to be something about her that made him want to talk to her and make her beg before he eventually took her life from her.

"What... why am I here? I don't know you..." (Y/n)'s speech was slow and her words were slightly slurred from how delirious her mind seemed to be after being drugged. She didn't know where she was but she didn't even know why she was where she was, let alone why a stranger had taken her.

"No, but I know how you are, love. We're both here on business and very soon, that business will be finished."

(Y/n) couldn't help but whimper, unsure what kind of business this man wanted with her but she had a few grave ideas. But the moment her eyes set on his right hand, she felt like she was going to be sick. He had a gun in his hand with a silencer on the end. If she tried to scream he could shoot her and no one would be any the wiser. If she tried to escape then he could shoot her before she even got off the sofa and by the looks of things, he was going to shoot her regardless of whether she tried to get away or not.

She was dead no matter what she did.

"No... no p-please... why would you kill me?"

A pang of pain struck Ben in his heart as he watched the way her lips couldn't help but pull down at the corners and when the tears fell from her eyes Ben almost felt bad. But this wasn't personal, he didn't have a vendetta against her or hate her or want to hurt her just because he randomly picked her to be his next victim. This was calculated and decided by someone else, Ben was just the paid method to get rid of her. This had nothing to do with him.

"This isn't personal, darlin'. I'm afraid this is what I'm paid to do, your daddy decided it. Don't worry, you won't have to feel anything unless of course, you want to."

He could see it in her eyes. She was desperate to beg him to spare her, to lie to her father and tell him she was dead but secretly let her live. She would disappear, she would go far away if he would spare her life. But it was clear in his eyes that he wasn't going to let that happen. As he said, this wasn't personal, this was clearly a job for him and he seemed like the kind of man that didn't stop until the job was done. The whiskey man didn't care for her and therefore her pleas were going to fall on deaf ears because he wouldn't be fazed by her begs for mercy or he wouldn't have agreed to do this in the first place.

Ben watched in curiosity as (Y/n) moved her hands to rub her arms like she was trying to give herself a comforting hug before she died, knowing it was inevitable.

She wasn't like the rest of his victims, begging, pleading and sobbing loudly or trying to attack him and make their escape. Most of the time Ben killed from afar, he stalked like a predator then suddenly shot them in a dark alley or stabbed them. Some of the worse ones were the ones he dragged out, he tortured them before leaving them to die somewhere. But just recently he started talking to a few victims or letting them wake up like now before he killed them.

But none of his victims seemed to sit and accept their fate like she was. This one was special, she was smart.

Ben let his eyes wander down to the gun in his hands as he slowly stretched up until he was hovering over her, looming like the grim reaper ready to snatch her soul. He checked the bullets left in the gun knowing full well he had five rounds though he only needed one or two at the most if he felt cruel. He then twisted the end of the silencer to make sure it was properly fitted, not wanting to make a surprising sound and let anyone know what he was up to in here.

(Y/n) needed him to do it now and get it over with.

She couldn't handle waiting and watching like this, death was always something that scared her but she always thought it would be unexpected or hoped she would pass in her sleep. Knowing it was about to happen now made her skin crawl and sent her mind reeling and this whiskey man was just prolonging it even more.

But as she watched him click the safety off the gun, her heart rocketed in her chest and started to spasm achingly when he began to whistle a quiet tune like he was preparing himself for an audition rather than a killing.

Oh God no.

(Y/n) knew that tune, she knew that tune all too well. It was the tune she had had in her head since she could remember, it was her song. That tune was the song that belonged to (Y/n).

Everyone in the world had a soulmate somewhere out there. People say that they know their soulmate from the first glance or just by looking or talking to them. But the one definitive way of knowing your soulmate is the song. Everyone has a song in their mind that is their own, not a song from the radio that they choose, but a certain rhythm, a humming or a whistling song in their head that they share with one other person in the world. Their soulmate. They are the only two that know the tune.

The whiskey man was whistling (Y/n)'s tune.

The only way that he could know that tune was if he was her soulmate. But he was trying to kill her, why would he whistle that tune if he was trying to kill her? Who whistled or even thought of their song when killing someone? She was going to be murdered by her soulmate and no one was going to come to her aid or her rescue.

Did this man even believe in soulmates?

Ben's lips curved up into a rather sinister grin that made (Y/n)'s skin crawl but she whimpered when he turned the barell of the gun towards her, aiming it at her temple. He could feel a small wave of guilt washing over him but he knew it would be taken away with the tide soon enough. His whistling grew louder as he got ready to pull the trigger, knowing he would have a lot of cleaning and tidying up to do very soon.

"It won't hurt, love. I promise."

But Ben's hand shook and his arm suddenly recoiled to his chest in horror when he heard her response.

His eyes blew wide in his sockets when he heard the rhythm she was shakily humming against her chapped lips. Her wild, rabid eyes locked with his own as she started to hum a bit louder, showing how uneven and timid her voice actually was because this was her only chance at survival. Humming his own song back at him.

"How do you know that tune? How?!"

The words bellowed around the room, resonating back at Ben as he suddenly jerked his arm out and pushed the barell of the gun against (Y/n)'s temple. Hating the way she cried out and cowered back at the feeling but still tried to hum the tune to prove she wasn't copying him, she knew what tune he had started to whistle.

"I- it's my s-song." Her chest quaked and her whole body trembled like she was undergoing an electric current before she tried humming the ending of the tune to keep herself alive, at least for now.

What the Hell was he supposed to do?

Ben's job was to murder people for cash and get away with it. He had no morals or code or rules he lived by and he certainly had no partner or wife waiting at home for him because he couldn't have any weaknesses or strings attached to him.

But that was his tune. He recalled his mother telling him about how she met his father and despite what Ben did for a living, his home life had been a good one. He knew his parents had been in love and he knew that soulmates existed purely because of the way his parents had been when he was growing up. No one had loved or appreciated his mother more than his father did.

A soulmate was not what Ben was looking for, he simply assumed that whoever out there shared his song was someone that he would never find. He wasn't looking for them and he didn't need a soulmate in his life, his life was perfect as it was right now.

But she was here right in front of him, cowering away because he was about to snatch her life from her.

But he couldn't.

If he took her life right now, all Ben could think about was what he would have done if his father had taken his mother's life. What would have happened if his father had killed his mother at any one point in their relationship?

(Y/n) didn't ask to be his soulmate, maybe she wasn't even looking for her soulmate either. Ben couldn't do it. The one thing in life that he wanted to believe in and abide by was a soulmate, he didn't necessarily want his soulmate right now but he knew it was real and he believed it happened. He couldn't ruin that by killing his soulmate, (Y/n) did not choose to have her fate be entwined with a murderer. She didn't choose to have her soulmate be a brute who was about to kill her.

"You... fuck! Fuck!" His voice suddenly rocketed around the room before the gun was launched out of his hand and violently hit the wall opposite him. "Why?! Why did you have to have my song? Why did you have to fucking hum it? I could have killed you by now- I should have killed you by now!"

"Y-you would rather kill me... not knowing you killed your soulmate? You could have killed me i-if you hadn't of whistled our song."

It wasn't just his song, it was their song. They both shared it and (Y/n) didn't know if it would have been better if he killed her because he would have gone through the rest of his life wondering why he never met his soulmate. People didn't always end up with their soulmates, they got tired of waiting around and just settled with someone else or settled on their own and made a new life for themselves. Some people chose not to believe in it and others met their soulmate and were too stubborn to want to be with them. But everyone met them at one point in their lives and knew about it.

Ben would have been more confused if he went through the rest of his life and didn't meet his soulmate.

"But I can't fucking do it now! I can't... for fuck's sake! I can't tell my client I haven't killed you because it turns out your my shitting soulmate!"

"Then kill me!"

"I can't!"

Ben all but screamed the words back at (Y/n), knitting his hands into his shortened hair before he turned his back on her so he could try and gather himself and think it through. Ben couldn't bring himself to kill her now, not now he knew there actually was someone out there for him. A soulmate was different than just finding someone and falling in love. (Y/n) was his match, she was someone that would love him and take him as he was. She was his soulmate and therefore their fates were entwined, it meant that she would love him despite him being a hitman and murdering people for a living.

He didn't deserve love but now he had a chance at it and this was his one and only moral. He couldn't bring himself to kill her, it had been hard enough to convince himself to do it before but now it was impossible.

"I can't kill you now... as weird as it seems, I just can't do it. I've failed this job and now you'll go and leave me because I've tried to hurt you." Ben smoothed his hand over the back of his head and neck before he bent down on his knees in front of (Y/n). He didn't know how else to explain it and he was desperate for her to see this from his point of view but it was virtually impossible. He had kidnapped her, told her he was going to kill her and now he couldn't because their fates were entwined.

Ben could see it now that if he didn't kill her he would have to let her go and then he would lose her because he couldn't follow and stalk her for the rest of his life. It wouldn't be right. She would leave him and he would lose her all because he couldn't kill her.

"I don't- I can't leave you... I mean, your my soulmate too."

(Y/n) had her proof that this man wasn't going to kill her, he didn't have the mind-set or the courage or the will to do that. The worst he could do was be rude because he clearly didn't intend to hurt his soulmate which meant he had some very warped morals. (Y/n) believed in soulmates, she had been waiting for him and now he was here, albeit in the worst of circumstances. She wasn't just going to walk away from him yet.

"What do we do now?" As bad as this situation was, (Y/n) couldn't quite see where they went from here.

"Isn't it obvious? I was supposed to kill you but I can't do that... now I need to protect you instead."

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben x reader #imagine #murderer! ben #BoRhap #soulmates

[starswornoaths]

On the Rocks

Commission for @anorptron! Thank you so much for your patronage! :D

Set during early 4.0, the Warrior of Light ventures to his home after suffering a recent defeat. In search of a balm for his wounds, he finds an opportunistic noble yielding proverbial salt instead.

Fortunate, then, that his family had thought of that.

Word count: 4,743

~*~

Despite the defeat that dogged every step traveled back to Ishgard, there was a strange, tentative sort of merriment in the air of Manor de Fortemps. The High House had been scheduled to host an event marking progress in the Houses of the Lords and Commons— to say that the Alliance’s defeat in Rhalgr’s Reach had been poorly timed would be a gross understatement. 

It didn't matter how many times Edmont and his brothers reassured him otherwise, Sage felt responsible for how thin the margin for political error had become in the span of days. Even as much as he tried to detach himself from the minutiae of the politicking that came with the day to day of government— and the Alliance’s military coordination, no less— it was impossible for him to not be acutely aware of how easily this initial loss could be used to twist the Ishgardian public against the war effort— and, by proxy, all of the progress they had bled and lost for.

A lurching churned Sage’s gut. His throat tightened in that warning sort of way that came with nausea. Before it could fully clench around his neck, he swallowed the feeling down with a drink from his glass. Though there was nothing in it to burn away the mauldin thoughts clouding his head, the sweetness of the fruit nectar was still enjoyable all the same.

Sage almost wished he was permitted to drink tonight. He didn’t even necessarily like the stuff, mind; Edmont hadn’t brought out his good stock of sweet liquor, after all. He’d known the company he’d be hosting tonight was largely unpleasant, bless the man, and instead saved what few alcoholic drinks Sage actually liked for another gathering. He instead tried to focus on the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel; whatever nonsense he might have to endure at this party would be worth it, to spend time with those he was closest to— with much better drinks in hand.

In truth, while Sage was still far from enthused about alcohol, it was hard not to look forward to those after parties, at least a little: once all but Aymeric and himself had been seen out for the night, they’d all sequester themselves in the lounge, to keep out of the staff’s hair, while they all unwound with, “the good bottles.” It had been a tradition among the Fortemps men—one Edmont had insisted kept his sanity—for years, long before Sage had met them. But Sage was promptly folded into those nightcap conversations, and Aymeric not far behind him, once Edmont had finally managed to catch him on his way out the door to last Starlight’s service in the Congregation, and would brook no refusals of his offer.

And that had been that: whenever House Fortemps was host for a formal event, regardless of scale, everyone managed to plaster on pleasant smiles and fashion themselves the very perfect picture of politicians and patriots alike, bearing the brunt of snide comments and would-be detractors attempting to smear their good names with grace and stoicism.

These days, it was one of the few pleasures Sage allowed himself, to have his newfound family all gather in the lounge to decompress. It was its own sort of happiness, expressing himself among others, who were themselves letting down their own masks.

Aymeric liked to play bartender, likely out of a need to earn his drinks, and Sage cherished seeing them all unwind and listening to them say all the impolite things that they couldn’t at the time. It solidified them as family, seeing this authentic version of themselves, and sharing it with one another.

And then they would unwind and vent about it to each other later, laughing and making merry all the while. It made moments such as these worth a damn.

Edmont must not have liked hardly anyone that had to attend this particular soiree; Sage recognized the bottles being carried by the servants as the same label that he himself had taken from the bottom shelf, back when he knew how to pick alcohol about as well as he knew how to ask for comfort. The former, he was abstaining from, on doctor’s orders, instead enjoying fresh fruit nectar Edmont had ensured was stocked for him, as something sweet to still sip at the gathering. The latter, he was working on, now.

As much as he felt he deserved, at least, with his most recent, catastrophic failure.

Holed up in Manor Fortemps, sheltered from the cold, Sage could almost think the loss at Rhalgr’s Reach distant. Far removed from him. In a literal sense, he supposed that tracked, though despite the malms and the days that separated him from his defeat, it was as if he could yet feel Zenos’ overwhelming presence bearing down on him.

Despite the warmth suffused throughout the manor, it felt like his limbs would never know that feeling ever again. The chirurgeons had reassured him that it would improve, as it was a result of the blood loss from his wounds. 

That was hardly anything new for Sage, mind; it wasn’t so long ago that he was so battered and bloodied, that he was bedbound not ten malms from where he stood now— and even that was but the worst of a long history of grievous wounds. It was just that, even in his most agonized recoveries— ones that were far worse than this one, admittedly, he had been able to rest, at least a little, knowing he was resting in victory. He’d broken himself upon the battlefield, and it was for something. He’d done enough.

But this...

He felt low. Uncharacteristically small, despite how he towered over the crowd, even here. If he wasn’t absolutely certain that it would bring undue stress upon his family, he would be somewhere quieter, darker, to be with his thoughts alone and stew in his defeat. Never before had he such an itch to sink into old habits, as he did standing there, feeling like his skin was pulled too tight across his bones, displaced from himself.

Alas, rather than sink into his own solitude, Sage instead had to contend with nobility, and all the demands that came with it. For instance: mingling. After so many incidents with such gatherings, he had learned to pick up on the signs that someone, not far from his vicinity, was about to interrupt his thoughts. For instance, there was someone worming their way through the crowd, removing any doubt that they were aiming directly for the Warrior of Light, for how intently they made their way over. Just as well; Sage settled on being grateful that he at least had some warning, this time.

“Warrior of Light! Why, Halone must have blessed me, personally, that I might run into you here!”

Unable to entirely stop himself from cringing, Sage managed to let it pass over his face into something more neutral before he swallowed the sip of nectar he’d pulled a moment before. His effort was nearly for naught when he locked eyes with the noble that had hailed him in question: he knew this man, in a sense, from how vocally –and frequently—he would protest declarations in the Houses of the Lords and Commons. 

“My lord,” Sage greeted, inclining his head politely. “You flatter me.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d maneuver his way through an entire conversation with the man, if that was what he was after. Gods knew his brothers were oft times formal to a fault, but even Artoirel and Aymeric hadn’t been immune from venting their vexations with the man. Sage could so clearly recall the young Lord Fortemps storming about the foyer snarling about attempts to sway votes, or demands to recall a vote on a technicality, pausing only long enough to thank whichever family member it was that refilled his wine glass for him that time.

As Aymeric once put it: “His disagreement would be far more tolerable, had he ever any alternative suggestions to accompany it.”

Already, Sage could feel his temples threaten to pulse with a migraine as he forced his face into a pleasant smile. It was faint, for all his effort, but it was there.

If naught else, he at least had excuse enough to be less than perfectly pleasant; the wounds he walked away from Rhalgr’s Reach with were only just on the mend, after all. They were at least fully closed, and had been treated; a marked improvement from how he had handled previous injuries.

But the noble lord was speaking again, pulling Sage from his thoughts.

“Why, I speak only the truth! I had been hoping to speak with you even before the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, but alas! It seems as if you’re always on the move!”

“No rest for the righteous, and all that.” He muttered, half into his flute of nectar.

“For the wicked have all the fun!” The noble said, throwing his head back and laughing at his own joke.

When he leaned back, into his laugh, he lightly tapped the backs of his knuckles to Sage’s coat. Another wince pinched the corners of his eyes; he could smell the wine off of the noble’s breath; not necessarily drunk, but certainly enough to be loose tongued.

Sage pretended to take another sip to hide his lack of enthusiasm. Already, he wanted this conversation to be done.

“Oh, but I jest, I jest.” Said the lush lord, once he’d caught his breath on a delighted sigh. “I do beg your pardon, the wine brings it out of me.”

Sage tracked the overarticulated sweep of a bejeweled hand, as it reached up to wipe away a nonexistent tear from the corner of the noble’s eye.

“You certainly seem to be in good spirits, my lord.” Sage noted, not knowing what else to say.

“I have every reason to be! The Houses of the Lords and Commons were in unison this session, for a change, and with Starlight not far off, the festivities have been plentiful!”

“I see.” Sage replied, and prayed that would be the end of the conversation.

When it was clear that the Bard wasn’t going to offer a more verbose response, the noble cut off what would have been an obviously much more judicious pull from his glass, as if the thought of being left to lapse in silence for even a moment was considered some grievous slight. Maybe it was. Sage was in no mood to care. 

“Ah, I forgot! Your reputation for stoic silence precedes you!” The noble said, hastily blotting at the corner of his mouth with a kerchief.

“It’s one of my strengths.” Sage drained his glass of juice, and turned away to set it on the tray of a passing servant with a murmur of thanks. 

“A damn shame, then, to know that such strength fled you, at the battle in Rhalgr’s Reach.”

In an instant, what warmth Sage had managed to glean from the manor’s well tended hearths guttered out. Icy dread struck him at the base of his spine, freezing him in place, hand still outstretched from handing off his glass—in the best of circumstances, he was hardly one for conversation, but this was very clearly bait for him to blunder into, a verbal trap that was doubtless intended to damage his reputation—and, by extension, that of House Fortemps. 

Perhaps even Aymeric, too: as Lord Commander, he’d been overseeing Ishgard’s involvement in the Gyr Abanian theatre of war, this excursion included, after all. If ever there was a time for an opportunistic noble to try and undo all the hard work they had all put in, here and abroad, over one loss in a larger scale conflict abroad, it was now.

“What,” Sage managed to rasp, words dragged across the sandpaper in his throat, as he turned back toward the man. “Do you mean?”

“Oh come now, there’s no sense in dancing about the subject.” Said the noble, through a toothy, cruel upturn of his lips. “This was Ishgard’s debut into the Eorzean Alliance, was it not? Were we not counting on you to lead us into victory?” 

Indignation warred with nausea-inducing dread in the pit of his ribcage. The former, for how dare this man who had known no struggle remotely like Sage’s, speak on how war and its games were played. The latter, because how dare he echo the same thoughts Sage had been so keen on ignoring tonight?

To keep his hands from fidgeting, he stood at parade rest, and half wished he still had a glass in his hand to keep himself looking less stiff and affected. He knew this man would vex him until he cracked, if this was where he was already needling.

When he managed to find his voice, Sage tried again, “I did what I could—”

“Which was, somehow, not enough.” The noble swiftly rebuked. “Not enough, despite your victory over Nidhogg. A curiosity.” The noble sneered with a haughty twitch of his nose.

The chill that had clung to Sage’s limbs crept ever closer, brushing dangerously to his heart. As if he truly were freezing over, his breathing thinned out, and he felt his hands shaking at his sides, ever so faintly.

“By all accounts, ‘twas Sage’s strength that prevented an even  greater loss for the Alliance.” Came the voice of one of his brothers.

“One of those reports was mine own—and yes, we would have lost so much more, were it not for the Warrior of Light’s presence.” Added the voice of another.

Relief flooded him hearing Aymeric, then Artoirel, speak upon their unexpected appearance, flanking Sage on both sides. A united front was the best defense from such grave offense, after all. It was all Sage could do, to keep from slouching his ramrod stiff posture, as he remembered how to breathe again. Even without either of them coming into physical contact with him, he felt their warmth seep into skin and scale, bolstering him. Squaring his shoulders as much as his wounds would allow, he tipped his chin up, to hold himself proudly. Just like their Da had encouraged him—he’d earned that pride, paid for in blood, sweat, and tears.

The offending lord seemed only momentarily cowed, flinching his glass subtly closer to his chest as he recoiled from the unexpected intrusion to his personal belligerence against the hero. When it was clear, with a furtive glance around, that none of them were interested in backing down, he pulled himself upright and cleared his throat.

“The fact remains: a loss is a loss.” He pressed.

“Spoken like one who has never written condolence letters.” Aymeric replied almost instantly, the smoothness of his voice a whetstone for his lance-sharp words, poised to cut off this conversation at the pass. “Even one less family in mourning, is a victory in itself, my lord.”

It was faint—in particular, compared to the low din of the rest of the gathering, but the group of elites that had congregated and circled around themselves not far from where Sage had been standing, began to murmur between themselves about the conversation they were overhearing. Had Sage not been so keenly aware of his surroundings, over the roaring of blood in his ears, he might not have understood why the noble’s face turned ashen, then, when those words reached his ears. Aymeric and Artoirel had, in effect, struck far truer than anticipated, redirecting the very gossip that the nefarious noble had tried to weaponize.

“We wouldn’t be sending them at all, were we not engaging in conflicts that we had no business meddling in.” The noble replied, though it was clear by the way the pads of his fingers paled against the stem of his wine glass, that he was most certainly rattled. “Business, I will remind you, that we have made ours solely on debt to a singular champion! How can we condone it, as proud Ishgardian citizens, when our creditor cannot guarantee our victory?”

Were the man not gunning to undo everything that they had fought and sacrificed for and then some, Sage might feel some semblance of sympathy for him. As it was, it was at least a little morbidly gratifying, watching him squirm when challenged.

Aymeric seemed to expect the question. In truth, he had likely had to field it many times; he seemed almost bored with it.

“We did not commit ourselves to one war on the coattails of another solely because the Warrior of Light bade we do so.” He began in a low tone. One that gave a warning he put no words to, and did not have to. “On the contrary: as with the Dragonsong War, he only opened our eyes to the truth of the matter: that we were always involved in this war. We were always going to be involved in this war, whether we willed it or not.”

“Such fatalistic talk, from such a lauded, romantic politician!” The man jeered.

“Ishgard’s best defense has always been a proactive offense,” he explained patiently, in a tone that reminded Sage of one he’d used on Alphinaud, upon their first meeting in the Falling Snows. “The winds suggest but one course upon which the Empire has been set: total conquest. We cannot afford to watch, idle and indolent, while Garlemald marches right to our gates, afore we are moved to action.” 

“This was never our affair!” Cried the exasperated nobleman, perhaps a bit more inebriated than Sage might have initially thought.

Clearly, more than, as when the man made to jab an accusatory finger in the Lord Commander’s direction, he seemingly forgot that he was still holding a half-full wine glass. It sloshed enough to splash, faintly upon the chest of the Lord Commander’s coat. 

For a blessing, the fabric was dark enough that blotting at it with a kerchief was sufficient to keep the light colored champagne from damaging it, but the impropriety of the action was far from lost on even the inebriated offender.

With a singular, prim tug on his own lapel, Aymeric tucked the folded, soiled kerchief away with a barely repressed snort of indignation. “‘Twas ever Eorzea’s affair— and we have been Eorzeans for far longer than we have not, in our history. Garlemald is committed to making this the affair of every living soul on this star, to be conquered, until someone stops them. If every nation clung to their borders and insisted that it was not our affair, then we would simply be picked off, one by one—”

“Garlemald cannot invade us through the weather, and our neighbors besides—”

“Then they would lay siege to us, and our home would become our tomb.” Said a voice from the crowd that had begun to try to not listen to the growing ruckus.

That same crowd parted, and revealed Lord Edmont, honorable father of this evening’s host, looking every bit as graceful and dignified as ever. Striding purposefully, he stopped only when he was beside his fellow noble, and took his measure with an even, steely gaze. “I know I need remind no one here of what happened to the Stone and Dusk Vigils, following the Calamity. Would you inflict that upon our families, for turning away from the plights beyond our gates?”

It was clearly a future that the noble had not considered— in fairness, a future few would want to consider. 

In war, such wants do not matter: it is a path of death, and must be walked with both eyes open, or not at all.

Seeing the noble thoroughly cowed, Edmont eased that hardened stare, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“But come! Such logistics are not for us retired folk to fret over any longer—”

“Edmont, you have surely heard your boy on the forum floor, debating that we meddle in—”

“And what right have we to criticize our children, when they protect a tomorrow that our inaction stole from them?” Edmont asked, not unkindly.

He might as well have struck the noble, for how he recoiled at the rebuttal. If there was a deeper, personal meaning for the noble, Sage did not know it, and did not care: he knew exactly who Edmont was thinking of, when he spoke so.

Edmont’s hand on his shoulder squeezed, comfortingly, as he led him away, speaking of happier things. There seemed to be an understanding between the two that Sage could only begin to fathom, but could readily identify: it was the look of a father that had to bury their child. It wasn’t enough for the dread and ire that the man inspired in Sage to completely vanish, but it was tempered with the understanding that, as he had learned is often the case with Ishgardians, his anger came from immense, generational tragedy.

It was a distant revelation, a balm on a wound, but it was nothing to the panacea that was watching how his family had managed to pull him back from the brink of panic, to cover his blindspots, to be his shield. It was an otherwise unfamiliar feeling, this sense of protection that settled over his shoulders and calmed his tumultuous heart. 

So distracted with awe for how swiftly his family closed in ranks around him, Sage had nearly forgotten to feel the sting of his injuries, until he’d shifted his weight and bit back a curse at the sudden jolt of fire that shot up his spine. When he flinched and his legs faltered, he felt two hands at his back— one of Artiorel and Aymeric both, bracing him.

“Forgive us for leaving you to the wolves, as it were.” Aymeric spoke up, gently startling him out of his thoughts. When he’d straightened and looked over at the Lord Commander, he was given a wincing smile. “No one wanted to smother you, mind, though we all attempted to keep the worst of them occupied.”

“Wh—“ Sage stopped himself from asking the obvious; even if he didn’t believe himself worthy of it, he could no longer deny he was their family, truly and utterly.

With a fond smile and a shake of his head, he instead chose to say, “I know better than to simper in the face of family, so, put simply: thank you.” When Sage smiled, it felt less like it resembled broken glass than it had since he’d left Gyr Abania—certainly less than it had all night. “I don’t know what I would do without you all.”

“And we would say much the same of you, Sage.” Artoirel reassured, clasping a hand comfortingly on Sage’s uninjured forearm.

“Which we have, on more than one occasion,” Aymeric added brightly. “And will keep doing so.”

“Artoirel might not fess up to just how much of that effusive praise comes from him, old sport, but I would be most glad to!” Chimed in the last of their brothers, who had otherwise been shockingly scarce all evening.

Artoirel harrumphed at Emmanellain’s delighted chirping, and crossed his arms. “Given you’ve the leisure to prod me for a reaction, I take it you’ve done your job?”

“Always business, with you!” Emmanellain’s expression momentarily scrunched. “But yes. Frankly, it’s almost boring, how easy it is to redirect the rumor mill. I do hope you’re not too terribly offended that the current affair-of-the-hour among noble lady circles is more stimulating gossip than whatever that lord’s quarrel with you is; he really is an offensively boring man, as politics go.”

Sage didn’t know what to say in response, and his surprise must have been evident on his face, as Emmanellain nudged his good shoulder and winked.

“What, not expecting me to pull my weight? I might not be half the knight my brothers are,” he said around an easy smile. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still protect you, old sport.”

“I’m not sure they make shields tall enough for that.” Sage blurted before he could think better of it.

Practiced politicians they may have been, all the etiquette in the world couldn’t stop Artoirel and Aymeric from hiding their laughter behind their hands at Emmanellain’s gawping.

“Were you joking, just then? Why, Sage! I would almost think you liked me, or something!” Emmanellain gasped, a hand pressed over his heart, the very picture of mock horror.

This levity, this, this warmth, that permeated him, being surrounded by his family…it would not heal him. Sage knew that, deep down. But when he laughed, it came easily. The smile that followed, even easier. And that, that was what helped. What reminded him of his convictions.

“You’re my brother.” Sage said, his tone serious despite the smile still quirking his lips. “Stands to reason I like you.”

Emmanellain paused for a moment, his theatrics softening into something genuine. When he laughed the sort that had him holding his stomach and drying his eyes, it reminded Sage of Haurchefant.

“And you have good taste besides, don’t you forget that, old sport.” Emmanellain said, eyes crinkling for the width and breadth of his smile.

“And you discredit yourself.” Sage replied. “I see more and more of our brothers in you every day.”

It seemed Sage’s comment overwhelmed his little brother; he spun and plucked a flute of champagne from one of the wait staff passing by, and poorly tried to hide his flush behind its rim.

“Yes, well, I certainly have no shortage of examples to lead me.” Emmanellain half muttered into his drink, just before tossing his head back to tip the glass as far back as he could, and he drained it in one fluid gulp. “You included.”

He seemed not to know what to do with the quiet that came after emotional declarations, as, with a twist to set his empty glass on another tray being taken the opposite direction of the first, he used that momentum to turn back into the crowd, back into the mingling crowds that were resuming their previous low din of chatter.

Watching him fade into the crowd made Sage’s gaze wander through the faces in all the merrymaking that had resumed. On that passing glance, he caught Edmont through the crowd, having brought that offending noble into a group of other people Sage distantly recognized as some of the elder generations of the High Houses. It was only a moment, but it was enough to see exactly where the Fortemps propensity for warmth and good cheer came from, as much as their sense of duty had.

“Me included, then?” Sage asked, half to himself.

“Absolutely.” Artoirel said, with a surprising amount of conviction. “Our family has a reputation of housing the most upstanding knights in all of Ishgard. That has never been more true, than it is where you are concerned.”

Perhaps the alcohol did make Artoirel more verbose; Sage was unaccustomed to such declarations in abundance from the newest head of House Fortemps. For a certainty, it was the reason why it overwhelmed him, enough so that he was reminded of the burning shame of his most recent defeat.

“I was defeated—”

“And that should deplete you of your worth?” Aymeric countered at his other side. “Even the greatest people in history knew countless defeats— many of which were costly. Yet, they are not remembered as great because of their losses, but because they persevered despite them.” He gave a single, decisive nod. “I can think of no greater quality that could exemplify the knights of House Fortemps— you among the most exemplary.”

That overwhelmed feeling looped back around into a pleasant sort of warmth; it didn’t entirely absolve him of his guilt; none present expected it to. It weighed as it should— and no heavier. 

Grateful that his family was ever his shield, ever stopping him from pressing his burdens down harder on his own shoulders than he needed to, he could only lower his gaze, smile wider, and reply with, “I hope to be worthy of that.”

“You always were.” Artoirel and Aymeric replied automatically, voices nearly overlapping in perfect sync for their immediate timing.

With a surprised glance between the three of them, they dissolved into half-covered laughter, and that pressure on Sage’s chest settled, alongside his thoughts. It wasn’t enough to make the world okay. It wasn’t enough to make Sage strong enough to free Ala Mhigo and come home, not on its own.

But it was enough.

#ffxiv #commissioned writing #anorptron #Sage Bradley #Artoirel de Fortemps #Aymeric de Borel #Edmont de Fortemps #Emmanellain de Fortemps #4.0 spoilers #tagging just in case #thank you again for being patient and for your patronage as always!!!

[pl-panda]

The vines that bind us - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 || Next

-----

Until a trip to Gotham came knocking on the front doors

“I can’t believe Lie-la of all people managed to somehow get us the trip to Gotham!” Mari moaned with a mixed expression on her face.

Adrien, who was walking next to them, showed absolute disgust. “Technically, It was my father and I that did the heavy lifting. She really wanted to go to the Wayne Gala and…”

“What Lie-la wants, Lie-la gets.” The three finished in unison before laughing a bit. 

“Don’t worry Mari-bear. I can promise you that this no good liar won’t get to ruin your return home.” Chloe pulled her best friend closer. Best friend. Much better than a servant. Who would’ve thought? “And we can even try to find your mom on free Saturday.”

“Yeah…” The girl with black-blue hair didn’t seem particularly cheerful at that. 

“Now I refuse to have you making sad faces throughout the whole flight. You cheer up right this moment and that’s an order!” The blonde commanded. 

“Yes, Maman-bear.” Mari giggled.

The three of them finally arrived at the rest of the class, who were already gathered around madame Bustier. Of course, Lila was bragging about a million different things, but the three paid her no mind. Adrien did his best to hide behind the girls, cherishing the last moments of freedom. Finally, Mari and Chloe had to step forward for their tickets. The blonde got hers without any problem, but for Mari there turned out to be none.

“I’m so so sorry Marinette!” Lila said with fake regret. “I must have accidentally miscounted the number of students… It must’ve been when I was helping those poor orphans. You know, at…”

“Sure…” Mari didn’t even try to act as if she believed her for a moment. When Lila scowled, realizing that it didn’t affect the girl, she smiled. “I guess Chlo, Adrien and I will have to go with the contingency plan number 1.” 

“What?!” The sausage-hair shouted.

“Of course my Daddy would not send us to travel like peasants. We have tickets for the first class.” Chloe supplied, looking smugly. “We did plan to maybe sit with the rest of the class. What a shame…”

“Yeah, My dad also didn’t want me to travel anything less, but I convinced him to let me stay with my friends. Guess he will get what he wanted in the end.” For his part, Adrien at least tried to look apologetic. He didn’t try hard at all, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“But… But…” Lila tried to come up with something, likely a lie, to counter it. She didn’t have time as the trio handed their teacher the filled forms from their parents/guardians/Nathalie and proceeded to the plane. The tickets were personal, so she couldn’t do anything. The Italian girl came up with a lie to tell to the class, but it would do no good until they landed. 

--------

“Did you see her face?” Plagg was rolling in the air while holding a giant roll of camembert. 

“You were amazing my queen.” Pollen complimented. 

“I still can’t believe your dad just… bought out the whole first class!” Marinette sighed. 

“Phi! Daddy always gives me only the best. You should know it by now, Mari-bear.”

“Okay. Mari. You are the Gotham expert here. Any advice?” Adrien asked a bit more seriously. 

“Gotham survival guide is probably unlike any other city.” She started. “The first rule is, believe it or not, run away if a person laughs too much or smiles too widely. The downside of living in the same city as the Joker is that most people don’t laugh in public. Secondly, never show that you are lost. Wherever you are, it’s exactly where you wanted to be. Finally, the third is to never flaunt your wealth.” She looked critically at Chloe before taking away her purse and lipstick in a golden case. “This,” She then pulled a mobile phone in a ridiculously sparkly case and popped it out of the cover, “this,” finally, she detached the golden chain on which the purse was supposed to be suspended and replaced it with a pre-prepared white one with copper clips, “and this must all go away.” 

“Ridiculous! Utterly Ridiculous! Now it will totally clash with my comb!” Chloe complained.

“Oh no! How will you ever survive that?” Mari deadpanned. All three of them had another burst of laughter. After they calmed, Adrien started.

“Do you think it’s wrong that I want to bet which rule will Lila break first?”

“Ten macaroons she will say out-loud about money.” Mari threw. 

“I raise, four tea parties she will start by asking for direction.” Chloe had a grin on her face

“Are you sure?” Adrien asked. When the blonde nodded, he shrugged. “Movie night and double popcorn bowl refill that she will do both in one conversation.”

“Hi, could you be so kind to point me to my exclusive hotel? You know, I’m staying at the penthouse of this luxurious new one.” Mari gave a quite good parody of Lilia. 

“So to sum up, the pool is now ten Macaroons, Four Tea parties, and movie night with triple popcorn?” Chloe asked. When they nodded, she quickly noted it on her phone. 

“Now, who wants a movie? I think they have the newest Thomas Astruck one.” Adrien pulled a disc from the container next to his seat.

“Good for me!/Go!” The girls said. Chloe, who was in the middle loaded it and the other two leaned onto her to watch together. The three were happy. Faintly in the background, there was knocking on the doors to their part, but nobody paid attention to very angry Liela and some classmates. For some reason, the doors were stuck and the blinder rolled down. Later if someone asked, Pollen would deny everything. 

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

When the plane landed, the class was practically kicked out. The team walked calmly down the stairs, all of them having smug expressions. Lila wanted to comment, but a glare from Mme. Bustier shut her up quickly. Mari and co. would later try to guess, what got the crew so pissed at their classmates.

Once everyone was accounted for, the class made its way to the customs to retrieve their luggage. There was a small problem with Mari’s travel bag as it was apparently misplaced to the flight to Timbuktu, but luckily her true suitcase, which had her things inside, arrived safely. She giggled at the thought of custom office in Timbuktu receiving a bag full of Adrien’s old socks that smelled camembert. 

Overall, the airport went mostly unproblematic. At least until they found themselves cleared and gathered in one place while Mme Bustier left to check on their bus. One of the men, wearing a dark blue suit started to laugh almost maniacally. Everybody immediately cleared away from him, out of sheer self-preservation. Lila must’ve decided that a show of kindness was a good way to regain class’ good grace. She was confidently approaching the man before suddenly Mari grabbed her and pulled her away. The designer might’ve despised the liar, but Joker… you don’t mess with Joker. 

Of course, Lila used the chance. She faked falling on the ground and started crying crocodile tears. “Marinette?! How can you be so heartless? I wanted *sniff* to check on the man and you trip me?” Lila sniffled, eyes watering with crocodile tears.

“I might have saved your life genius!” Mari snapped. Joker was a really touchy subject with her. “Does the world Killer Clown mean something?”

“Don’t invent things, you bully!” Alya shouted. That seemed to break the dam and at once the class started to say awful things to Mari. A year ago, it would hurt her. Half a year ago, she would be sad. Now? Now she pitied them. Chloe didn’t, and she was ready to jump to protect her best friend. 

“Ridiculous! Do you like… share a single brain cell? What if that man was…” she didn’t get to finish because Mme. Bustier returned. The commotion immediately calmed. By now the man stopped laughing and returned to talking with his friends.

“The bus is waiting. Come on children. Follow me.”

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

Arriving at the hotel, the class was split into different rooms. Of course, Lila tried to lie her way into some privilege, but Mari was too dead inside to care. The Jet Lag was killing her. At least she got some sleep on the plane. From the rumors she heard from the class, they didn’t because of Lila’s drama with the staff. 

“Now I want you all to be ready here at eight a.m. sharp. A Wayne Enterprises representative will come here to explain the details of internships.” Mme. Bustier instructed them. This, for some reason, caused outrage in students.

“What do you mean internships?!”

“Wayne Enterprises?”

“Shouldn’t we be preparing to go to Gotham Academy or something?”

The terrible trio in the back had trouble holding back laugher. Adrien warned the girls about what his father planned, so they could all prepare. Gabriel Agreste, devious as he is, decided to punish Lila and teach Adrien something about running a company at the same time and using his connections to put the class up for an internship at WE. He did send the liar all the details, but she must have skimmed over the corporate jargon because the class was fed overexaggerated stories about what they would and wouldn’t do during two months trip. 

Most parents were more than happy to send their children away from Paris for two months, especially since the Internship was free and the employment rate after it was quite high. WE kept quite a lot of the interns, if only out of habit. But perhaps it was mostly because the class has become a go-to place for the Akuma. Only Mr. Pidgeon and perhaps Gigantitan were akumatized more often. Mari actually picked up to cleansing their class weekly through a ritual she learned, otherwise there would be enough residual dark energy to power a demon portal. Not something one would want in the middle of a classroom.

“I was told you’ve all read the brochure provided and Lila summarised it for you.”

“I did!” The sausage hair defended. “Marinette must have told them some imaginary story about the trip!”

Immediately, several other people started to nod and confirm this. Chloe actually started to walk toward the liar almost red, but Mari grabbed the back of her blazer and held her in place. All the while she had a completely deadpan expression like it was normal for her (it was).

Mme. Bustier sighed. “Well, In that case, I will…”

“Excuse me, but shouldn’t we be going to sleep today already? We don’t want to be late tomorrow.” Adrien asked with an innocent expression, but there was some satisfaction hidden there too.

“Well… um… I…”

“We will be going then.” Chloe grabbed the key and led Mari to their room. Calline didn’t even question it. She wanted a pay raise after this. 

-----------

The next morning, Mari was woken by a frantic Chloe

“Mari-bear! It’s already late! You don’t want to be late for your first day of Internship girl! It would be utterly Ridiculous!” 

At first, the girl mumbled something, but once she finally processed everything she leaped out of her bed and started getting ready in record time. She was brushing her teeth, packing her purse, and tossing clothes at her best friend all at once. Once she had everything, she turned to see Chloe on the ground tied with a gray blazer. Mari just burst out laughing.

“How…”

“Ridiculous!” Chloe shook her head. “I demand you untie me this instant! We don’t have time for this!”

Once they dressed and did their hair, both girls were ready. Chloe now had a black button-down shirt, deep red blazer, and a matching pencil skirt. Mari also made her wear smart black stilettos (instead of her usual that were slightly more extravagant). The look was completed by a tablet in leather flip-over cover. Mari had a similar outfit, except her shirt was white and the suit was in dark blue. She opted for flat shoes to spare the embarrassment that was Marigold on heels.

“Ready to rock Gotham City?”

“Like you have to ask.” Mari smiled. There was something about the city of crime that made her feel safe and open up more. Maybe being on home turf gave her the much-needed confidence boost. 

When Chloe tried to open the doors, she found them stuck. She was about to go on a rant about poor quality when Mari casually grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. There was a faint creaking sound as the mechanism gave.

“Um…”

“It must’ve been old,” Chloe said with a devious grin. “Nothing happened. Don’t you worry! I will deal with it.”

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

When the doors to the elevator opened and two girls strode into the lobby, their class was already pushing toward the exit. Adrien looked very much uncomfortable with Lila hanging off his arm, literally sinking her claws into him. He mouthed them a muted ‘later’. Alya stared at the girls with loathing. 

“Ah, you are here.” Mme. Bustier spoke. “Lila said…”

“Whatever.” Chloe dismissed their teacher. “Aren’t we in rush?” The blonde practically seethed the last word. 

“Yes, good to see that someone is responsible.” The teacher gave Mari a pointed look. Apparently, she still didn’t get over the fact that she resigned from the class rep position. 

“But…”

“Drop it. She is not worth it.” Chloe whispered. “Daddy will take care of that once we are done.”

Mari just nodded. She knew Chloe was preparing a lawsuit against the school, but their hands were tied until they graduated or Damocles could try and undermine it. Both girls knew that no adult would help them with the lawsuit beyond Chloe’s father signing whatever dotted line she asked him to. That man was more whipped than a fresh can of whipped cream. 

The ride to the WE was short and uneventful. Girls took up to gossiping in English, effectively limiting any eavesdropping. Mari spent most of the time tearing down the outfits of all the villains. She started with Riddler, more as a joke than actual rant, but then she somehow got onto this new guy Anarky. From there, she just kept on, smoothly sailing from one to the next. Even her mom got some shots. Mari still couldn’t stand how skimpy it was. Her rant carried over when they exited the bus and entered the WE. Security led them to a conference room, where they were told to take seats. 

Mari guessed that it wouldn’t be Lila if she didn’t immediately start sputtering lies about how well she knew the building already because of her Damiboo giving her private tours (All while clutching Adrien like a leech). She didn’t have enough ducks left to give to try to expose Lila about several facts. Such as that Damian Wayne definitely wasn’t living with Bruce when he was five. Any Gothamite could tell her that. Bored, she returned to her rant. 

She was nearing the end of the list and was very much engaged in complimenting Harley Queen for her recent change in wardrobe. She still considered it a disaster, but at least it was somehow human. 

“Ekhm…” A voice broke her out of the rant. “Good morning. My name is Richard Grayson. You are the french class chosen for the internship program, correct?” When people nodded, he continued. Idly, Mari noted that Alya and Lila stiffened and suddenly stopped talking at all. “We reviewed the individual profiles and appointed each of you a mentor that will help you settle into your roles. As I read the names, please come forward so I can update your badges. Do carry them on your person all the time or we will have to take you to our human cloning facility.”

People stared at him. 

“Okaaay… That’s that about jokes…” He sighed. “The rules will be explained by individual departments. Now, who’s up for a tour?” 

People started to cheer at that and Dick smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad?

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

It was that bad. Even worse. He knew from the background check that the class was both insanely talented… and borderline criminal. It was like someone de-aged the Rogues and put them in one class. The report called them Akuma class, which (if google is to be believed) meant demons. He questioned how they got accepted into the internship. 

They only toured two floors when Dick wanted to tear half of them to shreds. He noted immediately that they were bullying the girl with black (slightly blue? Maybe it was dyed?) hair. What surprised him was that the teacher didn’t react. If he was to be honest, the girl and her friend slightly irritated him too. They kept talking and seemed to ignore him. It was not because they kept tearing down each and every bats’ fashion choices. Definitely not that. When they brought up Discowing he had enough. 

“Ekhm. Excuse me, girls,” he stared at them. Both immediately stopped talking and looked at him. “Could you pay attention? I wouldn’t want any of you to waste your internship lost on our maze-testing floor.”

“There is no maze-testing floor in this building.” The blonde pointed out.

“And besides, we memorized all you’ve said.”

“Care to recall?” He heard several people groan at his pun.

“The first floor is most representative, where guests are welcome and low-level meetings happen. There is a separate kitchen for employers there that is always fresh on fruits. Don’t use the coffee machine there as it was only patched up and there is a high chance it will set itself on fire again. The…”

“Fine. You’re good. Still, I don’t appreciate the chatter.”

“They are always trouble!” A girl in bright pink colors shouted. 

“Yeah! Why do you have to ruin this trip for Lila!?”

“You’re just jealous of her boyfriend!”

More voices like this came from the crowd of kids. Dick started to feel bad that he singled the girls out. It definitely gave the class a reason to gang up on them. And the teacher still did nothing! He sighed. What did HR think when they accepted them. He would have to look into it later.

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

Mari decided that she didn’t like Dick. Everyone in their class kept talking, but for some reason, he singled them out. For the rest of the trip, she made sure to pay as much attention as she could. There was this silent determination on her face. Chloe wisely also kept silent. 

After the trip class was led back to the conference room where another employer handed out the identificators and folders containing their assignments. 

“Keep the IDs on you at all times. As opposed to the ones you received, this won’t expire and are synched with your jobs, so you will have access to anything you might need. They are also mandatory to receive lunch in our canteen. When you get acquainted with your tasks, you can go to the level specified at the end of sheet one. Your mentor will meet you there.” With that, he left. Dick really needed to do some in-depth research on this class. Something kept icking his detective sense.

“Well, I’m going to the law department. Apparently whoever made the assignments knew my well.” Chloe bragged to her friend after opening the folder. 

Timidly, Mari also opened her folder. She skimmed over what was inside and groaned. “Apparently, I’m interning as personal assistant to one Tim Drake.”

“They actually assigned you to the sleep-deprived coffee addict?” Chloe asked in disbelief.

“You know him?” She asked in surprise

“He and his brother ruined my daddy’s parties two years ago. They got into an argument that ended up with them wrestling over a cake. It took me weeks to get the cake out of my hair! Weeks!” The blonde summarized.

“oh…” Mari tried to hold back the giggles.

“Don’t laugh! It’s a serious matter! Do you have any idea how much work it takes to have such a perfect hair?!”

“Of course… cakehead.” The girl couldn’t stop herself.

“Ugh, you… you… plant leg.” Chloe said.

“Really?” Mari raised an eyebrow. “That’s the best you can come with?”

“Well, I usually have better things to do than thinking about good insults.” Still, Chloe hugged her best friend. “Be careful. I wouldn’t put it past The Liar to try and sabotage you somehow.”

“I’ll be careful. Wish me luck.”

-----

The elevator took Mari all the way to the highest floor. When the doors opened, she stepped int a large room with one desk. As soon as the doors closed, the woman who was standing there rushed toward her. The girl tensed for a moment but she reminded herself that there is no real threat.

“Oh finally! I was asking them to hire someone else for months!” She had a messed bun of red hair on her head and looked like she didn’t sleep in a week.

“But… I’m just an intern madame!” Mari tried to explain.

“An intern?” The woman paused her packing and stared at the girl with wide eyes.

“Um… Madame Sarah Jackson?” 

“Yes. An intern…” She said in a disappointed voice to herself. “Ah! That’s no problem at all!” She started to tap on her Waynetech Tablet and after a moment she smiled. “There! You’re hired!”

“Wha…?!” Mari shouted, but was interrupted when Sarah pushed the tablet into her hand, followed by a large box full of documents and a small mug with a coffee bean pointing a gun at the reader and words ‘Your Coffee or your life!’.

“They are your problem now! Everything you need is in the box. I left detail about ongoing stuff and whatever you might need. Don’t call. I’m outta here!” She shouted before grabbing her personal belonging and leaping into the elevator.

“But…! But…!?” Mari shouted after the closing doors. She could hear a cheerful shout as the elevator left the level. 

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

Next

#maribat #miraculous ladybug #maribat au #miraculous lb #batman #dc #mlb x dc #Marigold AU #Mother!Ivy

[aricazorel]

Day 23 "Fish"

Kaidan Alenko, Commander John Shepard

ME3, after Priority Citadel II

“That’s quite the fish tank you have there, Shepard,” Kaidan Alenko noted as he crossed his arms in front of the large aquarium. The soft blue light a contrast to the harsher, brighter light in the office area above.

The Commander had invited the Major up for a visit the day after Kaidan rejoined the Normandy. They had taken the moment between storms to catch up. The conversation had been friendly, no signs of animosity between them. The pair had talked about everything except Cerberus and Mars. Kaidan considered it a good start, especially since it allowed them to get a feel for where they stood with one another.

And now their conversation had circled back around to the large tank taking up an entire wall of the cabin. The Major was not above taking advantage of the opportunity to grill his friend about the unusual addition to the captain’s quarters.

“Yeah,” the Commander agreed with a hint of pride in his voice. He made a face of dismay as he added, “It’s too bad the trip through the O-4 Relay damaged it. I lost all my fish from back then and the autofeeder…”

“But you have anew fish and an autofeeder now,” observed the Major, not understanding the other man’s disappointment.

Shepard made a face. “Well, yes and no…I have new fish but they…I’ve had to rebuy them…several times.”

“Why?”

“Because I keep forgetting to feed them,” the N7 admitted begrudgingly as he focused on the tank, refusing to meet the biotic’s gaze.

The Major stared at him incredulously. “Really? What about the autofeeder?”

“Yeah, about that…It’s still broken, and I haven’t found a new one.”

“Wait. You can keep the hamster alive but not the fish?”

“I only have to refill Squeak’s water and food every couple of days. I mean he hoards his food for crying out loud,” the first human Specter protested as he turned Kaidan. He became indignant as he pointed accusingly at the tank. “But these fish need a more routine schedule.”

“They are fish, Shepard,” the Major said with a hint of humor in his voice, enjoying the sight of an irate Shepard caused by innocent fish. “Not exactly high maintenance pets.”

“You try saving the galaxy and remember to feed fish at the same time,” Shepard muttered as he crossed his arms almost as if he were pouting.

Kaidan couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. The Commander glared at the biotic as he muttered, “Laugh it up, Major.”

“You could just buy a new autofeeder,” Alenko suggested with a shrug.

“I would but with the war on, they’re in short supply,” the Commander replied with a sigh, giving up on any hope Alenko would stop teasing him. “Parts issues is what EDI says.”

“Come on, Shep. You’ve got a crew full of nerds who deal with experimental tech every day,” Kaidan pointed out the obvious. “I’m sure if you asked, they could make you one.”

“They’re busy.”

“They could use a break from all the war analysis and technical crap,” the Major commented as he gave his former CO a pointed stare. “Anda reason to tease their CO.”

Shepard sighed dramatically. “They have plenty of those already.”

“I don’t know about that,” Kaidan commented as he tilted his head. “But what’s one more going to hurt?”

The first human Specter narrowed his eyes as he glared at his former Lt. “You know one the SR-1 you wouldn’t have suggested that.”

“I’ve done a lot of growing since then and learning to cut lose every once in a while was part of that.”

“I can tell. You, Ash, Reese…Hell, even Garrus, Tali, Liara, Wrex…Everything’s different but the same now.”

“So, I can assume that you’ve always been bad with pets?”

Shepard scowled at the L2 but said nothing as the Major just laughed. “I’ll talk to Kori about rigging up an autofeeder for you.”

The Commander muttered something under his breath as Kaidan added, “Plus it’ll be a nice story to tell about the great Commander Shepard.”

“Oh, come one, Kaidan. Really? You’re gonna spread the rumor around that I can’t keep fish alive?”

“It’s not a rumor if it’s true.”

“I could have left your ass on the Citadel.”

“You could have but you wouldn’t.”

The Commander glanced over at the other man as he replied with a grin, “No. I don’t suppose I would have. It’s good to have you back, Kaidan.”

“It’s good to be back, Shepard. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

#n7month #mass effect #kaidan alenko #commander shepard

[calwrites]

The Halloween Party

Summary: Reader has lived across the hall from Penelope Garcia for a couple years and considers her to be one of her best friends. That’s the only reason she agreed to go to a Halloween match making party.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.2k

I wrote this very quickly so it’s not the best, but I couldn’t let Halloween go by without writing something for Reid.

——————

“I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this stupid match making thing,” you grumbled at the blonde currently on your couch.

Penelope Garcia smiled at you over her wine glass. “Well I wanted to go but only if my favorite neighbor did it too.”

“I’m the only neighbor you talk to,” you pointed out. Penelope stuck her tongue out at you and waved her empty glass in the air. You rolled your eyes, but refilled her glass anyway.

You and Penelope had lived in the same building for a few years. When you had seen the brightly dressed woman lugging boxes down the hall, you had offered to help her move everything in. She had intrigued you. You had passed each other in the hall a couple of times after that, but had never really talked until one evening when you heard a knock on your door.

It had puzzled you because you were still pretty new to the area so you didn’t have any friends who would be dropping by unexpectedly. Opening the door, you had found Penelope standing in the hall crying.

“I had a really bad day at work. I just really need someone to talk to,” she had said. You ushered her in and spent the night learning about Penelope’s job as a technical analyst for the BAU. Now whenever Penelope’s team got through with a tough case, she would come collapse on your couch while the two of you drank wine and decompressed.

“You’re also the one who told me to get out there and forget about Kevin,” Penelope countered.

“Yeah well I didn’t think you’d drag me along.”

“It’s not just you! I convinced some of my friends at the BAU to sign up too. Besides, I know you’re excited for the party. You already bought two dresses.” She pointed at the dresses still laying out on your kitchen table. You were trying to decide whether a black dress or white dress would be better for your costume.

“I’m always excited for a Halloween costume party. I just never thought I’d be one of those sad people who signs up for a matchmaking party.”

“Y/N, you are one of the smartest people I know. And I work for the FBI. I know a lot of smart people. The only reason you’re still single is because whenever you get time off from teaching you spend it trying to solve impossible math equations. And I thought you said your match sounded nice.”

You sighed. “Trying to solve an impossible math equation is arguably the most important part of my job. I think the university cares more about that than the courses I teach sometimes. I guess he does seem nice. He’s either very smart or he’s very good at using google to sound smart. Either way, when you look at the data, the likelihood of finding a long term partner through a survey is-“

Penelope groaned. “No! I get enough info dumping at work. Let’s just talk about the party. It’s next weekend and you’re buying clothes for it so I assume you and your partner decided on your costumes. What is it?”

When Penelope had invited you to a Halloween costume party, you had been quick to accept. She then told you that it was a matchmaking party where you had to fill out a survey and were then matched with another attendee. Pairs would have to decide on costumes and then find each other at the party. Until then, pairs wouldn’t know who the other person was. Definitely not your usual definition of fun.

“I’m not telling you,” you teased. Penelope gasped on faux anger before the two of you burst into laughter and decided on a movie to watch.

——————

You stared at your computer screen intently, willing the message to change.

I’ve been out of state for a work trip for the past few days. I didn’t mention it earlier because I was hoping that we would get back in plenty of time. It took a couple more days than we were anticipating though. We’re about to take off, so I’ll make it back in time for the party but I won’t have time to put out on my whole costume. I can just wear the cape or something if you don’t have any better suggestions. I’m looking forward to meeting you tonight.

You chewed your lip thoughtfully before an idea popped into your head. And you began typing back a response.

That’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing your Masque of the Red Death costume. I have a new idea though. What character refused to wear a costume to a costume ball?

The response came back almost immediately.

And I was looking forward to seeing your Leonore costume. I’m sure that there are a number of characters who fit that description. Would you like a list?

You smiled and rolled your eyes.

It’s another gothic story. He’s throwing the fancy dress party, but he refuses to dress up. His new wife’s costume causes a bit of a stir. Enough clues?

The reply caused you to get up quickly to begin sorting out your new costume.

I’ll see you tonight, Mrs. de Winters.

A few hours later found you ready to leave. You were thankful that you still had the white dress you had previously purchased with the idea of using it for Leonore. You were even more thankful that you still had a wig from a few Halloween’s ago that worked for your costume. So now, with a white dress and curly dark hair, you were ready to leave.

“Ok I give up,” Penelope said when she opened her door. “What are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the narrator from Rebecca,” you told her. “It’s kind of a last minute costume. I’m glad your case wrapped up today. I would be bummed if I had to go without you.”

“Well it’s a good thing it didn’t come to that.” Penelope looped her arm through yours and pulled you down the hallway, the two of you laughing as you went.

——————

Thankfully the room wasn’t too loud when you and Penelope arrived. Jack-o-lanterns and bowls of candy sat on tables around the edge of the room, and bats and ghosts hung from the ceiling. You and Penelope made a circuit around the room, trying to find your matches.

“Maybe ours guys are running late,” Penelope suggested. The two of you had moved to a snack table while you surveyed the sea of costumes around you.

“Or they’re ditching us.” Penelope gave you a playful swat. You were saved from another attack by Penelope’s phone dinging.

“Oh! Some of my friends are here. Come meet them.” Before you could protest, Penelope was dragging you across the room. Two people stood against the wall talking, but broke into smiles and waved when they saw Penelope approaching.

“Y/N, this is Derek and Emily. Guys, this is my neighbor Y/N.”

You smiled and shook hands with the two FBI agents.

“So you’re the famous Y/N,” Derek grinned. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Famous? If anyone is famous it’s Derek “chocolate thunder” Morgan. The way Penelope talks about you, I was imagining a superhero. She wasn’t wrong.”

“I like her,” Derek laughed.

Emily groaned. “He does not need a bigger ego.”

“Where’s Reid?” Penelope asked. “Don’t tell me he bailed.”

“He said he needed to stop by his apartment first. We came straight from the plane. And don’t worry, Hotch and JJ both assured us they would take pictures of the kids in their costumes.” Penelope squealed and clapped her hands excitedly.

You chatted with Penelope and her friends for a few more minutes before Penelope spotted a man wearing a matching costume to hers. She waved bye to your little group and rushed off to meet him, leaving you with the two FBI agents.

“Oh there’s Pretty Boy,” Derek cried.

“I was kind of expecting you to show up in an intricate costume. You love Halloween, Spencer,” Emily said.

You turned to find a handsome man approaching your group. He was wearing a nice suit and had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

“No time, unfortunately.” The man shrugged. “I just had to pick up some books from my apartment. Hi. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. You must be Garcia’s friend.” He turned to you, but didn’t extend a hand. You realized that this must be the young genius Penelope mentioned from time to time.

“Y/N,” you replied. Spencer’s eyes took in your costume carefully. You tried not to shift uncomfortably.

“Are you planning on doing some reading tonight?” Derek asked.

“No. My date and I were discussing a volume of poetry that I have, so I wanted to bring it to show her.”

“What a ladies man,” Emily teased. “How’s she going to know it’s you though? You’re not wearing a costume.”

“Actually, I am.” Spencer smiled slightly at the confused looks on his friends’ faces. What he just said clicked for you suddenly.

“Maxim?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

Spencer blinked at you in surprise before smiling widely. “Mrs. de Winters?”

Emily and Derek looked between of you in slight confusion, but you and Spencer smiled at each other in delight. “We’ll leave you two to it,” Derek teased as he and Emily walked away.

“I’m glad that you’re a friend of Penelope’s and not a complete stranger,” you admitted. “I was a little worried I’d get stuck with some weirdo. Not that you sounded weird when we talked!”

“Well our first conversation was about the statistics of meeting a murderer when online dating. That’s a little weird.” The two of you laughed slightly.

“I’m a math professor, so I’m interested in anything statistics,” you admitted. “I’m kind of a nerd.”

“Same,” Spencer laughed. “You know these last minute costumes were a good idea.”

“I still want to see your Masque of the Red Death costume sometime.”

“Deal, but only if you tell me what you teach.”

You waved your hand. “Oh nothing exciting. Just some upper level math that nobody wants to take. The fun part of my job is trying to solve the Riemann hypothesis.”

“You’re trying to solve one of the Millennium Prize problems?” Spencer asked in surprise.

“I’m surprised you know about it.” Most people you talked to had no idea what the Millennium Prize problems were. You were sure they wondered why a university would tenure you just so you could keep trying to solve a math problem.

“I’ve looked over them before,” Spencer admitted shyly, like he was waiting for you to make fun of him.

“No luck?”

“Way beyond my level.” The two of you laughed slightly. A slower song began to play and couples danced slowly across the dance floor.

“Want to dance?” you suggested. Spencer hesitated and you worried for a second that you had overstepped, but then he smiled and held out his hand.

Neither one of you were very good dancers, but what you lacked in talent you made up for in smiles. You continued to discuss everything from mathematical theory to what working at the FBI was like to classic literature.

“Do you think this is how the Manderley fancy dress party would have gone if Mrs. Danvers hadn’t sabotaged the narrator?” you asked. “They could have been as happy as us dancing.”

Spencer thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I don’t think they could have been truly happy together with all of the secrets still between them.”

“True,” you agreed. “So you think we’re happy?”

When Spencer smiled at you, your heart fluttered. “I’m pretty happy. This is going a lot better than I expected. Not that I didn’t think you sounded great when we talked online! But Derek said something about you sounding too good to be true, so I started to worry that you wouldn’t be as amazing in person, but I shouldn’t have. You’re even better in person.”

You smiled gently back at Spencer. “You’re better in person too.”

Spencer studied your face intently for a few seconds, a look of uncertainty on his face. “Can I kiss you?” he asked quickly, like he was afraid he would lose his nerve if he waited.

Your smile grew. “I’d like that,” you responded.

Spencer put one hand gently on your cheek, the other still resting on your waist, and brought his lips down to meet yours. When the two of you broke away, still smiling widely, you were totally oblivious to the looks of shock and delight on the FBI agents’ faces.

“I think we might have to do this again sometime, Mrs. de Winters.”

“I think so, Maxim.”

Without speaking, the two of you leaned in again, and you were able to capture Spencer’s lips once more. You didn’t think you’d get tired of this any time soon. If only you had taken Penelope up on her offer to set the two of you up last year.

#Spencer Reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #calwrites

[what-even-is-thiss]

In light of these horrifying new rules I wanna talk about my experience with trans healthcare in an environment where both the law and company policy made my healthcare provider technically not discriminate against me.

I’m gonna talk about medical stuff and genitals and blood here so you’ve been warned.

I tried to figure out how to get hormone therapy from my insurance. I started with my therapist. She didn’t know. I went to my primary physician. He told me to talk to my therapist. I eventually had to tell him three times to talk to his manager who gave him a paper with the number and address for the gender clinic on it.

The gender clinic that my insurance covers is a four hour drive from my house. It is also completely overbooked all the time because it is one of only three gender clinics in the entire state of California and the only one covered by my insurance. That wouldn’t make a huge difference anyways because all three of them are a similar distance from where I live.

So I have to get telemedicine appointments with a gender therapist and an endocrinologist specially trained for dealing with trans patients. My pharmacy doesn’t carry testosterone gel and I have to wait for it to get in. Finally, after this whole process took me almost four months, I got on testosterone. End of story, right? Just do regular blood tests and continue with telemedicine right? Happily ever after? Wrong.

After a while, without my consent, my insurance changed my endocrinologist to a local one and I was forced to have an in-person appointment with her or else they weren’t going to refill my testosterone prescription. So I go to the appointment. I take the blood test (ignoring the nurses that misgender me and pronounce my name wrong) and I am so polite. I just want to go home.

And... the endocrinologist tells me that she won’t refill my prescription unless I get a pap smear. What’s a pap smear you may ask? It’s a test for cervical cancer. A cancer caused by a virus that I’ve been properly vaccinated for on a body part that I plan to get removed eventually. The way it works is that they prop the vagina open and scrape some cells off of the cervix. The body part that prevents things from entering the uterus.

Okay, I think. Fine. Body part that sometimes gives me dysphoria, super invasive procedure, kind of painful, but whatever. Millions of people get this done every year. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to suck. But I’ll get my testosterone prescription and prove to them that I don’t have cancer.

So I request a male gynecologist because in my personal experience male doctors misgender me less often. They give me a female gynecologist anyways. Her and the nurses misgender me through the entire process and use my deadname even when I ask them to stop. They question me several times about my period even after I tell them several times that I don’t have one anymore because I’m on testosterone. The whole process was so upsetting that I refused other optional tests they offered me, even ones I thought I would like to know about, because I just wanted to get out of that place as soon as possible.

I don’t have cervical cancer. Whoop de do. My endocrinologist gives me another nine months of testosterone refills. Hooray.

I still every three to nine months have to email and bother my endocrinologist a lot to get more refills. Sometimes she sets an ultimatum. I’ve gotta get this or that test done, even if I don’t need it. Or I’ve gotta see her in person or give her a detailed report on how I’m doing. And I do it. Because I need testosterone. The idea of being forced off of it scares me more than death. And getting another endocrinologist doesn’t work. Because most of them in my area do very similar things. And I understand blood tests. I get that. But even during checkups that aren’t related to trans healthcare I’m still misgendered and deadnamed even though my new name and gender identity is in the system. Even though they put patents preferred pronouns on their charts. Even when I have visible stubble on my face.

My primary physician is the only person who never does this to me and he’s actually put in the effort to take basic training surrounding trans patients but nobody else that treats me has. And why don’t I file a complaint? Well, who else is going to hold my prescriptions hostage? I have no idea and historically law enforcement of every kind isn’t on trans people’s side. And I’m broke! I need my dad’s insurance to get my T and asthma control inhalers. I’d possibly die without them. I can’t jeopardize any of that. So I have to let them push me around.

This is my experience with a good insurance company in the state of California. A state that has mandated trans healthcare be covered for a while. What is trans healthcare gonna look like after doctors are allowed to legally discriminate against transgender patients when this is what our healthcare looks like under the most ideal of circumstances in this country?

#transgender #transmasculine #transmasc #trans man #actually transgender #roman said a thing #healthcare