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mxpseudonym · 4 years

Text

Just Good Business III

Pairing: Tommy x Reader

Reader Gender Expression: She/Her pronouns, “wife”

Summary: Reminding Tommy that he didn’t marry a fool was the greatest thing to happen to your bedroom.

Length: 1650 words (allegedly)

Warnings: 18+, sex, hints of rough sex, cursing, and as usual, underlying tones of forced/arranged marriage

A/N: There’s a forehead kiss and a sprinkling of Dom!Tommy in here for your patience! I am pretty sure I’m going to have this be a total of five parts. Part IV may not come right away because I’m in the middle of a WIP though.

Part I | Part II | Part IV

Reminding Tommy that he hadn't married a fool set several things in motion. First and foremost, you and Polly managed to successfully persuade your husband into conducting family business, not that it was hard. You knew London quite well, and one glance at the Eden Club's books had you asking Arthur if he could count to ten. Much of the above-board dealings in London were now your responsibility- properties, charities, and a social life that allowed you to see your friends more often.

Unfortunately, this meant regularly making the trip to Birmingham for the family meetings you'd been avoiding. It wasn't so much the meetings as it was Birmingham itself. One has no great hopes of Birmingham, as they say. However, there was a significant consolation that made it all worth it.

Tommy Shelby, in action, turned you on.

Actually, it was one of many things about Tommy that turned you on. With Tommy's guilt out of the way, you saw him around the house more. He came to bed, albeit late, nearly every night, and you got at least two breakfasts out of him a week. Along with finding that Tommy was much funnier than he let on when he wasn't talking about work, you also noticed that you had much in common. Tommy was as stubborn and prideful as you were. After six months, you still credited happenings between you with a desire to conduct good business- and business was excellent. Stubbornness, pride, your appetite for adventure, and Tommy's addiction to risk resulted in one shameless, exciting sex life.

You'd had partners before. Why deny yourself the world's physical pleasures? But while none could keep up with your desire to find and push boundaries, Tommy had mastered it. You thought you'd have to ease him into it, but it really just took you asking, "What are you going to do, Thomas? Spank me?" while bickering to get you on the same page.

Not that Tommy wasn't enjoying himself as well. He'd met his match in his back talking, neck biting, hair pulling new wife he could hardly bring himself to say no to. What was coming to work late more often or your hands down his trousers while driving the Bentley in the grand scheme of things?

So at the Birmingham family meetings, there was something about the way he was no-nonsense when he firmly told you where to sit and give updates when asked. If you were both being honest, while you loved taking orders from Tommy in the bedroom sometimes, you were on the fast track to giving them too. For now, you watched with thighs pressed together, and bottom lip pulled between teeth as he commanded the room.

After Arthur wrapped up the meeting, you'd meant to mingle with your sister in law, but were quickly distracted. Ada didn't need to follow your gaze to know what was stopping you from listening to a word she said.

"Good god, stop staring at my brother like that," Ada pleaded. You looked at her only long enough to say,

"I almost wish I could say I was sorry." You had just caught Tommy's eye and smiled. "He can be quite good looking."

"Ugh, okay, he's coming over here. I'm going to find Finn," Ada scoffed, then all but ran away only to have Tommy replace her.

"Can I help you?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice. You chuckled and looked up at him.

"You're already spoiling me, Mr. Shelby. What more could I ask for?"

"I'm sure you have a list," Tommy said. You plucked his cigarette from between his fingers and took a pull.

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Should I make you beg for it?"

"I don't beg," you said, defiant as ever. Tommy rolled his eyes but moved closer. You could feel the warmth of his wool suit, and it matched the heat that was rising to your cheeks.

"Then what do you call what you were doing the other day in my office?" Tommy asked. You thought for a moment then smirked.

"Minding my manners. Please and thank you, Sir," you said, making him laugh.

"Oi, stop flirting on come on," John yelled in partial disgust from where the family was gathering near the door.

"Yeah, yeah, we're coming," you shooed him. You gave Tommy a knowing look as you grabbed your bag to join the group at the Garrison.

"Gonna tell me not to get any ideas?" He asked.

"Of course not. Get as many ideas as you can from here to that pub." You pointed a stern finger at him.

"Yes, ma'am."

Tommy had long given up trying to get a grasp on what to expect from you.

"God only knows what's going on up there," he'd say while tapping your temple.

But nothing surprised him more than your absolute willingness to have him any time, anywhere.

"Skirts hike up for a reason, Thomas," You once told him in the stables. Tommy had yet to find a good enough argument against that, so here you were, shushing him through breathy laughs as he almost tumbled into you.

It was a busy night at the Garrison, and it wasn't hard to leave your group to find the back room. Now you were pressed up against a shelf that wasn't nearly sturdy enough. Tommy's pants were unbuckled in a hasty moment, and your knickers were pulled aside, and you were both stifling your moans.

"Oh god, fuck, Tommy, how do you always feel so good?" You asked, your grip already in his hair. He groaned at the question and thrust deeper.

"You're the one always warm and wet for me, aren't you?" He squeezed the flesh of your bottom, making you moan. He quickly relocated you further into the dark and onto a crate. "Such a naughty little thing I've got on my hands."

"Just the way you like it." You bit his ear as you played with fire. His thrusts got hard and deep, earning more high pitched moans from you until he pressed a hand over your mouth. He kept his grip firm, just how you liked and spoke in your ear.

"I'm giving you what you asked for with all of these people just out there. Do you want them to hear you?" He leaned back to see you nod. Of course, you did. Tommy shook his head as he chuckled. By the sound of your yearning moan, he just knew you were pouting beneath his palm.

"I know love, but when we get home, you can be as loud as you want. You can let the maids hear you, what was it? Minding your manners for me. How's that sound?" You accepted his counteroffer with a nod and was rewarded with Tommy moving his hand. He relished in the smeared lipstick that was now on your chin before adjusting his grip on you.

"Now, be good, and stay quiet for me."

Tommy had to give you credit for carrying out your version of quiet. You forfeited your usual words of encouragement and panted hotly in his ears, a whimper or moan periodically coming forth.

"Tom," You pleaded his name under your breath. His grip tightened around your waist, and you knew it would bruise, which only shoved you that much closer to the edge.

"That's a good girl," he praised you, knowing what it did to you. In this case, it made your thighs tighten around him. "So good, you can tell me where you want it. Should I make you walk around with me all over your face?"

He felt you shiver and swallow a moan that came out like a sob. His thumb reached between them, and it only took a few circles of your clit to send you over.

"Oh fuck," You bucked against him as you came. Tommy's eyes squeezed close while you kissed his neck. It was truly incredible, you had to admit. You knew he was close and you had to decide. "In me."

"In you?" He repeated, not fully registering anything as he got closer.

"I want you in me, Tom. Please," you said again. You kissed him, then pulled back to look in his eyes. "I'm begging you."

You loved watching him come undone. Even in the low light, you took in his parted lips, creased brow, and flushed cheeks. He rested his forehead against yours for a moment before you pulled away and began putting yourselves back together.

"I'm excited to go home if you keep your word," you said, leaning against the crate while Tommy pulled out a cigarette.

You quietly smoked and thought about how strange this was. Before it was sprung on you, being married was something you hadn't expected anytime soon. Being married to someone you actually enjoyed was a fate every woman you knew hoped for but knew not to anticipate. And here you were with both a marriage and an enjoyable husband.

"What's wrong?" Tommy asked, tossing away his cigarette. He brought his hand up to stroke your cheek, but you caught it and observed the silver band around his finger instead, running your thumb over the metal.

"Do you like this?" Your eyes lifted to meet his. "The ring?"

The ring, the marriage, what was the difference? He smirked then turned his hand, interlacing your fingers.

"So much that I think there must have been a mix up of fortune. A better man should have it, maybe." He said, then kissed your forehead and started towards the door. "Come now, I think I'll let you walk around with me dripping out of you for at least a half-hour."

"I may just have to give you a proper thank you on the ride home then, Sir."

Tommy expertly ignored questions about his whereabouts from his brothers and knowing looks from his sister, all while holding your hand. You smiled to yourself and thought,

I have a crush on you, Tommy Shelby.

Tommy Tag List: @soleil-dor; @amysteryspot

JGB Series Tag List: @biba3434

#Tommy Shelby Imagine #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x Reader #Tommy Shelby Fic #Tommy Shelby Smut #peaky blinders imagine #Dom Tommy

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jflashandclash · 3 years

Text

Tales from Mount Othrys

Alabaster: Delicate Dance of Chance IV

Alabaster found Pax in Camp Othrys, hiding with the laundry bins. There were few places Axel couldn’t smell his little brother out. This laundry room was one of them. A logical choice if Pax wanted to avoid being found. Alabaster almost forfeited his plan at the reek of towels soaked in demigod sweat and monster ooze—all cottony causalities from that morning’s training session.

One blanket trembled in the far corner of the room. Judging from its lack of filth, Pax, fortunately, must have swiped it from a clean pile. The blanket went still when Alabaster stepped alongside of it.

He hoped he hadn’t mistaken his friend for two demigods getting intimate. No. The sheet tucked tight enough to show Pax’s form: his legs curled up and arms folded atop them, looking like the grumpiest B-rate ghost. Alabaster nudged dirty towels away with his foot and settled down beside the blanket.

Alabaster lifted the small paperback from his stack of two books. The cover had a few stains and was a little too dingy for Alabaster to have kept in a library if he was a librarian. He cracked it open. The coarseness of the pages felt wonderful, even if he didn’t prefer the first page’s sketch of a baby. At an utter, a reading rune glowed on his necklace, bringing the font to proper focus.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much,” Alabaster read, “They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.”

The blanket ghost stopped shaking and sniffling. Alabaster paused in his oration, as though about to turn a page—a ridiculous notion. What book had a page turn after one short paragraph? He berated himself, forgetting the beautiful opening of, It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness… The best example of a necessary run-on sentence. Regardless of A Tale of Two Cities, Alabaster had paused here so Pax could comment.

“Is—is that Harry Potter?” Pax squeaked.

Instead of answering, Alabaster continued to read, past the turn of a page, until he came upon the sentence, “It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar—a cat reading a map.” [1]

Alabaster hadn’t meant to stop there. His breath choked. Sphinx, Lelly’s late cat, had been able to read maps. A brilliant Mist form, she’d been able to do so much more than that: a utilitarian helper in the lab and a compassionate friend to his little sister.

For the first time since he, Pax, and Axel had almost been captured by Romans, Alabaster pressed a hand over his mouth. His eyes felt warm. Every time he’d let Lou Ellen cry in his arms, he’d kept focused on his hatred of the Romans and on their own undiscovered traitor. Why, now, with this stupid, juvenile book, did he find himself choking up over the loss? Over a cat that could read a map?

Pax misunderstood his silence as another page break. “You… You said you would only read me books for educational purposes. And, and that Harry Potter was a ‘gross misrepresentation of magic and b-better as a study of plot holes,’” the words came out a rapid jumble of—presumably—snot and hiccups. They were a distracting relief to Alabaster.

“You wanted to read it. No one would read it to you. This is an apology, not for my unrequited feelings, but for the boarish delivery of my response. This is my attempt, over the next seven hours of reading, an hour per evening this week, to prove that nothing needs to change between us, that we can still be friends.”

The sheet ghost crept closer. “Friends,” Pax echoed, “We’re friends?”

He didn’t even know if we were friends, but was still willing to express his infatuation? Alabaster growled. Instead of pointing out the error in logic, he said, “Don’t get cocky. It’s not every day that I get a willing lab assistant with no sense of self-preservation.”

The next noise sounded like a choked laugh.

“Is your arm functional?” Alabaster asked, examining the blanket. “Jack never found you to tend to it.”

The ghost extended its limb out without any apparent pain or struggle.

Alabaster sighed in relief as Pax lowered his arm back down. He tapped two fingers on the edge of the book. This will be fine, he assured. Nothing needs to change. All he needed was the affirmation from Pax. “Are my terms acceptable to you?”

Pax laughed. The chime was more genuine. “You don’t have a lot of practice apologizing, do you?”

“Ajax.”

The sheet ghost rested its head against Alabaster’s thigh. After a pause, Pax squirmed further into his lap. Something familial, Alabaster decided. He wouldn’t know. He didn’t grow up with any of his half-siblings and his grandparents hadn’t been touchy. In his fatherly charades, Jack often let Pax curl up on his lap. Axel spent plenty of time shoving Pax off him when Pax was sleepy and wanted a nap.

“Will you read it in a British accent?” Pax asked, poking the book’s binding.

Six to seven hours of reading in a fake British accent? Alabaster weighed his options. He could double check to assure there was no recording equipment in the room, though he doubted Pax would press their fragile friendship with such antics. “…yes.”

“Will you make Ron’s voice higher in pitch?”

“Shut up and let me read to you.” Alabaster found where he left off and pressed his lips at the cat reading a map. He continued, lilting his words in what he hoped was a British accent. He never had the ease with accents that the Pax brothers did.

Pax didn’t complain. His breathing eased by the time Alabaster finished the next page.

At the end of the third chapter, Alabaster decided he would send Pax to bed with the other book in hand, the one for Axel (who had better not ask Alabaster to read to him). That was the other half of his plan. That book had a passage marked with a simple question, “Who is John Galt to you?” The question and passage should be subtle enough. They would strike conversations with Axel about tyranny and freewill without rousing suspicion from others. Then…

Alabaster scowled.

What would happen? What would happen if their talk of evil tyranny led to discussions of overthrowing Luke? The three of them, Pax, Axel, and he, worked well together in a stressful situation. The crowds took well to them when they were on stage. Alabaster was irritated to think a name like the Triple A Chimera (Pax didn’t even go by his first “a” name) could be useful, let alone a symbol for change, but what if it could? A symbol for liberation through insurrection.

He needed to reflect on this with his mother. Her wisdom was years beyond his own, and she could reveal their different potential futures, one that might involve the “Triple A Chimera” slaying a corrupt titan.

“We work well together. With our skill sets combined, we could make an excellent assassination team,” Alabaster muttered.

“Um… Uncle Vernon started to assassinate wizards?” Pax asked. He pulled the sheet partially off and rolled to stare up at Alabaster. His eyes were wide.

Alabaster hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “No—well—we don’t know yet. He might, judging off their insistence to break into his house.”

“But, the wizards could just magic him to pieces, right?”

“No. No, bullets work quite effectively against wizards.” Though, less so against brats with the Achilles’ curse. Luke’s weak spot was under his arm, where Axel had hefted him out of the River Styx. Kelly and Jack were the only two that Luke would let close enough to touch him there. And, Kelly would immediately rat Alabaster out if he suggested killing Kronos after the war.

What about poison? Could you kill a cursed of Achilles from the inside?

Pax pulled the sheet the rest of the way off. His amber and black eyes were so startled, they might roll out of their sockets. “Are you thinking about assassinating wizards?” With the sheet off and his sleeves rolled up, Alabaster could see bruises along Pax’s arm. The injury must have hurt more than he let on.

Alabaster sighed.

Pax wasn’t ready to talk about this sort of thing. Although the child of Eris held it together against the Romans, Alabaster noted how Pax tried not to kill anyone. Besides, right now, Alabaster was supposed to focus on being nice to Pax, not using him as a tool in this cosmic power struggle.

Alabaster removed a blank spell card from his stash and placed it between the pages as a bookmarker. “What you don’t realize Pax, is, after the events of the book series, and after he went mad with power, that I killed Harry Potter.”

Pax’s jaw dropped open at the thought. “That is a fanficiton I would read.”

“I’m sure you would. I forbid you from having Jack compose a ballad about it. [2] Come on. Let’s get you back to your tent. I have something I need to give to Axel.”

As they made their way back through camp, others were trickling in from the party. From what Alabaster heard, buses had been rented (in place of giant-carting death traps like Alabaster had to take). Some were loud with revelry; others were quiet with subtle glances tender touches, all hinting at future intimacy.

Pax didn’t speak as they walked. Under typical circumstances, Alabaster would have prayed for this. Faced with the silence, only occasionally alleviated by passing partiers, tension dug Alabaster’s fingers into his library books. Would the lab be like this in the upcoming weeks? Awkwardly quiet? Pax’s chatter and excitement made for soothing white noise. “Not that I’m regretting the ability to think without interruption, but are you alright?” he asked.

Pax’s jammed his hands into his punk jacket, toying with something in his left pocket. Alabaster knew it was probably one of those apples—the ones Pax’s mother gave him each morning to turn into someone else. “Just thinking.”

A warm breeze slithered through camp and Alabaster realized how exhausted he was. Emotional stress was tiring. He cleared his throat. “Ajax—”

“Matthias and I were talking about sneaking into the girl’s bath house again. He perfectly measured the amount of water you need to fill a balloon to simulate a realistically filled bra, and I think he makes a lovely lady when he raises his voice a few octaves,” Pax spoke quickly and adverted his gaze. This mustn’t have been what he wanted to talk about.

Another sigh choked in Alabaster’s throat. “Wait—you’re not thinking about turning into one of the girls, are you?! Ajax, that’s absolutely unethical—”

“What? No!” Pax cried. “I would not! Then, I couldn’t prove that my hair can be tamed by no amount of conditioner! Lucille thinks I just don’t use enough.”

“Prometheus and I should place a bet on how quickly you’ll be kicked out.” Alabaster shook his head. “I forbid Lou Ellen from helping you in any way, shape, or form and I certainly hope you haven’t discovered a new gift of magic, only to debut it with something so juvenile.”

“Hey!” Pax protested, “Mercedes would agree: if Matthias and I do a security test on the girl’s bath house and find it wanting, then we’ve done a favor in pointing out its weakness.”

“I’m not even the one you’re spying on and I get catharsis at the thought of your comeuppance.”

They neared the Pax brothers’ tent.

Alabaster debated whether he should give Mercedes a warning about their plan or if she’d find that insulting to her skills as an intelligence gatherer. If the Nord was strapping on a bosom and a wig and walking in the front, then it would probably be the latter.

Still, he was obligated to ask, “You haven’t found an alternative non-magic route to become invisible or a woman—”

Pax withdrew the golden apple from his pocket and nipped it.

Nothing happened, which was peculiar. Eris’ apples of mischief were never duds. Godly item only malfunctioned by intentional design. Usually, Pax turned into someone when he ate his apples, something Mercedes was thrilled to use for spy missions and something she’d only allowed Pax to tell Alabaster, Lou Ellen, Jack, and Flynn. (Alabaster suspected Mercedes’ fear—that Luke would abuse this to see Annabeth sooner, even if it wasn’t really her.)

The longer Alabaster examined Pax, the more he noticed subtleties: Pax’s jaw line softened, his shoulders looked slimmer, something far less subtle about his curvature—

“It worked!” Pax laughed, grabbing at his—no—no—her—chest and lifting. “Oh my gods—Alabaster—they dance! You put your right tit in, you put your right tit out, you put your right tit in and you shake it all about—ow.”

Alabaster shrieked and jumped backwards.

Pax, didn’t seem to notice. He—she was too busy turning to do the Hokey Pokey and giggling. “Oo! Ow, okay. Gentle with the titties. I’ll have to name them. Huh, weird that I never thought to name them before—”

“Ajax!” Alabaster repeated in horror. He was at such a loss for logical words, he resorted to profanities. “What the fuck?!”

Alabaster’s heartbeat pounded so loud in his head that he couldn’t think. He adverted his gaze to the ground. His face felt like it was on fire. Panic, it dawned, I’m panicking more than I did during Rome’s attack.

A bloodcurdling comment came from the tent as someone stepped out.

“Ajax! I’m glad you’re….” The word “back” died on Axel’s lips. “You’re a girl.”

Alabaster looked at Axel, keeping one hand firmly between his eyes and where Pax was dancing. He assumed Axel would be staring at his little brother with the same shock Alabaster felt. Instead, Axel scowled at Alabaster with the intent of a crouching jaguar. “Torrington.” Threat and accusation rolled out with the growl. Tension made the muscles in Axel’s neck strain.

Alabaster’s jaw dropped. “It—it wasn’t me!”

“It had better not have been.”

The movement behind Alabaster’s hand minimized. “Am…. Am I not allowed to be a girl?” Pax’s question was quiet and insecure.

Axel’s response was immediate. From his lack of surprise or hesitation, Alabaster wondered if Axel had been expecting this for years. “You can be whatever you want.” Axel gently ruffled Pax’s unruly hair. Alabaster lowered his hand to watch the interaction, to see Pax’s fragile smile at her brother’s approval.

Seeing Pax like this troubled Alabaster, striking some uncanny valley in the approximation to his friend. All the other times Pax had shifted around Alabaster, it had been into completely different people (pretending to be Jason Grace or Luke Castellan) or completely different species (mostly weasels since Lou Ellen struggled to turn people into much else). The scientific and magic-loving part of Alabaster’s brain should have found this fascinating—could Pax alter individual features about himself? Maybe give himself freckles, change his hair, skin, or eye color, or have a pincer in place of a hand? Why did he feel uncomfortable instead?

Axel had continued to speak, “As long as you want to be one and aren’t doing it for someone else.”

Pax tilted her head, spilling her hair off to the side. “Why would I do it for someone else?”

Axel glared at Alabaster again. Word must have spread about why Pax ran from the dance. With the ordering of events, the potential problem was obvious, though Alabaster had hoped that Axel would think better of him. “Oh, for Kronos’ sake!” he hissed. “Axel—I—he just did this! I didn’t ask him to.”

Axel finally broke eye contact to glance at Pax’s continued dancing. “Ajax,” he sighed, “What did we talk about with touching yourself in public?”

“That it’s inappropriate—oh!” Pax dropped her chest. She made quite the buxom lady and it furthered Alabaster’s discomfort. “My chest is inappropriate now… Man, that doesn’t seem fair for girls. I get why Lucille says it’s sexist bullshit. The titties should fly free—”

“Ajax!” both Alabaster and Axel snapped.

“Sorry. I normally can’t touch myself when I turn into other people because, uh, I turned into someone else, that’s their body, and that would be creepy—”

“At least you have some moral sense,” Alabaster muttered.

“But, I’m just me right now—”

“You’re just you in public,” Axel said, “And, you’re my sibling. Don’t do that in front of me. Or anyone for that matter.” Whatever Axel had predicted about this situation, Pax’s unorthodox dancing hadn’t been part of it.[3] “And don’t think Flynn is going to let us off dawn training just because there was a party in our honor.” Despite Axel’s suspicion of Alabaster, he flashed both of them a smile that might have been… cocky? Proud?

This party had been for them. Although they assuredly would have died without Jack and Flynn’s rescue, Jack happily spun the tale as an exclusively victory for the Triple A Chimera. They had worked well together, with Pax’s expert surveillance granting the opportunity to prepare, Axel’s mastery of terror and tactic, and Alabaster’s magical subterfuge. The books in Alabaster’s hands felt heavy. He withdrew the one thick enough to glaze the eyes of the feeble and handed it to Axel.

“Some light philosophy for meditation.” Alabaster hoped his voice sounded metered and not high with residual panic. “If you grow bored with the length, I marked the chapter that best encapsulates the theory. Well, the primary one of discussion.” Axel was smart, but could grow tired of things he found meandering. Worry made Alabaster swallow. What if Axel mistook the recommendation as idle chatter? What if he understood and reported him to Mercedes? Or worse, Luke himself?

Alabaster visualized Axel’s rigid posture as he stood between Luke and Annabeth’s door. There were details Luke had surely missed: the way Alabaster prepped a spell, the way Mercedes reached for darts that she kept pinned under her shirt, the accumulation of Axel’s energy as he prepped a jaguar transformation. In that room, Alabaster learned these were people who would fight for what was ethically correct, even to defend an enemy, even against a titan.

All of them were probably afraid of the same thing: expressing that their leader had lost his mind. Maybe, Axel needed a nudge in the form of a book.

Axel took it and frowned at the cover. “Atlas shrugged?” he read aloud, “That’s a little tasteless considering what happened to the General on Mount Tam.”

Alabaster smirked. He’d never liked Atlas much in the first place. “I’m glad we’re all alive. Good night, Axel.” He nodded his head and turned to Pax. In the moment, he’d forgotten Pax wasn’t his typical self.

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly, making it ever more apparent how differently she was shaped. “Thanks for staying my friend,” she whispered into his shirt.

Alabaster’s face felt hot. Although he hated the word, he could find no better adjective to address the situation other than, “This is weird.”

“Yea, this is weird.” Axel grumbled. Alabaster could hear his eye roll. “But turning us into weasels and polecats? Completely normal.”

“That is normal!” Alabaster snapped. My normal. One of Pax’s swirling black hairs had slid against his chin and he blew it away. The indents of her face felt warm as she burrowed against his chest. A puff of mint—Pax must have been chewing gum—flooded Alabaster’s senses, sending them into hyper-awareness.

Alabaster gently put a hand on either of Pax’s shoulders and removed her. Holding Pax a foot away, Alabaster flashed back to the first time they’d met. “Can you really do magic?” she’d asked, tugging at his sleeve and batting her lashes. He thought Pax was a girl, then, and been humiliated upon finding his mistake. What made someone a boy or a girl? Belief? And if it was belief, and not biological presets, what did that belief entail?

He cleared his throat. Her amber and black eyes were wide, a little afraid, and Alabaster slipped his grip from her shoulders, hoping they hadn’t been there for an inappropriate amount of time.

“Are you okay?” Pax asked. “Do you need another hug? Prometheus approved: he says my hugs are cure alls.”

“No,” Alabaster said quickly. In attempt to make the denial seem less desperate, he added, “No, I think the only person who might be able to claim panacea hugs is Apollo.”

“And no one should hug that creep,” Pax said. From the way she glanced off in the distance, Alabaster wondered if that was data in Jack’s seminar: What To Do When Pursued By a God and You Can’t Turn into a Tree. “But… are you okay? You’ve been acting funny since…” Her eyes widened. She glanced down at her curves, then back up at Alabaster. Her lips quirked into a half-smirk.

Horror clogged Alabaster’s throat. Pax knew. Alabaster wasn’t exactly sure what elusive information Pax knew, but she did, and Alabaster had to leave before she used it against him.

“You—you think I’m hot! You’re—you’re just straight—!”

There was no viable response to either of those comments. Disagreement would make him sound cruel and any compliment would require Alabaster to (both) lock himself in his lab in a vow of humiliated solitude and hide from Axel for that eternity.

Axel scowled critically at Alabaster’s pause.

This. This is what would be different if Pax was Axel’s little sister instead of little brother. Axel would have an excuse to hunt Alabaster down on unwarranted suspicions and make a sign out of his lanky frame that read, Reasons Not to Hit on My Little Sister.

With nothing else to say, Alabaster nodded to Axel. He hoped that he had managed a calm exterior: his thoughts were uselessly incoherent. His voice sounded shrill. “That’s on loan from the local library and is due in 21 days. I expect it returned to me on time and in prime condition. I hope both of you sleep well.”

Before Pax could respond further, Alabaster rigidly turned and strode away. Although the night had taken on a chill, Alabaster wiped a line of sweat from his forehead.

Stupid. Trivial. Distracting.

He harnessed his focus, tuning out the unnecessary emotions. This was something he was more accustomed to doing with shame, shutting out his grandfather’s and house servants comments about, “Witch,” and “bastard child.” It was harder with this current emotion—whatever it was that made his heart thud.

He grasped at the other thoughts drifting on his consciousness: Sleep. Axel’s nightmares. Recognizing the Pax brothers as his friends. The three of them making an excellent team. Potential for assassinations. Luke’s increasing failures as a leader. How to lead an army without their golden boy mascot.

They couldn’t. Alabaster swallowed. The chilly air cleared his head. They needed Luke for the rest of the war effort. Disposing of him now would create a rift in Camp Othrys, one that they couldn’t afford. Alabaster knew some of his siblings wouldn’t follow him if a divide happens. If something happened to Kronos, the titans would split into opposing parties. Lamia and any children of Hecate that opposed Alabaster would surely fall on that other side. They didn’t have a replacement leader strong enough to lead the war, other than… who? Flynn?

Alabaster’s stomach churned. Axel was popular, but an outsider. None of the Titans, xenophobic by Hellanistic nature, would listen to him, other than, maybe, Prometheus. Flynn, thanks the roll of luck, had no interest in being a leader. That kind of power vacuum would likely lead Krios and Hyperion to sibling rivalry.

They would have to dispose of Luke after the war. They would need a plan to dispose of Luke after the war, assuming Axel and Pax would agree.

An idea slithered along the seams of Alabaster’s awareness, one involving the murky silhouettes of a lion, a snake, and a ram. Maybe Alabaster could rid Axel of his nightmares at the same time as making a weapon to defeat Luke. The Triple A Chimera…

Magic couldn’t save his dying father, but maybe it could save the world from the return of an ancient tyranny. With thoughts of this new death machine, Alabaster walked back towards his room, blissfully unaware that—for the next week—he’d spend an hour every night reading to a curvaceous, flirty female Pax.

***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! (Sorry for falling off the face of the earth again >>’‘‘) I rewrote this ending, like, three times XD I hope it worked! Stay tuned in two weeks (hopefully >>’‘ in the theoretical universe) where a certain maniac redhead finds himself on an island with a population of two. Love you guys. Thanks for your support! <3

***

footnotes:

[1] When everyone stopped reading Tales from Mount Othrys, to pick up on a much more nostalgic work XD If it is not obvious enough, I do not have any rights to this book. There are not enough weasels or evil parents for me to have written it.

[2] Maybe, guys. I’ll consider it XD

[3] Pax’s playing the part of Captain Cook and the Isles of the Titties. Don’t ask questions.

#Tales from Mount Othrys #TOO #Heroes of Olympus #percy jackson #Alabaster #Pax #Axel #My favorite part is--if Axel thought Alabaster could be into dudes--he would have been JUST as paranoid before this.#Nothing actually changes XD #More opportunities for Axel to go full Big Bro mode

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dinoyoongi · 5 years

Text

Broken Bones & Salami Sandwiches

(I do not own image)

SYNOPSIS: When your excitement to watch Yoongi accept BTS’ first Grammy award takes a clumsy, painful turn.

PAIRING: Yoongi x Y/N

GENRE: Fluff

WARNINGS: Language

WORD COUNT: 2543

_______________________________

“And the Grammy goes to ...” the presenter takes an obnoxious pause, grinning at the camera like he's the funniest person in the world. You growl angrily, grabbing the closest item within reach which happens to be an open pack of salami and whipping it across the room. Your sister gawks, watching as the deli meat pops out of the packaging and flies through the air before falling like confetti.

“You are 100% cleaning that up. What a waste,” she grumbles, eying the slices scattered amongst your hardwood floors. You shush her urgently, waving your hand furiously in her direction. “Y/N, it's too early in the morning to be -”

“BTS! Congratulations!”

The screen shifts to a view of the group who are still sitting, shock and disbelief painting their faces. Hoseok is the first to hesitantly rise, grabbing Taehyung's arm to either pull him up or keep him grounded.

That's about as much as you see before hysteria completely possesses you.

You're on your feet, half sobbing, half screeching as you jump up and down. Through your tears and hops, you try to focus on the screen. The boys are on the stage now but they don't seem to be in any better condition than you with their red eyes and wet faces. The camera zooms in on Yoongi and you break again, resuming your hops.

At least you won't have to go to the gym tonight to work off the junk food.

“Stop screaming! Don't you want to listen to their acceptance speech? They're about to start talking!” your sister shouts at you from the couch. You pause, eyes glancing to the screen. Namjoon holds the microphone, eyes glistening with unshed tears. He opens his mouth to speak when the camera goes to a group shot. Yoongi stands next to Namjoon, the little golden gramophone in his hand.

You can't help it. You lose it again. You jump ecstatically across the room, only stopping for nanosecond cry breaks. Your boyfriend is a Grammy award winner. A two-time Grammy award winner, to be exact. BTS picked up the award for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance earlier in the show but just happened to nab the most prestigious award of the night – best album. It's something that you have heard Yoongi and the boys talk about countless times. Though they never dared to have any expectations, just wishful dreams.

“They did it! Oh my god, they did it!” you screech through your leaping. Your sister begins to nag about the possibility of the downstairs neighbors calling the police but you keep jumping. It feels like your body is too small to contain the amount of happiness that you currently have and the only way to release it is to keep jumping. It's a good plan until your heel lands on a stray piece of salami. You feel everything happen in slow motion. The meat slides across the floor, taking you along with it. Your torso falls backwards and in an awkward attempt to balance yourself, you plant your right leg behind you. Unfortunately, since your excited jumps were so high, you come down hard. Right on your leg.

Crack.

There's a fierce pain and the room is suddenly spinning. It feels like your body is too small to contain the amount of pain that you currently have and the only way to release it is to close your eyes. So you close your eyes.

____________________________________

You open your eyes to the sound of your ring tone blaring somewhere in the room. You are definitely not at home anymore. You're in an unfamiliar bed, your lower half elevated with your right leg being suspended in the air by some kind of strap. There's a decent amount of pain but it's tolerable and you suspect whatever medication has been put into the IV drip inserted into your wrist is doing its job.

The sound of your phone stops. “Hello? Yoongi?”

Yoongi. BTS. The Grammy s. The jumping. The salami. It all comes back to you.

“Y/N couldn't come to the phone because she's currently recovering from her surgery,” your sister says dramatically. You can hear Yoongi's surprised “what!” from where you're laying. Your sister snickers. “No, I'm really not joking. She fell and broke her leg in four different places. They had to do emergency surgery on it. Hey, congrats on the awards, by the way.”

With as much energy as you can muster with all the medication pumped into you, you reach out your arm to your sister, fingers wiggling for the phone. She turns her body away from you and you have never wanted to strangle her as much as you do right now.

“We were watching the awards and she totally lost her fucking mind when you guys won album of the year. She threw a pack of salami and then started jumping around and eventually slipped on some of said salami. She passed out on the spot and I had to call an ambulance. They made me turn our phones off when I came into the surgery ward.”

I whine loudly, still reaching for the phone. Your sister laughs. “She just came to but she's super groggy from the anesthesia and pain medicine. I'll let the doctor see her first and have her call you back when she can. It must be super late there – do you just want to call her tomorrow?”

“Alright, alright. I'm sure she'll be calling soon. Give my congrats to the boys and your team! Have fun!” she says before throwing your phone back into her bag. You slump in defeat, your arm falling off of the bed. Your sister rolls her eyes. “He has to do a few quick interviews anyway. You can call him after I page the doctor.”

She presses the big red call button on the side of your bed. “Broke your leg in four different places by slipping on a slice of salami that you tossed all over the place. Way to go, champ.”

Only a few minutes go by before both the doctor and a nurse come in to check on your leg. Whilst he explains how bad your break was and the treatments that you'll have to endure during the healing process, the nurse sets you up with a can of ginger ale and a few graham crackers to help ease the grogginess. After he finishes his spiel and you finish your snack, you feel refreshed despite the throbbing pain in your leg.

“You've been with me all morning. Why don't you go out and get yourself some lunch or something?” you suggest politely to your sister, flashing her a blinding smile. She scoffs. After 25 years with you, she's able to see right through you.

“I got some snacks from the vending machine earlier. I'm fine.”

Your smile drops. “Well that can't be very healthy. What would Mom say? She'd be upset if you didn't eat a proper-”

“It was Mom's idea. She didn't want me to leave you during surgery. She's coming this way with dinner later so I don't want to fill up now.”

“Oh my god, just get out!” you screech, your patience snapping. Your sister smirks and drops your phone into your lap, heading towards the door. She turns back to say something before she leaves but you whip your arm back as if you're going to throw your phone and she laughs, closing the door behind her. Your fingers fumble to find Yoongi's name in your contacts. It only rings twice.

“Y/N ! What the hell! You fell while jumping?” Yoongi scolds as soon as he answers the phone. You exhale in satisfaction when you hear his voice. “Sometimes I think you forget how old you are.”

“Yoongi,” you interrupt, voice breaking. You sniffle as the tears begin to pool. “I'm so proud of you.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Jagiya, stop being cute when I'm trying to be stern with you. How are you? Are you in a lot of pain?”

“It does hurt quite a bit but I'm handling it okay. How are you? Is it overwhelming?

“A little,” he confesses. “I haven't had time to process it yet. We were taken off stage and immediately thrown into interviews and photo sessions. It doesn't seem real even though I'm staring at the awards right now.”

“I can't wait to touch them,” you say, eliciting a burst of laughter from your boyfriend. “You have to let me touch at least one of them before Big Hit takes them away for display. It's the least you can do for causing my injury.”

“Wait a minute. It's my fault that your leg is broken? How so?” he asks in mock outrage. You can't stop yourself from giggling like a teenager. Yoongi does that to you.

“I was jumping because I was so happy for you. If you had lost, I wouldn't have jumped and slipped on the salami. So in conclusion, this is all your fault.”

“Okay we can discuss the ridiculousness of your logic later. But first, I have some questions about how salami got involved.”

___________________________

“Can you grab me a sparkling water?” You call out to your sister as you lounge on the couch, foot propped up on about six different cushions. “And bring me a bag of chips as well!”

Your sister places the carbonated beverage on the coffee table in front of you but throws the bag of chips at your face. “You break your own leg and I'm being punished by waiting on you hand and foot. Life is unfair.”

“Stop being a drama queen,” you grumble. It's been three days since the accident. You only stayed at the hospital for two nights but the massive boot that they've installed engulfs your entire calf and completely limits your mobility. You've taken to sleeping on the couch because your bedroom is too far away from everything else in the apartment but your poor sister really has had to literally carry you through your day. “I only have to wear this boot for a week. They'll switch me to a slimmer one at the next appointment.”

“You're lucky that your Grammy award winning boyfriend is out of the country. I would totally make him do everything.”

“Two-Time Grammy award winning boyfriend,” you correct her. She glares at you, exhausted with hearing that phrase from you for what feels like the millionth time. You grin obnoxiously in response. She opens her mouth to argue when the chime of the doorbell rings out and she turns to press the camera view of the door.

“Is it Mom?” you ask, craning your neck from where you lay to see the screen. You can't make anything out though. “If it's Mom, I'm going to pretend I'm napping. Yesterday she spent nearly forty-five minutes badly explaining the plot of Descendants of the Sun to me even though I told her ten times that I've already watched it.”

Your sister snickers, her eyes on the screen. “Yeah, it's Mom. I've buzzed her in so you better hurry and get all bundled up.”

You take her advice, throwing the blanket over the length of your body and tucking it up under your chin. You shift so you're facing the cushion of the couch. You even out your breathing to look convincing, listening as the front door opens and closes.

The voice that fills the apartment definitely does not belong to your mother. “Where is she?”

Like always, your heart skips for a moment before it takes off into a gallop. Yoongi never fails to fluster you, no matter how long you've been dating or how often you see him. Your head pops up from the pillow and you scramble with your arms to push off the blanket. In the scuffle, you've somehow tangled yourself and the next thing you know, you're on the floor. You cry out in pain when your bad leg knocks against the coffee table.

Your sister laughs. “Oh, look at that. I suddenly have plans. She's all yours. Good luck.”

“I'm changing the pass code on you! Better find somewhere else to live!” you scream from the floor. Your sister is still cackling when she reaches out to pull the door close after her. “I'm keeping your clothes too!”

Yoongi hurries to the couch, gaping when he sees you sprawled on the floor. He rushes to you, lightly reaching under your arms and lifting you back onto the couch. He winces when his eyes fall on the giant boot. “Wow, you really broke it. Look at that thing. I bet it's uncomfortable.”

You ignore his concern and grab his face with both hands, grinning like a lovesick idiot. “You're really here. Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

He softens under your touch, sigh turning into a gentle smile, pulling your hands from his cheeks but keeping them in his grip. “The point of a surprise is … you know .. a surprise. Surprise!”

You're giggling again. “Do you have to go back soon or can I keep you?”

He shakes his head. “We're all majorly jet-lagged so we have the afternoon off. I had them drop me here from the airport. I'm all yours for the next sixteen hours.”

“Well you're in luck,” you say, scooting back against the couch with your good leg. You pat the space next to you. “The only thing I'm really capable of right now is laying down so I will be your nap buddy. Come here.”

He frowns. “I didn't come here to sleep. I haven't seen you in weeks. I'm here to spend time with you before anniversary promotions begin.”

“Yoongi, you have bags the size of Australian spiders under your eyes. You've worked so hard and deserve a good sleep. Now get over here before you make me get up with my bum leg and drag you myself.”

He laughs in resignation, shimmying out of his sweater before plopping down. He stops himself before he's fully stretched out next to you.

“Wait,” he says, turning his body to face you. Leaning down, he surprises you when he pushes his lips against yours in a sweet kiss. Well … at least it started sweet. Most of the time, the two of you really struggle with keeping things PG and you wouldn't have it any other way. After a few minutes of making out, he pulls away breathlessly, giving you his best gummy smile. “Okay, got that out of my system.”

You giggle for the millionth time in the five minutes that he's been here, sighing in content when he relaxes his body against yours. His arm reaches around you and tugs you closer to him. Within seconds, you feel your eyes get heavy.

“Yoongi,” you mumble sleepily. He hums in response. “When we wake up, will you make me a sandwich? My sister is an awful cook and she's been starving me.”

His body shakes with laughter underneath you. “Yes, I'll make all the sandwiches you want. But I have some conditions.”

“Conditions?” you ask curiously, tipping your chin to look at him with a raised eyebrow. He grins down at you.

“No salami.”

#bts suga #yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts fanfic #suga #suga fanfic #suga x you #suga x reader #suga fluff #yoongi fluff #yoongi oneshot #suga oneshot #bts imagine #min yoongi

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cuorepietoso · 4 years

Text

Things you said but not out loud

requested by @ivanrahal / ft. Alessio Rossi and Ivan Rahal

I. 2010

Rana and Rospo stand at the bottom of the trail and peer up for a long while as the rest of them pack, glancing at the surrounding hills and mountains with poorly hidden trepidation. The barrels of their twin M82s tower over their shoulders, the rifles nearly the length of a grown man, and when Rossi meanders close and prods at them over their silence, Rospo only throws his cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the toe of his boot, and muttering, “exposed the whole way. Easy targets for any sniper worth their salt.” He’s the veteran of their unit, the oldest and longest serving, and his grizzled face makes his partner look almost cherubic in comparison, most of the time. Now, Rana only gives their motley crew a nervous glance before turning his eyes skyward once more, and fiddles absently with the straps on his gear.

It has, unsurprisingly, set a rather somber tone for the trek.

The soft shale stone of the mountain crumbles underfoot like sand, treacherous and slick paths leading up a sheer cliff face. The wind against their backs is frigid, smells faintly of acrid smoke. Their entire squad is burdened with gear, sweat clinging to the napes of their necks and drenching their uniforms as they slowly, painstakingly, make their way up to the firebase already nestled in the valley between two craggy peaks. They’re meant to use the hastily constructed base as a touchstone for their next assignment, and bring relief and supplies to the men already nestled away there. It’s a terrible idea-- a terrible location, a terrible plan, but there’s no other way to get there but by helicopter, and the last four that tried were nearly brought down by RPGs and small arms fire alike. One pilot had cheerfully showed Tahan the bullet hole in the bottom of his foot, and called it ‘running the gauntlet’.

They don’t speak. It’s bad enough that every rock they send slipping seems to fall forever, and the echoes of them last even longer than that, radiating through the canyon endlessly and announcing their presence to anyone within miles, likely. Tahan, who grew up nestled at the foot of the alps, at least fares better than some, struggling for breath and footing in the thin air. He fares better than Rossi, who grew up on the sea, in the south. They’re supposed to keep a distance of three meters, to make targeting them from a distance just a little more difficult, but as the six of them slog forward, they bunch occasionally, settling a hand on the shoulder in front of them to help keep balance, or lifting the bottom of their pack to help them climb a sheer step without using their hands.

It’s lucky that he stops watching how close he’s getting to Rossi, watching for movement on the opposite cliff face. When the younger man’s feet slide out from under him, it takes him only a millisecond to catch his elbow, and the shoulder of his uniform, and drag all 117 kilograms of him and his gear back to his feet with a harsh grunt. The rock he’d been sliding on slips neatly off the lip of the trail, and they listen to it fall for a long time, clutching each other until it finally crashes against the ground below. Tahan looks at Rossi. Rossi, wide-eyed, stares back.

Tahan pats his chest, awkwardly, and then brushes some of the dust clinging to his fatigues off. Gunfire echoes in the far distance, but nothing close enough for them to worry about now. Rossi takes a deep breath, eyes him, trailing his gloved fingers over Tahan’s cheekbone for just a moment, and then turns away with a long sigh.

They carry on.

II. 2011

The little black book he carries in his pocket has hundreds of little blank pages. He’s been stuck on how to start it for a little while, ever since Rossi had added to his sketchbook collection by pressing the warm leatherbound thing into his hands like it was made of precious gold, smile light on his face. Unwilling to spoil it, maybe, with the wrong topic. He’s had plenty of others to fill, anyway.

Until now, at least. He’s half-reclined among some crates, a knee pulled to his chest, the book resting against his thigh. Rossi and Rahal are seated at a rickety folding table a meter away, getting into a rather heated argument over ... something. Tahan thinks it’s probably about the human condition, seeing as Rahal has that ugly, vaguely cruel look on his face, and Rossi’s usually smiling lips are downturned, and they’re both gesturing so sharply and suddenly and often that it’s hard to get more than a gesture sketch done.

And so that’s just what he does, for a while, listening absently to their hissed logical word traps and their gotcha arguments and anecdotal and empirical evidence, filling pages and pages with gesture sketches, and then turning back and filling details-- the wrinkle between Rossi’s brows, the sharp bridge of Rahal’s nose, their flared nostrils. The twin looks of triumph as they continue to try and one-up each other, drawing out a trap and then striking ruthlessly, cutting tongues and logic intertwined.

He just thinks it’s nice that they’re having fun.

Rossi has been looking a little wide-eyed, lean around the edges lately, as he slogs through mountains of intel, risks his neck for secret meetings with informants, trying desperately to keep them on the right track, to keep them alive. And Rahal has been -- not wilting, maybe, but his near-death experience had left him on uncertain footing. Their lively banter is a nice backdrop, where normally there would only be the sound of the wind hissing over the sands, behind the backdrop of daily life on base.

It takes him a moment to realize they’ve fallen ominously silent, and when he lifts his gaze to see what the deal with that is, they’re both watching him closely. He finds he doesn’t quite have the piercing quality to Rahal’s gaze down, and without looking away from them he starts to absently erase what he has done of the youngest man’s eyes. Rossi, for his part, seems amused, eyes bright with something like excitement even as his lips remain pursed and his jaw clenched. Tahan raises his eyebrow, a silent, what?

Rahal’s voice is glacial when he snaps, “Well? What are you thinking in all of this?”

Tahan slowly, thoughtfully, closes the little black book. He considers the things he’s believed for a long while: the innate dignity in being human, the strong should protect the weak, that cruelty and depravity are symptoms of an illness that’s been eating people alive for thousands of years. A common enemy in greed. The corner of his mouth quirks, and Rossi already looks resigned to hearing whatever stupid joke he’s about to let loose. “Naked women,” he drawls finally, folding the sketchbook carefully into his rucksack.

There’s another long silence, though this one is tinged with outrage. When he looks up again, Rossi’s got his hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Rahal’s jaw seems like it’s halfway to the table. He looks like he’s practically trembling with angry disbelief.

Tahan tosses his pencil at him, and he swats it out of the air like an angry house cat. When he glances to the side and sees that Rossi is only laughing helplessly, the incense grows, and he barks out, “What the hell is so funny about that?” Turning his pale gaze back to Tahan, he continues, “You weren’t even paying attention?”

“I leave the thinking to the big brains,” Tahan replies, settling back into his little nest of crates as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Rossi draws his hand away from his face and gives him an unbearably fond look, and then gently taps the back of Rahal’s hand to get his attention.

“Leave him to his fantasies, no? Surely he can only be so creative.”

III. 2013

The heavy pounding of the chopper blades is both heard and felt. The headsets do well to cancel out the raging noise, but they can’t completely drown it out, not when the metal surrounding them hums with every solid beat. Tahan can never sleep in these screaming metal death traps, no matter how exhausted he is. It feels like his heart syncs with every rapid, measured beat of the blades, like it will burst out of his chest. For him, time slows. There’s nowhere to put the energy. Normally-- well, normally he fidgets.

But today, it seems, after their weeks-long and trying assignment, Rossi has no such compunctions about it. He’s not sure when the younger man fell asleep, exactly. Not sure how long they’ve been in the air, not sure how much longer they have left in their trip. His head had fallen to rest on Tahan’s shoulder, and though he’s sure there will be more than one complaint about the kink in his neck when he wakes, he leaves him be. Rossi needs the sleep nearly as much as he needs to breathe, at this point.

Tahan stays perfectly still, staring at Rospo, seated across from him. The older man has a lazy, half-smirk on his face, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He gestures, vaguely, to the sleeping man on his shoulder. “Mannaggia is drooling all over you,” it’s hard to hear his low baritone even with the headsets and the mics, but Tahan gets the gist of it when he gestures to his own shoulder.

He sighs softly, and when they hit a rough patch he reaches across his own torso to leave a steadying hand against Rossi’s collarbone, to keep him from falling forward and starting awake. Rospo gives the pair of them a fond look, and then closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the cold wall of the helicopter body. Rossi’s hair has fallen into his face, and he can feel the man’s nose and cheeks twitching at the itch of it. Carefully, so as not to scrape his skin with the rough fabric of his kevlar gloves, Tahan brushes the strands off his forehead with his knuckles. Rossi settles back into his shoulder with a quiet sigh, and he remains utterly still for the rest of the long flight, unwilling to stir and wake him even once his arm starts to go numb.

IV. 2017

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, exactly, when he pushes the door open to the Handkerchief that afternoon. He’s never really sure what to expect with Ivan’s mercurial temper, whether he’s going to try and sink his claws into his spine and try to shred him in the name of curiosity, or if he will be all teeth, gnashing and snarling and hard-mouthed and -eyed. He doesn’t know if he’ll get the purring, contented creature that lets his hackles settle under his hands, or if Ivan will want to throw punches, talking with his fists as much as his mouth. He’s never really expected to have a cell phone hurtling towards his skull first thing-- the door isn’t even closed yet when he ducks out of the way. The glass of the thing shatters to pieces against the wall, and he traces its path back to the origin point: Ivan Rahal’s hand.

The man is practically shaking with rage, though Battista can tell it’s not really at him. He’s not afraid to ask, he’s just not sure if he should, if it will soothe Ivan or if it will fan the flames of his raging temper and send him up to the ceiling. He takes one step inside, two, and watches the way those silver eyes track him, flinty in his face. “I could have been a customer,” he says, finally just biting the bullet and stepping forward fully, trailing his fingers along the top of the glass cases as he approaches, his other hand loosely gripping the strap of his backpack.

“I know. That’s why I threw that, and not this--” his voice is hardly more than a venomous hiss, and he draws up like he’s going to come at him over the counter as Battista approaches, brandishing his knife. Battista snorts, and then he has to dodge the knife, too, listening to it shatter something behind him with a quiet sigh. The pause in his approach only gives Ivan time to dramatically wave his hand, and then reach up and run it through his hair with a snarl.

Perhaps bravely, perhaps stupidly, Battista comes to a rest with his hip on the counter Ivan stands behind, setting his bag on the glass with a quirked eyebrow. “What crawled up your ass and died, habibi?”

Ivan gives him a sharp look, shoulders relaxing at the bit of careful Arabic before remembering he’s supposed to be angry, and he makes an inarticulate sound of rage, teeth grit. “Nothing crawled up my ass and died, you son of a bitch--” He gestures again, this time at the poor, shattered cellphone that nearly caved in Battista’s skull. “Fucking-- Orion Massetti, that prick, that thrice-damned--” Falling silent again, Ivan watches as he reaches into his worn bag and pulls out a pair of wrapped shawarma sandwiches, and a container of rice, and some fattoush. “What the hell is that?”

Battista watches as he trembles faintly, the adrenaline and the anger still coursing under his skin like magma, and he gestures to the sandwich he’d set down closed to Ivan. “I brought lunch. That one’s for you. No pickles.” The younger man’s brows furrow, like he’s not sure quite how to handle this. “Go on, then. I can tell you haven’t eaten breakfast.”

Almost violently, Ivan snaps the sandwich up and unwraps it, taking a bite like he’s imagining it’s a piece of Massetti’s flesh. That’s fine-- he’ll feel better with a little food in him.

V. 2019

It’s pouring down rain, on a Friday night.

Battista is convalescing, and really so is Ivan-- the injuries they’re currently fighting are no joke. Battista had been nagging him so much about being careful of his ribs, no strenuous activity, and Ivan had turned it back on him, with a snapped, what about your leg, hm? And a cold I wouldn’t have to work so hard to get up the stairs at your apartment if we just stayed at my place. I have a fucking elevator.

Well, whatever.

They’d had a warm meal. Battista can’t really think what it was, drowsing here on Ivan’s couch with his injured leg propped up on a couple of pillows on the coffee table, and the taller man’s head resting squarely on his other thigh. Ivan is flat on his back, face half-turned towards the television, where Our Planet plays at a volume almost too low to hear even in the silence of his apartment. He’s half asleep, hardly paying attention at all.

Battista’s attention, for once, is firmly on Ivan. His left hand is settled palm-down right over Ivan’s heart, the slow and steady beat of the damned thing and the almost stilted way he breathes through the pain of his broken ribs doing well enough as signs of life, when the man is so otherwise still.

His other hand, he’s found, can’t quite stay away from the silken strands of his hair. It’s fascinatingly soft, and every time his blunt nails scrape along Ivan’s scalp, he watches his lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile, and he can see his arms break out in goosebumps. He doesn’t want to overdo it, to drag Ivan back into full awareness, but he can’t quite get over how deliciously reactive he is to the contact. When his thumb trails over the shell of his ear, Ivan’s eyes flicker open almost lazily, something like a dazed grin spreading on his face. Battista thinks, briefly, that he looks kind of like a cat with too much catnip, and has to bite back a snort. Then, he thinks, if the angle wasn’t so weird, and he wasn’t likely to get an awful crick in his neck he might just lean down there and kiss him, to see how his smile tastes.

#/ / DRABBLES .#tw injury mention #haha........ haha....... hahaha

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jetsandbennie · 5 years

Text

the name situation.

summary: the main problem during your pregnancy is choosing the name - every part of it.

warnings: fluff, slight angst, pregnancy

pairing: ben hardy x joe mazzello x reader

Every month, Joe claimed your stomach was the perfect size. He’d been saying it since you first ran out of the bathroom to your boyfriends and told them you swore there was a bump, at every ultrasound where the fruit size of your baby got larger, at every milestone you passed.

‘It’s the perfect size!’

The sentiment was - admittedly - overused but you appreciated it. It gave you confidence, how both of your boys treated your swollen belly. Joe, complimenting you every day, and Ben, who considered a moment wasted if his hand wasn’t feeling the baby inside of you. When the three of you went to sleep you tended to be in the middle, both of their arms crossed over you so they could feel the swell as they slept. When the baby kicked for the first time, Ben got on his knees and felt it and cried into Joe’s lap.

You loved it all. Loved how they loved it. When you’d found out about the pregnancy you’d worried beyond belief, that they would grow distant from you, perhaps find more comfort in each other as your body changed. But the past nine months had been possibly the best of your relationship, and if you could go back in time and tell your past self not to worry because they’d love you even more while you carried their child, you would in a heartbeat.

Save your past self all of that worry.

In the grand scheme of things the pregnancy had gone perfect. Any confidence issues you’d faced, about your stomach and your boobs and the excess weight the baby was giving you, evaporated any time the boys managed to get it out of you. The boys would wake up at ungodly hours to get you any of the foods the bean craved, and your sex live remained as lively and healthy as it could be in your state.

There were - struggles, admittedly, but the majority were tiny. Like the few hate comments you’d get on their posts about you - on one particular occasion, Joe posted a picture of his palm over your stomach and you’d received a particularly nasty comment that involved the word whore, and in your overly hormonal state it had made you cry. Comments in a relationship like yours weren’t unheard of but they did suck, especially during pregnancy. But the boys had comforted you, replied brutally to the comment, and worshipped you until you could barely remember what the comment said.

Some problems were a bit bigger, like the decision to even announce it on social media in the first place, which Ben, surprisingly, had been vehemently against. But in the end you’d decided - fans deserved to know, and when the baby came it would be worse to just announce it then. So the announcement posts went up, and the response was largely positive. Another big one was the name situation, which had stretched for a significantly large portion of your pregnancy.

“I don’t understand how we haven’t found a single good name!” Ben complained one evening, as the three of you sat on the couch in the living room, flipping through baby name books, some forgotten movie playing on the television. You’d been there for nearly an hour, “They all just don’t seem right.”

“I know,” you mused softly, running your finger down the list of unique unisex baby names in one of the books Joe had bought from the book store in, what he called, a baby frenzy. Included in the frenzy was a bag of toys, clothes, and numerous baby help books. You had read them all. “At this point, it’ll pop out and we’ll have to call it unnamed. And it’ll be unnamed for its entire life, and it’ll hate us.”

Joe cringed to himself, scrolling through his phone, head in Ben’s lap. “Don’t call our baby it! She’s a she!”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m telling you, Joe, I don’t think it’s a girl. Mother’s instinct is always right.”

“Doesn’t father’s instinct exist?”

“No!” you and Ben chided in, and Joe grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ben shut the book he’d been flipping through and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, running his newly occupied fingers through Joe’s hair. The ginger smiled slightly, meeting Ben’s eyes and giving him a grin. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pick a name if we knew the gender?” questioned Ben, narrowing his eyes at you.

You furrowed your brows, leaning into Ben’s side. “How? We can’t find names when we’re looking for both genders, let alone if we had to narrow it down.”

“I’m just say - “

Joe interrupted the blonde, “You were outnumbered, Benny. Two against one. You never stood a chance. Now shut up and watch Marley and Me.”

Ben shifted to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. He stuck his bottom lip out, just a bit, but he couldn’t stop the small smile from spreading across his face. It always happened involuntarily when Joe affectionately referred to him as Benny. “It’s is such a sad movie, baby. Why do you like it?”

“Because it’s good! Now shut up!”

And the three of you fell into silence again, though you continued to flip through your book, eyes trailing through the K section. All of the bloody names felt either too modern or too old, too long or too short. Seeing as you didn’t know the gender you reckoned a unisex name would be better but none of them jumped out at you. Imagining calling the bean some of those names - you couldn’t fathom it.

Eventually you rested the book on the cushion beside you, still open to the pages of L names. You tugged a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped yourself into it, leaning fully into Ben. Your hand joined his, running through Joe’s fluffy, ginger hair - he loved getting his hair played with and you and Ben were all too happy to provide.

“What about Marley?”

Joe’s voice was quiet with the suggestion, and you contemplated it briefly.

“You want to name our baby after a dog?” Ben questioned, fingers coming to a halt in his hair. “No.”

“Wait, wait. It could be cute.” You paused. “But what if people ask where we got the name from and we have to tell them we got it from Marley and Me? That’s embarrassing for us and the baby.”

“We can say we got it from somewhere else,” said Joe. “Like Bob Marley or something.”

Ben laughed and then said, “That doesn’t change the fact that we actually got it from Marley and Me.”

“We’ll put it in our back pockets.” You promised, and then glanced at Ben with a grin. Joe was a goof, the look said. It was one you practiced often, since before you even added Joe into the equation, when he was just your oddly close friend. But now - well.

You didn’t talk for another couple of minutes - your mind was half on the movie and half on the name discussion. Marley wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t perfect and you needed the name to be perfect. You weren’t carrying the baby for nine months to give them a mediocre name. And after nearly six months of sitting on various different names, none of them working, you felt like hope was nearly totally gone.

After nearly a half hour of just watching the movie - tears welling up in your eyes repeatedly, and you kept having to wipe your cheeks with your sleeve - Joe spoke up again. “Well - what about Marla? If it’s a girl - which it will be - and for a boy - ”

“Joe.” Ben stated without hesitating, and Joe looked up at him with a smile. “Joseph IV. I mean, it has to be. It’s only right. We need another Joe in our lives, anyway.” And the three of you shared a small laugh.

You smiled, moving your hand from Joe’s hair to his cheek, and leaning up to kiss Ben’s cheek. A grin slowly spread across your face, your heart swelling.

“I love it. I love both of them.”

And - once that portion of the name conflict had been resolved there was another one, a more serious one, as you neared the 38 week point. Your stomach swelled beyond belief, you decorated the baby’s room (well, more accurately Ben and Joe did but you sat on the rocking chair in the corner and watched as they put together the crib) and you packed a hospital bag for when the exact moment came.

You, Ben and Joe had been lying in bed after a long bath - one that had lasted until the water ran cold and the bubbles had nearly gone - clean and giggly and heavy lidded. You were resting on your back, a pillow beneath you for the pains you’d acquired during pregnancy. It seemed like every muscle in your body was aching, no matter what, but none worse than your back. Thus, the pillow, constantly beneath you whenever you were lying on your back. Joe had his face buried in your shoulder, Ben thrown half over his body. Ben’s hand sat at the top of your stomach, yours over his, the baby stirring ever so slightly inside you. As you gotten closer to your due date the baby became more and more restless, always finding time to move and kick.

“Sweetheart.” Joe murmured, and you weren’t exactly sure to whom he was speaking to but you didn’t reckon it really mattered. “What is the last name going to be?”

You paused, but before you could answer Ben said, “I thought it would be Hardy-Mazzello, you know? What else?”

“Rather long.” the ginger mused, his cheek pressed against your shoulder.

“Maybe, but we need to get both of your names in there.” You paused and then smiled. “Yours is what makes it long, Mr. Mazzello. You know that, right?”

Joe brought his arm up and pinched your arm, and you giggled. There was another beat of silence before Ben said, “Why d’you bring it up again? We’ve talked about it before.”

Joe said, “I don’t know. Don’t you think it should be just one of our names?”

“No.” came your immediate response, harsher and blunter than you’d intended. You softened your voice. “No,” you repeated. “I don’t want the baby to have only one of your last names. You’re both it’s dads. So it’ll have both of your last names. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Ben rested his chin against Joe’s chest, his brows furrowed as he stared at his boyfriend’s face. “Joe - “

“Doesn’t it have to be complicated, though? There’s three of us.” Joe’s words were making you frown a bit more every syllable. “Technically, only one of us can be the dad, and - “

“Joe.” Ben’s voice was quiet. Shaky. “We’re both the dads. You know that. The baby - it’s both of ours.”

“It’s Hardy-Mazzello - it has to be. Why don’t you want that?” You brought your hand to rest on Joe’s cheek, blinking in the darkness. Whatever happy mood you’d felt earlier had nearly evaporated with the turn in conversation - it was odd.

“I don’t know.” You could tell Joe wasn’t being completely honest so you waited until he elaborated. “I’m just nervous. That it’ll confuse her to have two of us. And what if she gets more attached to Ben and I’m left behind?”

“That’ll never happen, Joe.” Ben told him firmly - you’d meant to respond but when you opened your mouth you felt an odd sort of pain in your stomach and you inhaled sharply, but neither of the boys noticed. “It’ll love you. Baby Hardy-Mazzello are going to love you when they meet you. We’ll be a perfect family.”

You pushed yourself into a sitting position, and Ben’s hand fell off your stomach. “Um - I think - the baby. I think it’s coming.”

After nine hours of labor, Marla Hardy-Mazzello was born, screaming and crying violently, but it was the greatest noise you’d ever heard. Joe dropped his head into your shoulder and sobbed and Ben followed the doctors around, cutting the umbilical cord with shaky hands and watching them clean her up. When Dr. Nash placed her in your arms, bundled in a pink blanket, you didn’t think you’d ever felt such bliss. Ben clambered into the bed behind you, sitting on the pillows so you were in between his legs. The doctors left and it was the four of you, your boyfriends and your daughter, your beautiful wonderful daughter.

“I - “ Joe’s voice was shaking, and he brought his arm up to wipe the tear tracks off his face. “I told you she was a girl. I told you. F-father’s instinct, right?”

You didn’t respond, just stroked your thumb down your little angel’s cheek and listened to her soft breaths as she slept. Joe stood and sat on the bed next to you, reaching over to grab Ben’s hand. Ben leaned forward and pulled the blanket slightly off her face, so you could all see her features.

“Your eyes, I think.” Ben said quietly, and when you looked up at him his eyes were on Joe, not you. You smiled slightly.

“I think they look more like yours, actually,” came Joe’s response, and then there was another pause before he said, “Your chin, sweetheart.” And you knew that was directed at you, because her chin did, admittedly, look awfully similar to yours.

“Do you want to hold her?” you posed the question to either man, and though you could practically feel Ben rippling in excitement beside you at the thought of holding his baby girl, Joe reached out first, taking your baby in his arms and cradling her gently. And you looked up at Ben, and he smiled, and you knew it was important for Joe to hold her.

(You’d have so much time, all of you.)

You leaned back against Ben’s chest, feeling his fingers combing through your locks as the pair of you admired Joe and Marla, the way he rocked her, one finger against her face. He looked like he was born to be a father, like this was the ultimate place he was supposed to be. Sitting on a cramped hospital bed with his boyfriend and girlfriend, cradling her gently.

“She’s so pretty,” Joe whispered, and you watched a tear go down his cheek again and Ben reached over to wipe it off. “She looks so much like you. Your nose, your chin.”

You nodded. “Looks like you, too.” Then you glanced up at Ben, who was staring, near entranced, at Joe and Marla. “You, too. Like a mix of the three of us.”

“Our daughter.” Ben said, and his voice was soft yet firm and as Joe glanced up at him, he repeated it. “Our amazing daughter.”

Joe nodded, turning so Ben and you could look at Marla’s face - eyes open slightly, fist clenched. She was beautiful, eyes dark brown, a spattering of soft hair on her head. You were absolutely exhausted, body sore and eyes heavy, after hours and hours of going through labour, but God, it was all worth it. You would do it a million times over for this moment - Ben loosely wrapped his arms around you.

“I’m sorry,” Joe began, but you brought his finger up to his lips.

“Not now. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Ben’s fingers in your hair stopped as you continued speaking. “Marla Hardy-Mazzello. Right?”

Joe grinned, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to Marla’s nose. “Right.”

#ben hardy x reader #joe mazzello x reader #ben hardy fluff #joe mazzello fluff #ben hardy x reader x joe mazzello #ben hardy x joe mazzello x reader #bxrxj #borhap imagines #borhap fluff

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fenton-bus · 5 years

Text

"Wars, Sherona Shapen once famously states, are started by stupid people with dumb opinions they want the world to share."

In addition to being the blurb on the back cover of her best-selling memoir Ten Years In Hell: Shaping The Future Of America On $15,000 A Year, her opening statement as a grand jury witness in the 2017 Swell View Board of Education vs. Barry and Linda Birnbaum chocolate milk scandal case, and at the end of a mohito and chicken slider-filled don'tletmediealone.com date-the beginning of a deeply unfortunate tatoo (five minutes in she remembers how sharp needles are, briefly regrets all of her life choices and rolls out of her chair yelling "not today!" with half of a W on the back of her neck.) it's the thesis of the Global Conflict unit she designs for the tiny, life-sucking mouth breathers in her fourth period History class three weeks before Thanksgiving break. Although much has been written about the controversial nature of the unit (the ensuing protests that divide a once happy, stable community, the thorough investigation into the subject matter and what role-if any-it plays in the series of harrowing events Swell View citizens collectively refer to as "Chrismapoloypse") and the depth of the chaos is covered extensively both in Carmen Aula's 2016 school board political thriller Save The Children and Sherona Shapen's seven hour Larry King interview that only ends when Larry quits on air and checks himself into a hospital, the abridged version of events is available on Swell View's Infopedia page incorrectly filed under "natural disasters".

It looks like this:

· September 30th, 2015- Principal Wiggins denies Miss Shapen's request to teach the Global Conflict unit, calling the lesson a "downer" and insisting the children's tiny, little brains are too "soft" and "gooey" this time of year for the bad vibes and harsh realities of "countries straight up killin' other countries".

· November 1rst (11:00am)- Miss Shapen barges into the officee screaming about tyranny and censorship; Principal Wiggins hides under his desk playing Zombie Barista IV on his pear pad until she's hauled away by security.

· November 1rst (2:15)- A large dent appears in the drive's side door of Principal Wiggin's brand new Mercedes S Class. (Witnesses report the sighting of a puke green hatchback fleeing the scene. This is later confirmed by crime scene anyalsis of the outgoing tire tracks.)

· November 1rst-5th- Miss Shapen sends Principal Wiggins approximately one hundred and seventy five texts\facesplash messages\pear chat requests.

· November 6th (10:30 pm)- Principal Wiggins hears rustling sounds in the bushes under his bedroom window; briefly considers buying a taser from the Defend Ur Self superstore.

· November 10th- Miss Shapen stands in the corridor asking students why their principal is a lying, two-faced coward who won't answer her snap chats.

· November 12th- Miss Shapen requests a truce. Is in the principal's office for five whole seconds before she's knocking everything off the receptionist's desk, throwing pieces of Principal Wiggin's "bonzai forest" across the room, and running away from campus security singing We Shall Overcome in an unbearably screechy falsetto.

· November 14th- Miss Shapen listens patiently while the best-reviewed lawyer on Bellow tells her she doesn't have much of a case; throws her pear phone out of her kitchen window.

· November 15th (9:00am)- Sherona Shapen thinks eff it, begins lesson one\thirty-six of her Global Conflict Unit.

"In my defense, the bespectacled former educator tells Larry King, Arthur Wiggin was a #@!? moron."

A spectacular idiot. A corn knob whose raw, home-style dumbness was so rarified she was sure humanity was only capapable of producing someone this stupid once a millenium. Attempting to have a conversation with a middle aged man who sings along to his Wrecking Ball ringtone would be hard enough, but it's November, which means his office looks like the spirit of Christmas became an actual thing and puked all over it, and that he's already dressed in his official mall Santa costume. (In keeping with Swell View Jr. High tradition, "Santa Wiggins" will wander the halls drawing expulsion notices, "sudden death" academic probation slips, and fifteen dollar Boston Market gift cards out of his great brown bag.) She keeps her distance 'cause she's fairly certain his costume was last dry cleaned circa 2003, and uses small words so his tiny, little, baby brain won't get scared\confused but nope, turns out writing thirty-six lesson plans for a bunch of googley-eyed, yolo-obsessed, jerk tweens is actually more bearable than even a moment of hearing Principal Wiggin try to talk while adjusting his fake beard.

So, Sherona goes home and writes. A lot. So much she forgets to heat up her Singles Serving TM guacamole and spinach meal, post her latest update of her brave, selfless struggle on BitterTeacherBlog.com, and feed her cats, a fact which doesn't change even when they circle her desk meowing threateningly. She falls asleep on her keyboard sometime after midnight.

"Listen up hooligans, She growls after all the groaning from the announcement of the new unit subsides, In honor of the season we're going to have a little competition."

She rolls her eyes and prays for retirement when the class breaks into fresh groans.

"Shut your traps, I've got five weeks of staring at your little groundhog faces till we're both free and it's going to go by a lot slower the dumber you act."

In the middle left row Henry Hart opens his lopsided mouth (probably to tell her he does not have a groundhog face) but she glares at him so hard he tries to back away while seated.

"Now, she clasps her hands behind her back, paces the length of the room like a decorated general addressing her least ambitious troops. Because we live in a Yule-obsessed black hole most of you will spend the next three weeks chugging egg nog and harassing Santa on twitter.

#danger fam #superlative squad #the danger chronicles

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sariasprincy · 7 years

Text

Where it Happened ix - ItaSaku

Part i Part ii Part iii Part iv Part v Part vi Part vii Part viii Part ix (here) Part x

Yes, I know this is massively late. What else is new?

Where it Happened part ix

keep reading

“What are you still doing here?”

Without picking his head up from the wall, Itachi opened his eyes. He angled his head towards Shisui as his older cousin stopped in front of the chair he had claimed only five minutes earlier. “I still have another six hours on my shift.”

Shisui shot him a look that clearly stated that hadn’t been what he was implying. “I meant what are you still doing here? In this hospital, in this city.”

A long sigh escaped Itachi. He had just performed a valve replacement before being pulled into emergency surgery the moment he scrubbed out. And his shift wasn't even halfway over. He was the epitome of exhausted. This was the first break he’d gotten since walking through the doors that morning and he didn’t want to spend it debating with Shisui. Again.

“Not now, Shisui…”

“Then when?” Shisui slipped into the empty chair across from him and leaned back, his attention focused solely on his younger cousin. “You’ve been back for two months and you’re already miserable.”

“I am not miserable.”

“And apparently you’re a liar now too.”

Itachi scowled. “Who do you think it was that convinced me to come home?”

Shisui didn’t immediately answer. Guilt flickered across his face, causing Itachi to immediately regret his words but he didn't take them back. “Alright, maybe I did convince you to come home for selfish reasons, but I...I thought you were just being stubborn. I thought if you had talked to your father and sorted things out, we could go back to the way things were, but…”

A pair of nurses hurried past the row of chairs behind where Shisui was sitting, and Itachi watched them disappear around the corner before he sighed softly. “Things will never be the same here.”

There was a finality in his statement. As if he was finally voicing a truth they had all been trying to avoid for so long now. It had been kept deep in the back of his mind but Itachi had known all along that this place he had once considered home would never be a safe haven again. Too many things had happened. Too many things had changed. And he needed to change with it.

“You should go,” Shisui urged.

Itachi eyed his cousin for a long moment, wondering when he had become so mature. It wasn’t a side he often showed but he smiled nonetheless. Even if it was filled with nostalgia and quickly fading.

“My mother…”

“Mikoto will understand.”

“My patients-.”

“I’ve already reassigned your cases,” Shisui smirked.

Itachi arched his brow curiously. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A few days.”

Against his better judgment, Itachi chuckled quietly. He couldn’t find it within himself to feel annoyed or manipulated. Because the truth was he had been itching to return to the hospital that had begun to feel more like home than his actual home.

He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t one pink-haired cardiac surgeon that made him miss the life he had started to build across the country but he would only be lying to himself. He missed Sakura. He missed their banter and her no-nonsense personality. She was easy to talk to and he could rely on her when he needed another….well, him.

Itachi had tried to convince himself that his affections for her were nothing more than a crush. She was just someone he had redirected his attentions, a distraction, but as the days passed into weeks and weeks into months, he was beginning to understand she was more than that. He cared for her. And he missed her. He wanted to go back. He had to go back.

“What about you?” Itachi asked as he fixed his gaze on Shisui again.

His cousin shrugged with one shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it won’t be the last you’ll see of me.”

The last of Itachi’s anxieties faded upon Shisui’s smile and for the first time since he had returned home, he had something to look forward to. “I’ll need to book a flight.”

If possible, Shisui’s smirk turned even more smug. “I already have. You leave tomorrow night.”

Over two months had passed but it was as if things had ever changed. The condo Itachi had rented during his extended stay was still waiting for him as was the car he had left parked in his parking stall. His mother had asked him multiple times if he had plans to give notice to the landlady, but a part of him had been unable to give up the small living space he had made his own. Like he knew one day he would return.

Itachi didn’t linger long in it now, only stopping to gaze out the window at the view that had become so familiar for only a moment before he showered and changed into a fresh suit. He had a scheduled meeting with the Chief in a few hours and if he knew Tsunade as well as he believed he did, she would have quite the earful for him for leaving so abruptly.

He passed the coffeehouse he used to frequent on his way to the hospital and quickly stopped in. The same barista was behind the bar and she smiled in recognition before she made his usual. He waited patiently as he reread the email from the Chief’s secretary, confirming his appointment with Tsunade later that morning.

A moment later his attention was ripped away as the sudden screech of tires clashed with the blaring of horns.Itachi picked his head up just in time to see the immediate aftermath of a delivery truck striking a city bus broadside. People both inside and outside the coffeeshop paused in front of the windows, blocking the majority of the damage, but the screams and shouts for help could be heard throughout the intersection.

Without pausing, Itachi sprinted out the front doors. A few civilians were already hurrying towards the bus to help and so his focus shifted to the delivery truck. The entire front end was crushed, crumbling the door and making it impossible for anyone to get in or out, but the window still was mostly intact and he pulled himself up to it.

“Someone, please help me!” the driver called.

“I’m here,” Itachi said, drawing the man’s gaze. Fear danced behind his eyes and flickered across his face but it lessened upon sight of him. “My name is Itachi. I’m a doctor. What’s your name?”

“Chi-Chiyo.”

“Alright Chiyo, what hurts the worst?”

“My leg,” he answered. Both his legs were stuck under the dashboard, making it impossible to assess the damage. “I think...I think it’s broken,” Chiyo added.

“Without moving your neck or back, can you tell me if the bone has broken the skin?”

It was a moment before he answered. “N-no. I don’t think so.”

“That’s good,” Itachi told him calmly. “What about your chest? Does it hurt to breathe?”

Chiyo shook his head, causing Itachi to immediately still his movements. The frightened man tried again, “No. I think-I think I’m okay. Can you help me out of here?”

“Chiyo, I need you to stay here and try not to move,” Itachi said calmly. He could hear the sobs and cries of the injured through the rest of the wreckage and he was itching to see how bad it was. “The fire department is going to have to cut you out. I need to go check on everyone else, but I need you to stay still.”

“No, wait! Please don’t go,” he begged.

Itachi bit back his impatience. “You are going to be fine, Chiyo. But I have to go check on everyone else.”

The plea was only too apparent on the man’s face, but Itachi said nothing before he jumped back down off the truck and hurried towards the bus. It was far worse than he thought. There were two casualties he noticed immediately, but he quickly turned away to help those still alive and in serious condition.

By the time the first responders began to survive, he had already stemmed the blood flow on three survivors and was in the process of stabilizing another when they suddenly lost a pulse. He began chest compressions and didn’t stop even as the paramedics loaded them into the ambulance until he felt the familiar throb of a heartbeat under his fingertips.

The minutes ticked by as the rig raced down the main road. The lack of trauma equipment was making him restless, but after asking for an ETA for the fourth time, the familiar emergency entrance for the hospital came into view and Itachi breathed a small sigh of relief as the first responders unloaded the patient to the awaiting doctors.

“Uchiha? What the hell are you doing here?”

Tsunade was eyeing him half surprised, half annoyed as he stepped out of the back of the ambulance behind the stretcher. She waited for him as the rest of the staff rushed the patient inside before they hurried into the ER after them. “I am here to discuss the possibilities of signing an extended contract.”

The Chief shot him a pointed look. “And you thought you would come in style?”

“I have a meeting with you in an hour,” Itachi said as he pulled off his suit jacket and hung in on an empty hook reserved for trauma gowns. “But I believe it is safe to say that we will have to reschedule. I need to get this patient into surgery. Do I have privileges?”

Tsunade pursed her lips but her decision was made when a flatline was suddenly called. “Get in there.”

With barely a nod, Itachi swept into the trauma room.

Sakura was upset. Beyond upset actually and more into the realm of downright pissed off. Her emerald eyes were narrowed as she scanned the surgical board, eyeing the long list of ongoing surgeries. A nurse was in the process of updating the board and she watched her pen move with active interest as she cataloged the current traumas.

“Does that say that there’s a Cardiac Tamponade in OR 3?” Sakura asked suddenly.

The nurse paused in her writing to glance over her shoulder at her. “Uh...yes.”

“And how exactly do they plan to repair that with the only Cardiovascular attending standing here?” When the younger woman just stared wide-eyed, Sakura’s glare deepened. “Why the hell wasn’t I paged?”

The nurse just blinked at her bewildered, a bit taken aback to be on the receiving end of Sakura’s harsh words. Sakura knew it wasn’t her fault, but it had been a crazy day for the hospital.

Ten trauma surgeries, back-to-back. Ten victims had come in from a bus crash downtown and every single one that had been rushed through their emergency room doors had been brought down to an operating room. Sakura had been in and out of surgeries for near that of eight hours, and she didn’t understand why she hadn’t been paged for a surgery that obviously needed her skill and experience.

Admittedly Sakura was tired and cranky. She had put in a lot of extra hours in recent weeks and she was pretty sure her blood had turned into coffee and caffeine, but she didn’t offer the nurse an apology as she spun on her heels and hurriedly caught the elevator to the surgical floor.

A surgical team was already inside the OR and silently Sakura watched them work through the windows of the washroom as she pulled on her mask before scrubbing. Irritation still simmered in her chest but she made sure to scrub thoroughly before she finally slipped into the room.

“Who the hell decided it would be a good idea not to page me?” Sakura asked loudly. She accepted a sterile cloth from a nurse and dried her hands as she gazed pointedly about the room.

“That would be me.”

Sakura stilled. She knew that voice.

Automatically her eyes drew to the person standing in the Lead Surgeon’s spot. Even under the scrub cap and mask, she recognized him immediately. Everything about him was familiar: his tall, lean form, his stance, his stunning, black eyes. Even his technique as he cut and sutured was unmistakable.

“Itachi.”

He glanced at her briefly at the call of his name before he returned his attention to the task at hand. Emotion struck her suddenly and sharply in that simple look, twisting and knotting in her chest until she didn’t know how she felt.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He had gone and left her behind, and now he was standing here as if he had been there the whole time. Betrayal took root under her breastbone and she fixed Itachi with a dark glare. “What the hell are you doing here, Uchiha?”

“I am working on resolving a fairly complicated Cardiac Tamponade,” he replied without looking at her.

“You don’t work here.”

Itachi paused to glance at her, his eyes unreadable. “I do as of seven hours ago.”

She blinked. “Under whose authority?”

“Chief Tsunade.”

He returned to the patient with his answer, leaving Sakura speechless. She hadn’t seen him all morning; they must have just been missing each other. And she hadn’t spoken to Tsunade since the night before as they were both pulled in and out of surgery.

Sakura felt blindsided. She wanted to yell and shout and hurt him all the ways he had hurt her, but she refrained. There was still a patient on the table in serious condition, and the only person she trusted to help them more than her was Itachi himself. He may be an ass, but he was an incredibly intelligent, incredibly talented ass.

The surgical staff was beginning to stare. There was nothing more she could say without causing a scene, and so without a word, she dropped her towel onto the floor before she marched out of the room. She ripped her mask off and tossed it in the garbage in the scrub room before she headed back out into the halls, in search of one person in particular.

She found Tsunade before the surgical board.

“When the hell were you going to tell me that you hired Uchiha Itachi back?”

Tsunade pulled her hazel eyes away from the large whiteboard slowly to peer at her. “Is that a problem? We still haven’t found a replacement for his position.”

“You should have run it by me first,” Sakura said, her voice unforgiving and laced with an edge of steel.

The older woman arched her brow but didn’t remark on her tone. “You and I both know you can’t run a department, never mind by yourself, when you have other obligations to the hospital. You’ve turned down every other applicant. I felt since you had no problems working with him before, you wouldn’t have any objections to hiring him back.”

“It still needs to be approved by the board.”

“It was forty-five minutes ago,” Tsunade told her. “As soon as Uchiha is out of surgery, I’m presenting him with a contract.”

Sakura blinked incredulously. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“You were in surgery,” the Chief countered. “And the board only requires five votes.” When Sakura continued to frown, Tsunade turned to face her fully as curiosity burned in her hazel eyes. “Did something happen between you two that I’m not aware of?”

Sakura didn’t immediately offer an answer.

Itachi had kissed her. And then he left. She had asked him to stay and he had walked away like it hadn’t meant anything. Like she hadn't meant anything. She could admit that it wasn’t as bad as proclaiming his love or sleeping with her and leaving her alone to deal with their unborn child. Perhaps she was overreacting, but she couldn’t deny the hurt that thrummed in her chest.

“No,” Sakura eventually said. “Nothing happened.”

The sky was dark outside the hospital windows, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. Itachi watched them drift past as he pulled on his suit jacket, only turning away as a resident tentatively called his name. Hyuuga Hanabi was standing in the doorway of the Attendings’ lounge with a chart in hand and he silently stepped away the window to accept the offered binder.

His patient was stable. And their labs were clear, meaning he could go home tonight without concern. “Are you working tonight, Hyuuga?”

“I stayed last night,” she told him. When Itachi glanced at her, she flushed and immediately amended her statement. “But I can stay again.”

He nodded as he flipped the chart closed again and passed it to her. “Good. I want her labs checked again in a few hours. Page me if there are any changes for the worst.”

The young surgeon-in-training nodded before she took the chart back. However, she didn’t immediately turn to leave and Itachi turned back to her as she toyed with her next words. “Can I ask, are you just visiting or are you back?”

For a moment, Itachi merely regarded her. When he found only curiosity in her gaze, he murmured, “I plan to stay for some time.”

A genuine smile passed her face. “Welcome back then.”

Her energy was infectious and Itachi found the corners of his mouth turning up but he didn’t say anything more before Hanabi finally exited the lounge. It was only once he was alone again that he realized something. No one else had welcomed him back. Not even over the course of his ten hour shift.

A strange emptiness settled behind his ribcage as his smile vanished as quickly as it had come. The lounge suddenly felt so empty without any other surgeons present, and silently he slipped his old employee card into his pocket before he left the hospital.

Out in the parking lot, Itachi scanned the rows of cars, searching for where the intern who had picked up his vehicle had parked it. He had barely scanned the first stalls when a familiar face caught his notice.

Sakura was following the walkway down to the employee parking lot, the strap of her purse in the crook of her elbow and an overnight bag thrown over her shoulder. She hadn’t seen him and Itachi quickly followed her, wanting to catch her before she drove off.

“Sakura,” he called.

She picked her head up from where she had been digging through her bag for her car keys. When her eyes landed on him, she frowned. “My shift already ended, Uchiha,” she said as she resumed her search.

The use of his surname was not lost on him nor was the irritation sharpening her tone. It was the same one she had used in the OR earlier that afternoon, and it seemed that time hadn’t cooled her mood.

“Can we talk please?” Itachi asked quietly as they stopped beside a dark midsized SUV.

“You can talk to me tomorrow when I get in.” She didn’t spare him a glance as she finally located her keys and popped open her trunk. In one smooth movement, she slipped her bag over her shoulder and tossed it in before she reached up to pull the trunk closed again.

It was quickly becoming apparent that she was content to end their conversation there as she turned towards the driver’s door, but Itachi quickly moved around her, his hand coming to rest on the door handle before she could reach it.

Sakura glared at him, silently conveying that he would do well to move before she made him move. He knew she would too, and he shot her a pleading look. “Sakura…”

Her expression didn’t soften but the immediate threat faded. “What?”

She shot that single syllable at him like a bullet, leaving a sharp, stinging pain in its wake, but he didn’t flinch away. He understood her frustrations. She was disappointed and angry and he suspected hurt, even if she hid it well behind frosty, emerald eyes.

“I know that my leaving upset you. I am truly sorry.”

“Are you sorry you upset me or sorry for not telling me you were leaving?” Sakura asked pointedly.

“Both,” he admitted. “When I first came here, I never intended to stay. It was only supposed to be temporary.”

“Then why did you come back?” Sakura snapped.

Itachi didn't immediately answer. He had a few reasons for coming back, some more significant than others and some he wasn’t quite ready to admit aloud. Especially not with Sakura still looking like she was one misplaced word away from physically removing him from her path.

“Because of you,” Itachi finally said. When she scoffed, he quickly continued, “And Kakashi and Neji and even Ino. You all have breathed life into a place that is normally filled with pain and suffering. You all remind me what it was that made me choose to become a surgeon in the first place. That is why I came back.”

Sakura looked away as her anger lost much of its vibrancy. He waited with bated breath for her to speak, but when the seconds continued to tick by silently, he pressed quietly. “You asked me to stay.”.

She shook her head slowly. “But I didn’t ask you to come back.”

Her words were soft spoken but the betrayal rang clear in her tone. Her hurt resonated like it was his own and Itachi found himself unable to meet her gaze as a sinking feeling suddenly settled in his chest. “I needed time to get my life back together.”

Again, Sakura didn’t answer. That was when the first raindrop fell on Itachi’s hand before another peppered his skin next to the first. When he met her eyes again, Sakura’s face was unreadable. Not blank, but full of so many emotions it was hard to decipher one from another.

“Can we talk over dinner?” he asked. “Or coffee?”

Sakura didn’t move. For a long moment she simply stared at him as the rain began to quicken, striking the ground in slowly growing droplets. And just when he thought they would stand there forever, she murmured quietly, “You never called. Or texted. I never even got so much as an email. So you can’t have that much to say. And I know that I don’t either. I’m going home. I’m tired.”

Her rejection struck Itachi like a physical blow but he said nothing before he opened her door for her. He waited until she slipped behind the wheel before he closed it behind her and stepped away, silently watching as she backed out of the parking stall and drove away.

It seemed after all they had been through together with the cases and the late nights, and the shared losses over ice cream and pizza and all manner of junk food, they were back to where they had started: Itachi, the new attending, and Sakura wanting nothing to do with him.

to be continued...

#itasaku #itachi #sakura #where it happened #my writing #this is like what #7 months late #whatever #better late than nevah #mwahaha #sakura is pisssssed #but thats to be expected #hopefully next chapter will be here soon #after i update some other shit

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artificialqueens · 7 years

Text

Into the Waters (Alaska)

[1450 words] Justin is haunted by a dream that keeps slipping away.

(A/N about Crossing: Apologies to anyone who’s been waiting for an update. I’ve been in a funk and haven’t had much energy nor desire to get back into the tone and dialogue that I’ve set for that series. I’ll try to get back to it sometime. I’m sorry to leave it hanging for now. I appreciate the response for that though. It’s been lovely. Thank you.)

The sand is wet and cold under his feet, but the sea has receded far away. Justin follows it, possessed with the need to submerge his feet in water. The discomfort of having moist sand between his toes is overwhelming, driving him farther and farther out, until behind him is only a horizon of sand, no indication of where he had started.

The farther he walks, the deeper he sinks into the ground. It’s halfway up to his knees now, and what looked like sand discolored by the waters is now feeling and looking more like tar. But the waters are ahead of him, so he attempts to push on.

Morning, pumpkin. The words bleed into the otherwise silent beach. He feels the greeting wash over his nape, Aaron’s voice raspy with the earliness of the day. The waters rapidly curl farther away, until Justin has to squint to even see. When he opens his eyes fully, it’s to a dirty white wall and unwashed curtains, Cerrone bundled in a pool of excess fabric.

There’s no sand. No water. His dream had collided with the solidity of Aaron. All his dreams do. And they all fall off the edges of his mind, away into the morning. He closes his eyes again, searching for the waters to run his feet through. But there is nothing.

For the moment, nothing else exists but the softness of the bed, and Justin, and Aaron’s warmth wrapped around him. Nothing—not the night before, not the day ahead, not the house falling apart around them.

Justin knows this should be enough.

ii.

I’ll see you.

Justin waits, shaking hands tight on the steering wheel, but Aaron leaves it at that, no indication of when. Justin could ask, of course, but it’s 7:33 a.m. and he’s already been late thrice this week and the day is long and he’s not even sure that Aaron really knows the answer. Justin himself doesn’t really count the days by the calendar anymore. He shouldn’t expect Aaron to, especially not when he’s flying across time zones.

The days all just pass him by. He remembers them by deadlines at work—today is toothpaste presentation day. If not by deadlines, then by Skype meetings with casting directors. Those had been the focal points of the last few months, taking precedence even over his actual paying job. Today marks twenty-seven days since the final meeting. Until next year, hopefully? It’s just not the right time, they had said, hoping to placate him. He’s heard the same thing, word for word, for five straight years.

There was a time when the rejection had lit a fire in him. But you can only keep aflame for so long until you burn out.

Hands still on the wheel, he leans to kiss Aaron and watches him go, pulling two suitcases full of drag into Pittsburgh International.

The last time Justin had been in a plane was when he moved back from Los Angeles. That had taken three suitcases—one for his clothes, two for Alaska’s. He thinks of the beaches of California, his tiny old apartment, that first disastrous audition. Moving states had not changed that. There are beaches in Pittsburgh. That should be enough.

Justin makes it to the parking lot by 7:58 a.m. Just enough time to run up to the third floor and beat the head of the art department to the office. He reaches into the backseat for his bag and his mock-ups for a lame toothpaste ad. “Smile in style,” the guy from the copy department had instructed him to write, the quiver in his voice betraying his thoughts on his own his slogan. Justin had almost felt bad for the guy. They were both just trying to get through the week.

He unrolls one sheet and stares at his own drawings smiling up at him. Their mouths look too stretched out. Smiling faces have never been his strong point, preferring the sensual slopes of pouting lips. He rips the poster apart and throws it out on the pavement.

He sits in the car, leaving the rest of his work on the passenger’s seat and contemplating the half-empty pack of Pall Malls on the dashboard. They leer at him, baiting him like they were a challenge. And he’s never been one to say no. He was a people pleaser, his high school English teacher had once told him. Only he wasn’t always a good judge of which people needed pleasing.

By 8:32 he’s made his way back home, a stick in one hand and a can in the other. He calls in to tell his boss that he’s sick, and his boss tells him that he’s been late exactly sixteen times the past month and that he’s fired.

Justin appreciates a clean break. He’d take it over getting strung along and being made to believe you’re better than you are. He thanks his boss.

Time slips away as he polishes off a row of PBRs in the fridge, the emptied cans forming a delicate tower on the coffee table. He’s up to five when Cerrone hops up and topples the whole thing over. Maybe six will be your lucky number, Aaron had told him. And he trusts Aaron. Sharon. Sharon Needles, America’s Next Drag Superstar. So he opens his sixth can.

Luck, he decides, tastes like stale beer and tears.

iii.

When he wakes up the next afternoon, his first order of business is to delete his e-mails, all six hundred pages of it, and his Skype account. And then he proceeds to clear the internet of Alaska Thunderfuck—first on MySpace, and then Twitter, and then Facebook, until only the website is up. There’s not much on it, just pictures, most of them from his days in Los Angeles, and a link to a free download of “Trannies Are Fierce” in lurid, flashing letters. It’s been downloaded a whopping eleven times, one of those being Justin himself, just to check if the link did work.

It takes him fourteen beers to finally clear the website. And then just one more after that to pack all his drag away.

iv.

He’s chasing after the receding tide again, only this time, it’s not far from him at all. It’s just a foot or so from his feet, but as Justin runs toward it, so it moves away from him. It surges forward now and then, just enough to make him feel the cool waters that he’s missing, only to pull back again. He runs and runs and runs until his legs give out and he drops to the sand, only able to watch as the waters disappear into the distance.

When he wakes up, he heads for the fridge and finds that there’s nothing left for him to drink but water.

Later, he drives out to a local Goodwill. In his backseat and his trunk sits Alaska, seven years of her existence packed away in boxes and plastic bags. Justin can almost pretend that he’s saying goodbye to someone else.

He supposes he could have left something for Aaron, for Sharon, but what could you give a person who has it all?

The attendant, a small bespectacled lady with greying hair, rifles through the wigs and dresses and looks up at him to ask if he’s from a theatre company. Justin smiles and says he could have been if he were a better actor. She pats his hand and tells him he’s young.

When his mother was twenty-seven, she already had two kids and another on the way. He comes home to a cat that’s not even really his.

Aaron calls him and asks why he’s gone and deleted everything, if he’s doing all right, if he wants to come fly out to Florida with him. Justin doesn’t have answers to those questions, so he settles on asking Aaron when he’ll come home. Five days, Aaron promises.

Justin walks up to their kitchen calendar. He counts five boxes and writes welcome back on the last. And then he writes I’m sorry noodles I love you I’m sorry across the week below that.

Four days of sobriety is not much, but it’s a personal feat. He cleans out his savings account and takes just one bag of clothes with him. He wills himself not to look back as he leaves Cerrone behind. A proper goodbye will have to be made sometime. He owes Cerrone that.

He sleeps through most of the flight. Dreamlessly, for once.

When he wakes up, he sees the waters of the Pacific bordering California. It’s an endless stretch of blue, and Justin knows it’s not going away.

#talent!!!#alaska thunderfuck #sharon needles #shalaska #sebald #rpdr fanfiction #submission #canon compliant

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ryukoishida · 7 years

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Arslan Senki Fandom Day 2017 [Encounter] | The second instalment of how idol!Gieve and singer-songwriter!Isfan meet and fall in love.

Written for Arslan Senki Fandom Day 2017 – [Encounter]

Title: Primadonna and the Piano Man [Part II] Author: ryukoishida Character(s)/Pairing(s): Isfan/Gieve Summary: This is the story of how one of the nation’s top idol Gieve and bestselling folk-rock musician Isfan meet (and eventually fall in love). [Idol/Musician!AU] Rating: T Warning: N/A A/N: The song that Isfan and Gieve worked on is based on “Lost One’s Weeping”, links of which you will find in the reblog!

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Sing When You’re in Love Series:

i. We Sing We Dance We Steal Hearts ii. We Sing We Dance We Fall in Love iii. Untitled iv. This Storm, It’s Coming v. I’m Yours (and so are they) vi. Primadonna and the Piano Man [Prequel] [Part I | Part II]

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Despite their temporary truce, their journey to achieve a top hit pop song is perilous and full of conflicts.

The first two sessions mostly involve the two of them throwing general ideas back and forth at each other. The discussion goes from the target audience to the genre of music they want to make. While Gieve is known for his catchy dance pop and sugary love songs mostly aimed at the younger teenage audiences, Isfan’s style strays from folk-rock songs dedicated to nature and romance to melancholic ballads of lost identity and destructive love.

After much shouting, pen-throwing, and paper-crumpling, they’ve finally decided the theme of their song would be about the burdens of education and pressures of expectations that many young people and students face nowadays. It’s a serious but relatable topic that would engage a wide range of listeners. As for the genre, Gieve wants to do a mellower, stripped-down, acoustic version — something that’s more forlorn and heart-wrenching; however, Isfan wants to make it into a rock anthem, angrily declaring the dissatisfaction and resentment, and calling for an action to change.

They reconcile with the decision to try both versions for now, and only after discussion with the producer and other staff will they make their final choice.

Then the song-writing process begins, and it doesn’t get any easier from there.

“This riff here doesn’t sound right,” Gieve, who’s sitting on a stool next to Isfan’s piano bench, is saying as he points at the eleventh and twelfth bars on the music sheet, which have been scrawled with Isfan’s neat handwriting, drawn notes and lines. “It’s not enough…”

“Not enough…?” Isfan glances over at the idol, a single eyebrow quirked up in question and his hands still hovering above the keyboard.

“You know: flair, energy, pizzazz!” Gieve waves his hands in a huge arching gesture, hoping the other man will understand.

Isfan stares blankly back at him, uncomprehending.

“Can you be any more vague?” Isfan heaves out an exasperated sigh and shifts over a little. “Why don’t you just show me? Here.” He pats the empty space next to him, and Gieve only hesitates for half a second before he accepts Isfan’s invitation and plops himself down on the bench.

The worn-out leather and oak seat isn’t really suited for two full-grown adult men, and so even with Isfan basically sitting on the very edge on one side, Gieve’s arm still lightly brushes against his whenever the idol moves just the slightest.

Not that Isfan is paying any special attention to how warm and comfortable Gieve feels sitting so closely next to him, or how nice he smells from whatever cologne he’d sprayed himself with that day, or how elegant and sensual his pale, slender fingers look against the black and white keys of the piano.

“Hmm, I’m thinking maybe something like this,” Gieve plays a series of notes that’s similar to what’s written on the music score, but with a slight variation to the rhythm so that the entire riff sounds a little livelier, a bit richer, than before. He tries a few more variations, his eyebrows puckering in deep concentration as he plays and teases the melodies much like how he does with the strings of his guitar. His glasses are sliding down the bridge of his nose but Gieve doesn’t even seem to notice, and Isfan has the strongest urge to reach over and fix it for him.

“Isfan… Isfan! What do you think?”

“Sorry, what was that?” Isfan instinctively shifts back and almost slips and falls off the bench when he realizes just how close Gieve is — close enough that if he ducks his head slightly, his lips would be touching the soft hair by the idol’s temple.

“The riffs — the ones I just played for you — which one do you think is better?”

To be honest, Isfan has stopped functioning after the first one Gieve has played. Gods. Staying in this god-forsaken studio with no natural lighting coming in for six hours straight is doing weird shit to his mind; he needs a break, and maybe a snack.

“Do you want to go for a break?” Gieve asks as if he’s just read his mind.

“Do you mind? I can use some caffeine and cup noodles.”

Isfan’s stomach growls in agreement.

“You know both those things are bad for your throat, right?” Gieve is surprised to find that the singer-songwriter, who seems so solemn and a stickler for rules at first glance, cares so little about his diet. Having healthy bodies and protecting their voices are especially important for artists like themselves, so ever since Gieve started training with his idol unit, he’d maintained a strict diet and exercise regime.

“Let me have some fun, mother,” Isfan yawns, standing up to stretch. His jeans ride low on his hips and a sliver of tanned skin is shown for just a few seconds, but the little display is enough to give Gieve a tiny heart attack, his cheeks flushing and turning uncomfortably warm.

He clears his throat, and turns away to face the piano when Isfan glances down at him.

“Wow. You? Fun? I never thought I’d hear you wanting to be associated with the word ‘fun’,” Gieve chuckles, getting up as well.

“Oh, fuck off,” Isfan is way too tired and hungry to come up with more creative insults.

“Come on, there’s a place close by that opens late and has really good savory snacks,” Gieve winds an arm around the taller man’s shoulders and steers him out the door.

“But the song…”

Isfan is only planning to quickly whip up some noodles and coffee in the pantry, so a thirty-minute break would have sufficed.

“The song can wait! Come on, come on! My treat!”

By the time they are sitting down to write the lyrics, the two musicians with drastically different roots and conflicting beliefs have become quite in sync in terms of their ideas. Occasionally, bickering would still break out, and staff passing by the studio, the door sometimes left a crack open to let in some air, would hear snippets of “what are you even trying to convey with this line here?” or “that doesn’t even rhyme!”

Even stranger still, those same staff members who’d overheard the arguments would often see Gieve and Isfan coming out of the studio after a few hours, and they would either share companionable silence after a long day of work or chattering about where to get dinner.

One night, the two were kicked out of the studio due to equipment maintenance, but neither of them wanted to stop because they felt like they were on the verge of finally writing something good after days of scraped ideas and ripped up notebook pages, so Gieve invited Isfan back to his place to continue.

Isfan didn’t even think twice before agreeing.

When they were satisfied with what they had written, it was already two o’clock in the morning. The public transit had stopped running and Isfan’s car had been left in the company parking lot, so naturally, Gieve volunteered to make spicy instant noodles with extra toppings and treated themselves with a bottle of ice-cold beer each for the conclusion of the gruesome yet fruitful lyric-writing session.

During the few weeks they spent together, Gieve discovered that Isfan was especially talkative when he got tired, and while they ate, slurping the hot soup and moaning at the deliciousness of cheap MSG-fueled ramen, Isfan began to ask questions.

“Why did you want to become an idol?”

“Finally taken an interest in me, Isfan?” Gieve sent him an exaggerated wink across the steaming pot sitting in the middle of the dining table.

“Just curious.”

“Honestly, it’s the same old story,” Gieve replied after swallowing a mouthful of noodles, “I was scouted by an agent from Ecbatana while I was still in high school. I didn’t have any grand plans back then, and no world-shattering ambitions or goals to speak of, so I thought, ‘Why the hell not? Sounds fun!’ and just went with the flow.”

“That’s so you,” Isfan commented with a small laugh.

“Isn’t it just? And then of course behind all that glamour, rivalry arose, friendships were crushed over jealousy and competition,” Gieve carefully blew on the fishcake dangling between his chopsticks to cool it down before putting it into his mouth.

“But you made it; you’re here,” Isfan said, placing his chopsticks down.

Gieve hummed, and for a brief moment, the two men concentrated on finishing their food and drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Isfan murmured, gaze dropping to the bottle of beer in his hands, fingers dragging droplets of condensation as they left smears on the table, “for my shitty behavior when we first met. I shouldn’t have judged you or your abilities before I even get to know you.”

“I sure showed you though, didn’t I?” Gieve grinned openly, and through the thin veil of steam that was still rising from the pot of finished noodles, he almost seemed surreal, the green of his eyes beckoning him in the fog, the quirk of his lips bearing a subtler message that Isfan had yet to decode, but that strange, clawing feeling disappeared as quickly as it had swooped down over him, and he found himself turning his head away, feeling uncomfortably hot and prickly.

“Isfan?” Gieve leaned over, his face full of concern.

“Sorry, just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Gieve didn’t ask any further.

After putting the dishes away, they settled contentedly on the couch, and with the politics and bloodshed of Game of Thrones playing softly in the background, the two men fell asleep leaning against each other, their breathing slowing down until they became one harmonizing melody.

The only main task left for them is recording the song. The instrumentals for both versions are recorded without any major hitches; Isfan is responsible for playing the piano in the acoustic version while both he and Gieve contribute to the guitar portions in the rock version. The rest of the instrumentals are filled in by the company’s contracted musicians.

However, recording vocals hasn’t gone as smoothly as they’ve hoped.

It has taken Gieve many, many tries before he can pinpoint the exact emotion he wants — that deep, furious growling that he’s still not quite used to but is necessary for this song — without messing up the lyrics, and this is especially difficult due to the unforgivingly swift tempo that leaves the singer with very little space in between to take a breath.

On the contract, it’s been stated that Gieve will be responsible for the main vocals of the single, so while Isfan doesn’t necessarily need to be present for the vocal recording, he still sits in the recording booth with the audio engineer, entranced by the way Gieve puts everything into his singing while he keeps insisting that he can do better and pleads with the recording engineer to let him have another attempt even though his voice is obviously becoming scratchy from overuse.

During the weeks they were working on the melody and lyrics, Isfan already realizes that despite the idol’s seemingly gregarious and flippant personality, as if he never takes anything or anyone seriously, Gieve is an entirely different being when he throws himself deep into his work: he will nitpick and scratch out ideas until he deems the product near perfect to his satisfaction, and this is certainly one quality that Isfan has learned to respect.

About two hours into recording, with almost the entire bottle of water emptied, Isfan signals at the idol for him to come out of the booth, but Gieve merely shakes his head and speaks into the microphone to let them know that he’s still fine to continue.

The audio engineer looks between the two musicians, uncertain of how to proceed, but Isfan gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before entering the recording booth himself, half-dragging, half-persuading Gieve to take a much-needed break.

“Just let me try a few more takes! I almost got it, come on—”

“No, your voice is cracking. You need to rest,” Isfan insists.

“Isfan’s right. Let’s give it another go tomorrow,” the audio engineer tells Gieve kindly.

Isfan nods his thanks, and then with a firm and steady hand, he pulls the bewildered idol out the door with a polite “see you tomorrow” aimed at the audio engineer.

“All right, all right, will you let go already?”

Gieve has been blindly following Isfan without really questioning where he’s taking him; not that he has any choice to begin with since the taller man still has a strong hold of his hand as he leads them down one hallway after another. A few passerby staff give them odd looks as they rush past, but they keep the muttering to themselves, though it doesn’t stop all kinds of rumours from spreading outside of the company that will gradually accompany the release of the single in the upcoming weeks.

Isfan finally lets him go when they reach the roof. They’ve taken the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid the worst of the crowd, but even walking up three flights of stairs is enough to make Gieve, who exercises regularly through dance rehearsals and gym visits, sweat and breathe raggedly, his arm hanging onto the railing to support his weight when they finally reach the top.

The roof of Ecbatana Entertainment Productions has been renovated into a garden where employees can rest in a peaceful spot away from the stress and worry of their work for a little while. The place is usually crowded during lunch time, but it is now nearing seven o’clock in the evening, the sky deepening into violet and blue and awash with splashes of pink and gold of the setting sun, the rooftop garden is utterly deserted.

Bushes of blooming lavender planted in squares of soil in the center of the garden create a waft of pleasant and sweet floral scent with a trace of evening summer breeze. Leaves of various plants that neither man remembers the names of whisper and rustle softly around them, and for the moment, they share the illusion of being the only ones in this world as the city halts its steps for the night.

The two men settle on one of the benches that allows them to overlook the city skyline.

“Now that you’ve got me all by my lonesome,” Gieve breaks the silence easily and glances up at him with his infamous smile, the frustration from a few minutes ago gone without a trace as he wraps an arm intimately around Isfan’s shoulders, “is there something you wish to confess?”

Turning to face him properly, Isfan almost loses the ability to speak; their faces are only inches apart, and it reminds him of the first time they met — how irritated he’d felt towards the cheeky idol, how much he’d wanted to push him away and walk out of that room, how much more he’d wanted to pull him in and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

He exhales slowly, eyes slipping close to refocus, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m worried about you,” Isfan says.

“Oh,” Gieve chuckles airily, “this is new.”

“I’m serious, damn it,” Isfan grits out, eyes flashing golden and black when he opens them again. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for the past week; you’ve barely finished any of your meals, and I know you’ve been chugging energy drinks when you thought nobody’s watching.”

“Well, apparently, someone’s been watching me closely,” Gieve’s grin turns a little mischievous as he leans in even closer, close enough that their breaths are mixing, a hand dragging up to the nape of Isfan’s neck.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Isfan murmurs, feeling the idol’s fingers splayed warm and heavy against the back of his neck, and he’s entirely too distracted by the other man’s eyes, made deeper green by the colored contact lenses and lightly lined in kohl due to an event he needs to attend later on tonight, and his smiling mouth, the subtle twist an alluring challenge, an undeniable invitation.

“Seeking comfort, decreasing my stress levels, trying to make you notice me more, and so on and so forth,” Gieve replies.

Isfan laughs lightly at the last item of Gieve’s statement, clearly amused by the idol’s attempt to flirt with him (which is working weirdly well, all things considered), and Gieve pouts at the reaction, slightly insulted.

“What? Why are you laughing? This is no laughing matter, you know—”

Isfan only laughs harder, the corner of his eyes crinkling and the sound of his laughter soft and rumbling like distant thunder echoing in a forest that sets alight something deep within Gieve, making his blood tremble with delight.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Isfan says, and then he’s pulling Gieve towards himself by a fistful of his shirtfront, his mouth crashing against the idol’s unceremoniously in a messy kiss.

“And this week, on the Pars Top 40 Chart, a newly released single has reached the number one spot: it’s Gieve, featuring guest artist Isfan, ‘The Lost Ones’ Fantasy’!”

---

A/N: Goodness. Excuse the terrible writing. I started giving up towards the end and didn’t really bother anymore…

#arslansenkifandomday2017 #arslan senki #the heroic legend of arslan #gieve #isfan #isfan/gieve #gieve/isfan #bowie's crappy writing

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bisymmetra · 7 years

Text

i. title: détente

ii. fandom: overwatch

iii. characters/ships: jack morrison, ; gen, background ships, might be reaper76 if i make this a thing but rn it’s shipless

iv. warnings: uh, discussion of ptsd/panic attacks/nightmares, but like vaguely? like nothing triggery really but if youre sensitive, brief mention of alcohol, more specific champagne and the pop of it setting off a panic attack

v. tags: dogs, im using forty nine for jack’s age bc the timeline’s all over and i put 45 - 55 in a rng and got forty nine, angela ziegler has #connections, this is five pages and just short of 2k words wtf, tenatively, bonnie the dog, therapy dog, this is jack centered tbh but if i write more hana’s getting a cat, idk if i truly like this

vi. summary: “Uh,” Jack says, the stumble coming out before he can stop it. “That’s a dog.”

“It sure is,” Angela says agreeably, depositing it in his arms and sipping her coffee. “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s June,” he deadpanned, as the wriggling little thing laps at his visor.

vii. notes: i wrote this in an hour and i dont know if i truly like it but bonnie the dog is a thing now. i literally just listened to alberta by eric clapton while writing this. will be on ao3 in half an hour. @snowsheba saw these hcs that inspired this first.

It’s four in the morning the first time he tells Angela about the dreams.

Nightmares, really. The kind that leave him grasping at catching his breath, the sweat on his brow chilly wet and clingy in the Spanish night. The kind that leaves your heart thrumming in his ears. He doesn’t - he doesn’t think this is anything important, really. It should be expected, really. He’s old, now, and he’s been military for forty damn years. He’s seen some shit.

Most people who got up real early to find him already awake didn’t question it - dreams of their own, he guessed, or maybe just expecting career military to be up at the crack of dawn. And they weren’t wholly wrong - years on a farm and years in the military have him waking up earlier than most the base, on the nights where he doesn’t wake up around two or three.

It’s the fourth time that Angela’s woken up at three in the morning to find him awake. The kitchen. this time. The practice range twice before, and once in between that in one of the commons, a book on his lap. (He didn’t much like being there, on one of those nights, but he’d had a nightmare about an incident in Kuwait, and the walls of the room had been suffocating. Hana had also been sitting there, playing some vintage game in the low light. He figured they were there for similar reasons, and didn’t say a word for hours.)

“Jack,” Angela said. The clock on the wall is a bright, neon blue 3:49 AM. Jack, to his credit, manages to look up from his coffee and at her. In the fluorescent kitchen light, her dark circles look more prominent, the mess of her hair tied in a loose not. She has a bottle of water in her hand. She looks exhausted. Momentarily, he wonders how much sleep she’s getting, then feels like a hypocrite.

“Angela,” he musters, swallowing. “Lovely morning.”

“The sun won’t be up for another few hours,” she said. “Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, which - it isn’t a lie, really. He couldn’t get back to sleep, after tonight.

“Doesn’t seem like you ever do,” she says, sliding down across from him. “That’s not good for your health.”

“I get a few hours,” he says. Three and a half, tonight. “Could be worse.”

“Jack,” she admonishes. “This isn’t - have you been dreaming?”

“Most people do sometimes,” he says, which - technically correct, but not what she’s asking. There is a beat, which is mostly filled with Angela frowning deeply at him and Jack staring at his coffee. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Except it doesn’t really work, because Angela is phenomenal at seeing through bullshit, and this isn’t the first accident she’s seen. (There was once, with a bottle of champagne, and the noise and laughing sounds like screaming so easily and. Jack had excused himself, mumbling, hands shaking. Angela had followed when everyone was distracted. Angela knows. How could he think he could win at lying to her?)

“There are people who can help with - everything,” she says. “I know a few that are - they’re good.” Jack fixates on everything but Angela’s face, feeling naked without the visor. He instead stares at where her neck meets her shoulder, the marks Fareeha had left. There’s a stain on her shirt’s collar, of what’s chocolate, coffee, or blood. It’s dried brown, almost reddish brown in the light. Out the window, the Gibraltar night is interrupted with crickets.

He wonders what Angela dreams of. People she couldn’t save, his mind fills in. Genji’s corpse-body, when they first brought him in. People she can’t save. Gunshots.

Jack sighs. It’s a gesture that makes him feel older than he is.

“They’re just bad dreams,” he says, voice low and deep. It feels like a confession. “Omnic Crisis. Overwatch. Old things. I’m an old man, Angela, it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong just because it keeps me up.”

“You’re not that old, compared to the average,” she muses absently. “You’re only forty nine.”

“Fifty in a few weeks,” he said, hoping for a diversion. “I’m not a young man anymore, anyway. And I can’t really see a therapist, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Why not?”

“I’m legally dead, remember?” Angela nods, clearly contemplative. He closes his eyes. “‘s just dreams, either way. Doesn’t matter a bit.”

There’s a long pause. Angela rises from her seat. “Good night, Jack,” she murmurs.

For days, he waits to see if Angela brings it up again, or tells someone, or something. He’s worried about it.

It’s just dreams, and anxiety and - it doesn’t matter. He just doesn’t want people to look at him differently. But no one does and Angela doesn’t say anything. It’s almost as if their early morning conversation is forgotten.

It’s been nine days when he first realizes Angela didn’t forget at all. He’s sitting in a common room, talked into joining most of the other agents. People are mostly in their own groups. Hana and Genji are playing some Mario Kart thing, the engineers at a table discussing - schematics, he thinks, but he’d heard the words Pop Tarts and doubted himself - Jesse and Hanzo and Fareeha talking in soft voices. Lena, Reinhardt and Ana at a table, Wid- Amelie, he corrects himself - Amelie joining them. Sombra and Lucio at a table hollering about the game Hana and Genji are playing. Who had cajoled two thirds of their ex Talon agents and how is lost on him, but he’s almost glad Gabriel wasn’t here, even knowing - this is a talk for another day. Jack is at one of the old, worn seats, an old book in his lap.

“Jack!” Angela’s voice comes in from the hall, and most look up as she pushes the door open with her hip. It takes only a moment to discern why: in one hand is a mug of what is definitely coffee, and the other is a -

“I got you a present, you’re welcome,” Angela says.

“Uh,” Jack says, the stumble coming out before he can stop it. “That’s a dog.”

“It sure is,” Angela says agreeably, depositing it in his arms and sipping her coffee. “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s June,” he deadpanned, as the wriggling little thing laps at his visor.

“Happy early birthday,” she replies. “You turn fifty in two weeks. There.”

The puppy - which, relatively, is pretty big, a St Bernard if he had to guess - laps at his cheek next. “This is a dog,” he repeats. “Where did you get this?”

“Her,” Angela corrects. “She flunked out of being a therapy dog because she liked to lick strangers or something along those lines. She needed a home. Dogs, I’ve been told, lower stress. You’re going to give yourself a stroke or a heart attack at this rate.”

In that moment, he realizes this is about what they discussed but Angela doesn’t want to say it in public. He can appreciate that much. “Can we even keep a-”

Lena is by his side, scooping her up in a second. Her, the dog, not Angela. “Why are you protesting? It’s a dog! Accept it and move on.” The dog licks Lena’s face delightedly, and everyone resumes talking over each other about - well. Jack rises, giving Angela a look. She just grins back, satisfied.

“Fine,” he acquiesces. Arguing isn’t going to do much, anyway. Angela’d kill him if he tried to return her, anyway, even if he hasn’t had a dog since he was a teenager. His family had kept hunting and herding dogs, all of which loved his mother more than anything. She gave them the most scraps. Lena shoves the bundle of fur back into his arms after one last lick, and he stares at her as she returns to licking his face. Her, the dog, that is. Not Lena.

The dog follows him around all the time. When he sits, she sits on his feet, gets comfortable. Angela tells him she’s a six month St. Bernard. They called her Nessie in training, but she never learned the name and really, it just makes him think of conspiracy theories. (Dimly, he remembers Reinhardt rambling about - he really wants to say Bigfoot, but the memory is twenty five years old.)

He mostly just calls her Dog, which outrages an alarming amount of people. Expectedly, Ana, Lena, and Angela are most fond of Dog. Unexpectedly, he’s caught Hanzo giving her scraps four times in three days. When he enters a room that Hanzo and Bonnie are already in, she’s in his lap and he looks like a deer in the headlights. (It’s actually really fucking funny.)

He sets her on the floor before bed, but she’s always curled up next to him when he awakens, like a really furry pillow.

It takes five days for him to really get used to the idea she could provide actual help.

It’s - another bad dream, because of course it is. Jack gasps for breath, kicks off the blanket, brow slick cool with sweat. His heart pounds in his ears. Him kicking the blankets must of woke the Dog, as she bounces up, presses next to him.

She shoves her head and back against his hands, in a way that would be petting if it was his hands moving, not her body. She licks his face tentatively, as if seeing if that helps. Jack can feel his heart start to slow, faster than his normal calm down times. He moves his hands, callouses running against soft fur. Dog takes this as encouragement, licks him more excitedly. Jack closes his eyes.

Normally, he’d get up. He wouldn’t be back asleep regardless, so he may as well get up. But Dog settles in next to him, and petting her evens him out, makes it easier to settle. He lets himself be lulled to sleep.

In the morning, he names her Bonnie. It seems fitting, somehow. She seems like a Bonnie. He’ll talk to Angela about a collar, soon.

In the meantime, he sits down at the cafeteria table, Bonnie by his feet, and pretend he doesn’t see no less than five people feeding her scraps.

He goes on a day long mission on July 3rd. His birthday’s the next day (he’s getting old, he thinks). It’s a short thing, mission wise. Fifteen hours securing a payload in the heart of London and back.

He’s with Lucio, D.Va, Genji, Mei, and Sombra for it, all these young kids making him feel much older than he is. (Mei, Genji, and Sombra are all in their thirties, he remembers. But he’s fifty tomorrow. They’re kids to him, anyway. They all have much more.. zest than he does.)

He gets back late, and he’s a little sad to not have Bonnie at the door when he enters the room. He discards his jacket to the desk and changes fast, glancing at the bed to locate his dog. She’s sleeping in her exact normal spot, with an approximately Jack sized spot next to her. Jack slides in next to her, and she shifts awake, moving to press into him. She licks his face hello, and he calms her by petting her back for a few minutes.

He breathes easy, relaxed. After a few, he glances at the clock. 12:02.

“Happy birthday,” he hums warmly, closing his eyes.

He sleeps well that night.

now on ao3!

#jack morrison #my writing #overwatch #soldier: 76 #snowsheba #bonnie the dog #is this any good? we just don't know

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mapowrites · 5 years

Text

Misericórdiae (Erwin Smith/OC)

Chapter 6: Voltaire

[ I ] [ II ] [ III ] [ IV ] [ V ]

“I won’t tell you yes but that won’t guarantee you won’t do it, will it, Erwin?”

Commander Shadis and Erwin sat in the commander’s office, two cups of coffee between them on Shadis’ desk. Outside his window, the new recruits were doing their final afternoon physical training, announcing the end of the work day.

Erwin chuckled. “I wouldn’t do anything so consequential without your approval, sir.”

Shadis examined the papers in his hand one by one, leaning back in his seat. Erwin’s commander hummed in thought as he read the personal files. His eyes glanced over the page to Erwin. “And these aeroplanes… You’ve seen them in person?”

“Yes, Mr. Reichart gave me a personal tour of each prototype. They’re waiting for proper equipment to install their first engine into a frame,” Erwin confirmed. “He mentioned it would be their first aircraft, besides their gliders, that wasn’t a lighter-than-air.”

“A lighter-than-air?” Shadis cocked an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s in the report, sir. A lighter-than-air aircraft is designed to contain within its’ structure a certain amount of hydrogen or helium, or even heated air. A gas that is lighter than air. The volume displaces the surrounding ambient air and floats, just as a cork does on the water.”

Shadis stared at Erwin in either displeasure or confusion for a few seconds. Erwin couldn’t tell, but he almost wanted to laugh at his reaction. The commander sighed heavily and pushed around the documents in his desk. “Fine. I trust you. But if we get bit in the ass by the Military Police, I’m placing full responsibility on you. Not only that, but we’ll have to hand them over to the Military Police if they’re discovered.”

“I understand, sir.” Erwin nodded, gathering the reports and files into a neat pile on his commander’s desk after Shadis scribbled his signature on a page. “As I said, this may seem like a risk, but the benefits we will reap from these advancements will be beyond compare.”

“Hn,” Shadis grunted, eyeing Erwin suspiciously. As always, Erwin never gave away his true face and merely saluted Shadis, his report tucked under his arm. “We’ll see.”

After his salute, Erwin thanked Shadis for meeting with him and exited his office. As he walked through the halls of the Scouting Legion headquarters, he sifted through the report, his eyes scanning over the papers for a specific file. He finally landed on Lyor’s file, her picture stapled to the corner of the page.

He ran his thumb over her outdated picture and knit his brows. Six weeks had passed since he had last seen her. He hadn’t dared to contact her after she had stormed away from him, believing she needed time to process and to heal. He knew she blamed him for the death of her comrades. He knew it from the way she had glared at him with a thousand fires of hatred. But her father had also told him when he had visited Wilhelm in the hospital. During their encounter with the titans, Wilhelm had suffered a broken leg after falling off of his horse. Six weeks later, he was due to be released from the hospital, Erwin remembered.

With this, he closed the file in his hands and set off to the hospital. There was only one thing missing from Lyor’s file: her address.

Deep within Wall Sina, a cohort of master students sat in a lecture hall at the Sina University. The light from the sunset poured into the hall through the grand windows like melted butter. Hunched over her textbook, Lyor rubbed her temple and frowned. The words coming out of her professor’s mouth weren’t making any sense. She’d catch the first part of sentence only to find them completely derail in her head — just like when you read a sentence in a book only to find yourself rereading it over and over. This pattern had been present in each of her classes for the past six weeks. Her brain felt like a child’s schoolyard game; bouncing incoherently from thought to thought, never landing on one long enough for her to process anything substantial. From her father being in the hospital, Max and Theo’s metaphysical funerals, to the very obvious torment that was Faye’s disappearance, her brain and mood were dreary.

“If I have to listen to this guy give one more monotone lecture, I’m going to jump off Wall Rose.” Her head jerked up from her textbook and sparse notes at the sounds of her classmates’ shifting and laughing.

With their lecture ended and their professor running off to teach another class, the students were packing up their books and belongings. How long had she tuned out the lecture? She looked down at her notes and read the two points she had written down for her three hour lecture. She groaned to herself and asked her neighbour if she could borrow her notes. That was the sixth time Lyor had asked her — she was falling behind.

She scrambled to stuff her books and utensils into her shoulder bag and slung the leather bag over her right shoulder as she hastily stood up. She followed her peers down the amphitheatre steps, ready to blindly trail behind them to her next lecture.

“It looks like we’re finally at the end of the first semester.” Lyor hadn’t even noticed someone was walking in step with her down the stairs. Her eyes adjusted Olivia’s face, and she slapped on a fraudulent smile.

“Yeah, we should get together to study for our final exams.” Lyor replied flatly to the girl.

“Sure, but I’ll need my notes back in order to do any studying.” Sardonically, her classmate replied. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be dry with one another; they had been rivals since they started at the university. The rivalry had grown into an odd friendship. The two young women followed the crowd across the lecture hall and towards the exit door.

Lyor sighed and offered an apologetic smile. “Ha-ha, I promise I’ll give them back next week, Olivia. I really appreciate your help.”

Her classmate narrowed her eyes. “Man, something must be really screwing with you if you’re ‘appreciating’ me. You’re not going to drop out, are you?”

“Of course not,” Lyor snorted and pushed the door open, holding it open for Olivia as she looked back at her. Lyor flashed a charming smile. “I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, that’s all. I’ll catch up with the help of your shitty notes.”

“Because if you drop out, I don’t know what I’ll do. You’ve been my only real competition since you showed up at Sina. You’re my pace horse. Without you, I’ll get lazy. I'll have frosted hair and dragon lady nails, I'll achieve nothing. I'll become my mother.” Ignoring her, Olivia continued her rant, not bothering to hold the door for the people behind her.

“Whatever your say, Olivia.” Lyor muttered before she turned her head back to where she was going. Outside in the hall, all of their classmates were walking unusually slow to their next class, hushing whispers amongst themselves.

“Ugh, what now, people?” Olivia shouted, rushing past Lyor and the crowd. “Move it, I’ve got a class to get to!”

Seeing Olivia productively sifting through the crowd, Lyor called after her. “Hey, wait! Save me a spo—”

“Lyor.” Her heart sunk at the sound of a familiar voice. A voice she had demanded herself to forget.

Her eyes widened in dismay. Reluctantly, her head spun slowly around to find him standing across the hall from her classroom’s door. Tall, proud, noble — his military uniform suited him.

“Erwin? What’re you—” Lyor started before she noticed the abundance of eyes on them. She took a quick scan of her classmates, most of them staring and whispering, before she shook her head. They rarely saw any military individuals here — even less seen were soldiers from the Scouting Legion. She glanced at Erwin one last time before she continued on her way, her hand clutching her bag’s strap. “I have a class to get to.”

“I have information that concerns you,” Erwin insisted, earning bashful whispers from the students who walked by; isn’t that Erwin Smith from the scouts? Is she in trouble? Erwin raised his voice effortlessly to bellow. “I strongly suggest that the rest of you get to your classes and out of my sight.”

Erwin’s threatening tone of voice made her shudder and stop in her tracks. She watched the crowd quake in panic, and they quickly dispersed. She turned around to face him, clenching the strap over her shoulder. She stepped closer to him but kept an impersonal gap between them. Besides the absence of his wounds, he didn’t look any different from the last time she had seem him: cold and beautiful calculating eyes, sharp cheekbones, and an immaculate posture. The sight of him made her teeth grind, and she couldn’t hold his eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time. All she could think about when she saw him was Faye.

“What do you want?” She snapped.

“I’m here to tell you that my commander has approved an expedition to search for Ms. Wellington.” The blond spoke evenly. His blue eyes never faltered from their fix on Lyor’s face. He noted how different she looked from when he had met her; long, wavy chestnut hair now released from her former bun, her bangs pinned back away from her face to form the illusion of a half-up hairstyle. Opposite from the pants and practical blouse he had seen her in, she wore a blue dress with a brown leather belt cinching her waist.

Lyor scoffed, meeting his eyes defiantly. “Six weeks later?”

“We leave tomorrow evening.” Erwin continued. He watched her shake her head with an incredulous smile.

“Good for you,” her response dripped with sarcasm. “I’m sure you’ll find her starved corpse in a cave somewhere.”

“You don’t give her much credit, do you?” Satiated with her attitude, he retorted cooly. Lyor’s smile evaporated and her brows knit together dangerously. He watched her knuckles turn white as she squeezed the strap over her shoulder.

“I gave Faye credit and it got her devoured by titans,” Lyor replied venomously, hissing the word ‘credit’. “Actually, by separating us when the going got rough, you decided that for me. Now unless you have anything else to say, other than your asinine comments, I have places to be.”

“The Scouting Legion is prepared to hire your team to carry out your research,” Erwin interjected, cruising by her snark. Lyor’s mouth dropped open. “You would have known this from the letters and documents I sent you, but assuming you tore those up, I’m here to extend an official offer from the Legion.”

Lyor gawked at Erwin, trying to process the doors that were suddenly slammed opened by his proposal. Funded, protected, and military escorted research. No more clandestine workshops, no more smuggling equipment from the underground. They would get paid to build one of mankind’s most prodigious advancements. The would have an entire regiment escorting their outings beyond the walls.

“I— how did you…?” Lyor inhaled sharply to regain her composure. Closing her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose and paused to think. She met Erwin’s gaze once again, determination stretched on her features. “You’re the reason for which Max and his son died, for which my father is in the hospital, and the reason for which Faye is missing. I can’t accept.”

They stood in silence, unflinchingly staring at one another. Lyor envied him for his incorruptible demeanour; his eyes piercing cohesion into her. She knew the squad leader well enough to know that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Find Faye,” she finally spoke, steadfast. “And I’ll mull it over.”

She caught a twitch of an uneven smile pull at the corner of Erwin’s lip, and he reached his hand out for a handshake. “You have my word.”

Wary, Lyor stepped closer to fit her much smaller hand in his. She forced her mind off the warmth and virile strength of his hand as it enveloped hers. They shook hands ceremoniously, and Lyor — not wanting to remain under his gaze — bid him goodbye with a quick nod before walking away. Erwin watched her for a few seconds before he parted in the opposite direction.

The walk to her next class was a blur. She collapsed into one of the classroom chairs and stared blankly at the chalkboard, dazed.

“Bagged yourself a military man, huh?”

Lyor jumped at the sudden appearance of her classmate, Olivia, who sat next to her. Lyor placed a hand on her chest to calm herself. Olivia watched her cheekily. “God, you’re like a popup book from hell.”

“Who was that?” Olivia urged, shooting past Lyor’s comment. Their professor walked in and greeted the class as Lyor took her books out of her bag. “Did you do something illegal?”

“None of your business.” Lyor grumbled in response. The professor began the lesson, and Lyor followed along intensely to block out Olivia’s stare.

Her mind drifted to Faye yet again, but this time, in her head, Faye was safe and sound. She pictured her safe in a makeshift hideout, a relieved smile on her face as the silhouette of a brave young man dressed in a green cape made his way towards her.

For the first time in weeks, Lyor was able to focus productively throughout the entire class.

The next day, Lyor returned to her house in the late afternoon from class. She was properly exhausted; all she had done for the past 24 hours was cram for all the weeks she had spaced out in class. But something had been ignited in her, and she didn’t want to stop working hard. She would never admit that Erwin’s proposal had motivated her.

Lyor reached the front door of her landlady’s house, not too far from the university within the walls of Sina. Not having the status or wealth to own a house in Sina, she had been renting one of the widow’s bedrooms upstairs. It was a quaint bedroom, and she didn’t have much privacy given that the widowed homeowner was a nosy yenta, but Lyor was only there to sleep and study. She regularly visited her father in Wall Rose when she needed to get away.

Lyor dug for her key in her bag, rummaging through the stray papers and books that occupied it. She cursed under her breath when she was left no other choice. She slid the bag off of her shoulder, crouched on the ground and dumped its contents onto the ground. She shuffled through the items as civilians walked by her on the sidewalk.

“… she’s frequenting a high-ranking military officer. Mrs. Dietrich told me…”

“… I always wondered how she could afford rent when she comes from Rose… Now we know it’s as easy as whoring around with a scout…”

Once she processed that the words were about her, Lyor’s head jerked up to see two middle-aged women whispering amongst themselves as they walked by her. Lyor narrowed her eyes at them, and upon making eye contact with the two women, they were silenced. They immediately looked away and sped up their pace to scurry away.

“Man, news travels fast with Mrs. Dietrich.” Lyor muttered, rolling her eyes before going back to dig around for her key. She didn’t care enough about those strangers to argue with them.

Her hands finally landed on her key only to hear the door handle rattle open on its own.

“What on Earth are you doing on the ground?” Mrs. Dietrich, her landlady, glowered down at her with bitter eyes. Clad in a dark, funereal-like dress, the woman stuck her nose in the air and waited for an answer.

Without moving from her squatted position, Lyor held the key up with a pacifist stare. “Couldn’t find my key.”

“Honestly, how do you live in such clutter?” The widow scoffed as Lyor gathered her belongings and stuffed them back in her bag without a care. Normally, she would’ve organised her papers before putting them back in her bag, but the less time she spent in Mrs. Dietrich’s presence, the better. Lyor stood, and Mrs. Dietrich led her into the house. “You’re lucky I impose a weekly inspection of your room, Ms. Reichart. Otherwise, I’m sure you’d be living in a pigsty!”

“Hn,” Lyor closed the door behind her before immediately making her way towards the stairs.

“Have you no manners? I’ve prepared an afternoon tea for us,” The bleak woman ambled about her kitchen, taking a kettle off the stove. “Sit.”

Lyor suppressed a displeased sigh before practically crumpling into one of the kitchen table’s chairs. She wanted to avoid conflict with the landlady who could kick her out whenever she wanted, but subduing her protests was starting to give her a tension headache.

The young woman watched the widow pour steaming water into an expensive teapot, muttering something about how impolite Lyor was to not offer to help. Lyor drowned it out and averted her eyes, only to have them notice something unusual. Her brows knit when she spotted a brown package with a white envelope on top. The envelope read ‘Lyor Reichart’ in cursive.

The brunette stood from her seat and walked over to the package and picked up the envelope — it was already torn open.

“How long has this been here?” Lyor asked, bitterly. She turned around to face Mrs. Dietrich who was in mid-pour at the kitchen counter.

Mrs. Dietrich sneered. “It was dropped off by a young Recon Corps officer this morning. I was very inconvenienced by his arrival, I’ll have you know. The entire neighbourhood was talking about it! It is the height of impropriety for a woman of your age and status to accept a gift from —”

“Mrs. Dietrich, did you open my mail?” Lyor interrupted her, holding the letter addressed to her up with two fingers. It took all of her self control not to fume at the woman — not only had she started the rumours going around in the neighbourhood, but she had snooped through her mail.

“My eyes are not so good; it is a pain for me to differentiate our letters,” Mrs. Dietrich replied, her voice purposefully cracking to inflict guilt on Lyor for becoming agitated. “My dear, I am but an old, widowed woman.”

Without a second thought, Lyor gathered the package and letter in her arms, her bag slung over her shoulder, and stomped towards the stairs. She spoke to herself, “Yeah, and you’re also a pain in my ass.”

Before she could hear if her landlady had heard, Lyor had climbed to the second floor, entered her room, and closed the door behind her. She let out an annoyed sigh and shrugged off her bag. Her room wasn’t very big: a single bed, a desk, a wooden dresser, an overflowing bookcase, and a window.

She plopped her bag down beside her desk and placed the brown paper covered package on her desk. She eyed the package curiously as she popped her window open, letting the fresh autumn breeze roll into her bedroom. She sat down at her desk, facing the window, and carefully slid the delicate stationery out of the envelope.

For your ‘mulling’.

Erwin Smith

She instantly recognised his handwriting without even needing to read his signature. Her thumb unintentionally brushed over his name, and she cursed herself for it. Setting the laconic letter down, she slid the package in front of her. She knew it had to be some sort of book. What kind of bribe had he thought of now?

Lyor forced any feelings of excitement out of her system and peeled back the paper from the gift that waited underneath. She repressed a gasp.

Before her eyes was a first-edition copy of Dictionnaire Philosophique by Voltaire. She ran her fingers over the gold encrusted cover, admiring the fine craftsmanship of the binding. She flipped meticulously through the pages, as if one wrong movement would set the book ablaze. Not only was it a first edition, but it wasn’t translated from its original language. The book was easily worth over 2,000 gold pieces.

Astounded, she sat all the way back in her chair, staring at the priceless gift upon her desk. She couldn’t accept this. Not only was it bribery, but it was overpriced bribery. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, drumming her fingers on her desk as she thought about what to do about Erwin’s gift.

His voice suddenly echoed in her head: We leave tomorrow evening.

She bolted from her desk, grabbing what she needed for the long ferry-ride she had ahead of her to Wall Maria. With Erwin’s gift under her arm, she scampered out of her room and down the stairs.

A crowd of civilians gathered around the Survey Corps’ troops as they lined up in formation before Wall Maria’s gate. Criticisms and crude commentary were exchanged through whispers and scoffs. At this point, and after so long, Erwin didn’t even realise people were talking about them. He sat proudly and passively on his white stallion, directly behind his commander with his squad members following behind him. They stood idly as they waited for the gates to be opened, the Garrison troops clearing the way for them outside the walls.

Erwin ran through the strategy briefing in his head yet another time, visualising the area they were heading to. The image of a battered, skeletal corpse flashed in his mind as Lyor’s words polluted him: I’m sure you’ll find her starved corpse in a cave somewhere. It was indeed a very possible option, but Erwin exhaled the thought out of his head. He wondered when or why he had started listening to other people’s doubts. One person’s doubts in particular.

He began to scan the crowd in order to distract himself from his thoughts, drinking in the looks of disdain and disapproval. Waste of taxes, green devils, wings of failure. He’d heard them all. However, his eyebrows raised at the sight of a familiar face standing out in the crowd.

Lyor: her wavy locks flowing past her shoulders and her amber eyes locked on his blue ones. He couldn’t decipher her expression, but he recognised the book she held close to her chest. He almost chuckled to himself, wondering what the hell she was doing here. As soon as their eyes had met, he watched her advance from the crowd — she was coming to speak with him. He stole a glance at the Garrison guards up on the gates. He had a few minutes to spare.

Erwin dismounted, earning questioning looks from his fellow soldiers, but his eyes were focused on the young woman who exited the crowd to come join him. He suddenly felt an unfamiliar emotion as she walked over to him. Though she certainly wasn’t here to bid him anything whatsoever, he couldn’t help but feel as if she was seeing him off. The experience was foreign to him, but he couldn’t hide the fact that he enjoyed it — he specifically enjoyed that she would be the last person he’d see before he departed.

“It’s my turn to ask you what you’re doing here.” Once she reached him, Erwin couldn’t help the childlike smirk on his face as he greeted her. She was wearing the same blue dress he had seen her in the day before.

Lyor seemed to stare at him as if she had just realised something. She replied slowly. His eyes fixated on her pink lips as she spoke without him knowing it. “I originally came here to reject your gift, but I just realised you have nowhere to store this book.”

He chuckled, his hands loosely around his horse’s dangling reins. “Then you’ll just have to keep it.” He had almost wanted to tell her she hadn’t come to return his book, but to see him, rather. He wasn’t blind. But he kept his cockiness to himself.

“Erwin, I can’t accept this. I’ll skip straight past the bribery issue to tell you that our original deal was for you to bring Faye back. That’s all.” Lyor never broke their eye contact.

“You’re right; this has nothing to do with our deal,” Erwin replied cooly. “I simply thought you could use a good read to exercise your mind while you contemplated my offer. No bribes.”

Lyor let out a breathless laugh. “How is this not a bribe? How much did you spend on this?”

“I didn’t spend a single penny on it.”

“You stole it?”

Erwin had to suppress himself from bursting into laughter. “Do I look like a thief?”

He watched her cheeks flush a light pink before she averted her eyes in annoyance. “Well what else am I supposed to infer from that?”

“That used to be my book. I’m giving it to you; you said you didn’t have any copies of Voltaire.” Erwin spelled it out for her just as the Garrison guards alerted the troops of their imminent departure with sonorous bells. The blond didn’t get a chance to see Lyor’s reaction as he swiftly returned to his horse and mounted. She followed him, and he looked down at her. She was smiling up at him, a mix of mischief and amusement in her eyes.

“You’re not very good at bribery.” She commented.

“That’s because I don’t bribe,” He offered her an intimidating smirk. “I blackmail.”

He caught her face turning red for a split second with something other than embarrassment this time. The bells continued to ring over their staring contest until she finally spoke.

“Good luck out there.”

“Thank you.” Erwin replied, his blue eyes pouring intensely into her honey ones. I’ll find her, he meant to tell her with his gaze. A small smile pulled at her lips at this. With a nod, she took a few steps backwards before she finally broke their powerful gaze and turned her back to him to rejoin the crowd. The jangling of the gate opening sounded throughout the street, and Erwin steeled himself, ready to follow his commander’s instructions.

Within minutes, the gate was open, and Shadis raised his arm. Upon his signal, the troops broke into a gallop at the command to advance. They poured through the gates, group by group. Erwin stole a small glance at Lyor before she left his sight; she was watching him. He smiled knowingly to himself: he had lied to her.

Six weeks ago, that pleasant afternoon they had spent together reading Rousseau in the forest, she had admitted to him that she had always wanted to own a book by Voltaire. For six weeks, he had been asphyxiated with guilt over the death of her friends. For six weeks, he had replayed the sight of the hatred in her eyes — directed at him. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted to see her happy again. The book he had given her wasn’t a hand-me-down. He had spent an entire month’s salary on it the moment he had laid eyes on it: he wanted to be the reason she was happy again.

Notes: Please leave me some comments! I would love to know what you've got on your mind.

#erwin smith x oc #erwin smith #oc #erwin smith/oc #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot #fanfiction

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gaperezmakes · 6 years

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Insurrection - The Making of a Grand Paladin Part IV

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The three candidates stood behind their podiums in front of the remaining seven leaders of the Prime. The Dealer and Synoth both sat behind a table, writing notes down and exchanging quiet comments. Orvyn, standing between Kalman and Sheamus, looked to his friend on his right. Kalman met Orvyn’s gaze and nodded as if knowing he too was nervous. Behind the Dealer and Synoth sat the four Grand Magni and Grand Marshall Hugues.

It had been a week since the three of them received their nomination letters. Both Orvyn and Kalman knew they were fighting an uphill battle; Sheamus had the benefit of a united six votes if all the magi voted together. Trying to uncomplicate the situation, Orvyn had approached the Dealer after receiving his nomination to formally withdraw from the race.

“Orvyn, what did I tell you about Mary Sue-ing?” The Dealer looked at the nomination letter coldly.

“Sir, I don’t completely understand what you mean, but this is not some sense of honor forcing me to throw this away.” Orvyn pushed the letter towards his superior.

“Grand Marshall, I won’t tell you who nominated you. I can’t,” he pushed the letter back, “But I’d like to see why.”

“But sir, if we split our votes, Grand Marshall Sheamus will win, and I don’t believe he’s the right man for the job.”

“And you believe Grand Marshall Kalman is? You think he’d be better than you?”

“Not necessarily, but we’re both certainly more qualified than Sheamus.”

“Then don’t give up.” The Dealer’s stare intensified, “Run like you want to win. Go ahead and give Kalman your vote if you really want to, but don’t give up.”

Orvyn told Kalman that there had been a change in plans. Kalman was frustrated with the development but was assured by Orvyn that there was still a way for him to win. There was no way Orvyn had any dog in this race, so both he and Hugues would vote for Kalman. They assumed that the Dealer would vote for Kalman, which gave him a solid block of four votes. All he would need to do from there would be to get one more vote so he could force a runoff election that only involved the Paladin Corps, and a vote like that was sure to go in his favor.

And now was the moment for their entire plan to come together.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The Dealer announced, looking to the small group behind him, “Thank you for attending, although I suspect most of you are here because you had no other choice. Today is unprecedented, as it is not only our first debate like this, but it is our first debate where we have three candidates. Please welcome Grand Marshall Richard Kalman!” There was a short applause from the crowd. “Grand Marshall Sigurd Orvyn!” To his surprise, Orvyn received some applause of his own, although he figured it was more of a formality than anything else. “Grand Marshall Keaton Sheamus!” To neither Orvyn nor Kalman’s surprise, Sheamus’ welcome was much louder and longer than theirs.

“Now, Archmage Synoth and I have prepared a list of questions for each of the candidates. They will have three minutes to answer each question, and after their opponents will be given two to rebut their statements. Hopefully, after today, we will have selected our new Grand Paladin!” Another short round of applause filled the room. “Gentlemen, any opening statements?”

“To whoever nominated me for this opportunity, I appreciate your faith and hope I do not let you down,” Kalman’s attempt to project calm and confidence was undercut by the slightest twinges of nervousness in his voice.

“I hope to prove today that nobody can succeed on blind luck alone, but with hard work and determination,” Orvyn spoke loudly and proudly, “And I hope that, if I am chosen, I will be able to lead the Paladin Corps with the same grace and dignity as Grand Paladin Mira.”

Sheamus looked surprisedly at Orvyn. He hadn’t expected such boisterous posturing in an election he was going to win handily. “I--I will do my best to prove that I am the best suited to lead the Paladin Corps in Grand Paladin Mira’s absence.”

“Thank you, Grand Marshalls. The questioning begins now. Archmage, I believe you have the first?”

“Grand Marshall Sheamus,” Synoth locked his fingers and looked critically at the scruffy blond-haired man, “What do you think is the most pressing issue facing the Paladin Corps going forward?”

“I believe that we in the Paladin Corps carry a greater burden on our shoulders than the Mage Corps. I believe that by delegating some of our responsibilities to the mages, we will become a more effective machine in leading the Prime.”

“Respectfully, Grand Marshall, I disagree,” Orvyn spoke up, “I have also noticed that the Paladin Corps has a larger set of responsibilities than the Mage Corps, but the solution to that issue is not to sacrifice our power and influence. You use the word ‘delegating’ to explain how to reduce our workload, but you forget that the Mage Corps is an authoritative co-equal faction of the Prime.”

“I see,” Synoth finished writing some notes down, “A follow-up, if I may?” The Dealer deferred to his subordinate, “Thank you. Grand Marshall Orvyn, how would you handle the issue Grand Marshall Sheamus has presented to you?”

“I believe that a more effective solution to the issue is not with handing our power to the magi, but with a restructuring of the Paladin Corps as a whole. An expansion of the responsibilities performed by the lower ranks will help reduce the burden on our highest officers, who currently feel that they have to carry this army on their shoulders alone. Now, I’m not saying that we shouldn’t take assistance from our mage brethren--after all, we lean on them much more than we realize--but we can’t just unload all the work we don’t want to do on them.”

Orvyn looked over to Kalman, who seemed at a loss for words. The two of them looked back at the Dealer as he cleared his throat, “Very nice. Thank you, Grand Marshall Orvyn. Grand Marshall Kalman, I’m sure you remember the incident about a year ago where former Grand Marshall Palmer was caught leading a conspiracy to undermine the authority of the upper leadership of the Prime. How would you prevent another scandal of that magnitude from overshadowing your service as Grand Paladin?”

“Well, sir, I would,” Kalman mistakenly paused, collecting his thoughts, “Push for a reorganization of our promotional procedures, so that in the event that a change needed to be made to the promotional boards or results, either you or the Archmage or myself would have to be physically present to confirm that such changes have actually been authorized by us. I understand that I was ultimately a beneficiary of his ouster--both Grand Marshall Orvyn and I did receive our promotions in the wake of his expulsion--but we as the paladins lost a huge chunk of our soldiers--several of which were very good at their jobs.”

“So you’re suggesting, Kalman, that the Grand Paladin do more paperwork?” Sheamus leaned forward a bit to look past Orvyn, “With all due respect, Grand Paladin Mira was a charismatic leader, but she was terrible and overburdened with paperwork. It’s not unfair to assume that we would be beset by the same issue if we don’t change things.”

“I’m not saying we have to fill out or sign anything else, but that we must physically authorize any major changes to our promotional nominations. One of the reasons that Palmer was able to get so far with his scheme was because he was able to use his authority to appear as though he was executing Grand Paladin Mira’s wishes. If we remove the ability for our subordinates to advocate for us, we remove the power of any conspiracy to undermine our authorities.”

“Thank you Grand Marshall.” Synoth looked to Sheamus again, “Grand Marshall Sheamus, same question.”

“Well Archmage, I believe that we set a very clear precedent with Palmer. He and his cohorts were very publicly exposed and expelled, and I believe that sends a very clear message about how we intend on dealing with those who would betray our trust like that.”

“And you believe we should do nothing because the punishment would deter any potential conspirators?” Orvyn berated Sheamus, who seemed taken aback by the interjection.

“I was about to explain how we could prevent this crime from happening again.” Sheamus fumbled with some half-thought sentences, “We could design a mutli-tier confirmation process for all promotional nominees. The first tier is a confirmation from us as the leaders of our branches that the nominations are correct. The second would be that no changes can be made to the nomations after this confirmation has occurred. After the promotional boards have met and decided which candidates will be moving up, no changes can be made to those promotions.”

“So not only would you increase the paperwork load on our Grand Paladin--which you just berated Grand Marshall Kalman for,” Orvyn gave Sheamus a cold stare, “But you would commit us to what could potentially be a disastrous choice if it turned out your candidate was wildly unqualified for the position they were about to move into. Right now the process for demoting anyone is incredibly difficult because of the burden of proof required. So not only are you requiring more paperwork on the front-end of promotions, but you’re potentially putting more on the back-end if we have to remove unqualified people from their positions. Frankly, I believe Grand Marshall Kalman has the better strategy for dealing with this issue.”

“Thank you, Grand Marshall, but that is all the time we have for that issue,” the Dealer turned a page in his notes, “While I still have your attention, Grand Marshall Orvyn, how do you suggest we defend and expand our claim to the land in Capital City?”

“I believe that this is an area where we could ask the Mage Corps for more assistance. We shoulder so much of the burden of running the Prime’s defenses that I often see my paladins leaving for their watch as exhausted as they came from it. I might not be able to speak for everyone here, but my men are being pushed to their limits, and that is setting us up for catastrophic failure if we continue on this course. I propse setting up a joint defense committee with the magi so that we can better delegate the responsiblities of defense and expansion while not sacrificing the well-being of our men.”

“So you’re allowed to sell us out to the mages, but I can’t?” Sheamus shook his head. “Such hypocrisy,” he muttered.

“No, this is a committee we run as the equal branches we are. The Grand Paladin wields no more authority than the Archmage, so I feel it is only right that they participate in crafting our defenses, as well as pulling their fair share of weight while actually defending our territory.”

“Very interesting,” the Dealer nodded as he finished writing his notes down. He looked at a piece of paper Synoth pushed towards him. “You have the last question, Archmage.”

Synoth looked annoyed, but looked over to Kalman, “Grand Marshall Kalman, what do you believe is the biggest internal threat the Prime faces?”

“The biggest internal threat?” Kalman whispered quietly to himself. Orvyn looked to him in panic. He couldn’t not answer this question. It would doom his entire bid to become Grand Paladin. They both needed him to find an answer and quickly. He suddenly found his composure, “I believe our biggest internal threat are the remaining few from Palmer’s conspiracy who were not caught and continue to undermine us. I believe that we must be vigiliant in preventing them from gaining the same level of influence they had while Palmer led them.”

“Please, Palmer’s conspiracy is over. We found and detained or expelled all of his cronies.”

“We can’t know that for sure. Palmer may have had some very low-level operatives who are still working in our ranks.”

“And what if they are? Palmer is dead. We all witnessed his execution.”

“But--”

“Gentlemen,” the Dealer interjected quickly, “That is all the time we have. Thank you for your answers. We are now prepared to take this to vote.” One-by-one, everyone filed up to the lone voting booth off to the side of the debate stage. Everyone waited patiently as the last of the ten voters walked out. A Private walked into the booth and brought out the ballots. All ten were handed to the Dealer, who counted the votes and received a confirmation from Synoth.

“And the results are in. Grand Marshall Richard Kalman,” both Kalman and Orvyn held their breath, “Two votes.” Kalman’s shoulders fell and Orvyn’s eyes opened wide. They had failed and Sheamus was going to become the next Grand Paladin.

“Grand Marshall Sigurd Orvyn,” the number didn’t matter. Orvyn rubbed his eyes in defeat. Kalman was their best shot to-- “Four votes.” Both paladins looked up at the Dealer. Something lit up in Kalman’s eyes. Four votes for Orvyn?

“Grand Marshall Keaton Sheamus: Four votes.”

A tie.

Everyone stood up and applauded the two paladins. Sheamus walked up to Orvyn and extended a hand. They exchanged a good-natured handshake, and Kalman offered his congratulations.

“Gentlemen,” the Dealer caught their attention, “You have one week to prepare for your next debate. We’ll have the vote after that, and in three days we’ll promote our new Grand Paladin. Be ready.” He dismissed everyone. They all left quickly after congratulating the two paladins. Orvyn managed to catch Kalman before his compatriot disappeared.

“Kalman, what happened?”

Kalman shrugged, “You did what I couldn’t.”

“But we had a plan! We agreed! If we both voted for you, then that means Hugues--”

“Hugues probably voted for me, because I voted for you.”

Orvyn was stunned. “What?”

“S., you were ready. You took him to task and you challenged him at every turn. I just stood there and fumbled over my words. I can’t beat him in the general vote, but you can. I have no idea who else voted for you, but if they saw what I saw, then you’ve got this.” Kalman put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “And I will be damned if I see Sheamus selling us out to the mages.”

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{Gabe here, as usual! I had planned for this to be the penultimate part of this short story, but it looks like it’ll go on a little longer than expected. Don’t worry, it shouldn’t go past six parts, which gives me enough time to not think about what the next short story will be! Hooray!

Anyway, as usual, here’s a link to buy Insurrection.

Please do that!}

#my writing #side story #Insurrection #Age of the Black Empire #Fantasy #Orvyn #Politics #Debate #Not boring #Except #It is boring #lol

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